Ancestor

My day is going terribly. Sad too, since it's Friday the 13th and international horror day. I can't even watch that slick-looking slasher documentary because it's on a channel I don't get. Bastards! My cable bill is already $135 a month, I can't possibly get another channel. It's almost my halloween party, and I am getting married. So why does everything suck so bad? You know, I don't even feel like talking about it--of course I said that in Group recently and ended up blabbering for 20 minutes.
Okay, changing the topic now...to a picture I found online at a geneology website. I was trying to find my mother's wedding anniversary date because I think I accidentally picked it for my wedding date. Of course, I can still change it since I haven't actually planned anything yet. I may change it from Saturday to Friday, since Saturday is the most unlucky day to get handfasted.

This my grandfather and his second wife, whom I called "Gramma." He was my mother's father and I was his most favorite grand child ever. I was the first born of his oldest child, so I was the only kid around the family until I was almost six. My mom said this made me selfish and obnoxious (she's sweet that way) while my Grandpa said it made me adorably cute. In fact, he was the only man to tell me I was adorably cute until I met H.


He used to keep a box of toys for me at his house, and if other grandkids were visiting he made them call me to ask if they could play with my toys. The first time, I said NO. Grandpa got on the phone and explained to me about being gracious and the importance of generosity. But he still made everyone else call me, just so I could tell them it was okay for them to play with my toys as long as they put them away right and didn't leave a mess. I was already pretty bossy even when I was a tiny Wednes.

My love of horror probably began with this song my Grandpa used to sing to me. It was a version of the poem from an Agatha Christie book: And Then There Were None. I used to have a cassette of him singing it to me, which I wanted to play at his funeral (in 1993) but everyone else said that was stupid. Instead, there was a sermon by some jackass who'd never met him. My grandfather's name was Victor Evan Deloy Sr. And he was one of the best people I have ever known in my life. As you can see, he also enjoyed beer. Here's the poem:

Ten little Indian boys went out to dine;
One of them choked himself and then there were nine.
Nine little Indian boys stayed out too late;
One of them lost himself and then there were eight.
Eight little Indian boys planning to go to heaven;
One of them did! Then there were seven.
Seven little Indian boys chopping up sticks;
One of them chopped himself and then there were six.
Six little Indian boys playing with a hive;
A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.
Five little Indian boys going to the store;
A Caddy hit one, then there were four.
Four little Indian boys playing high in a tree;
One of them fell and then there were three.
Three little Indian boys went to the zoo;
A lion ate one and then there were two.
Two little Indian boys sitting in the sun;
One of them burned himself and then there was one.
One little Indian boy was sad and had no fun;
So he died of lonliness, and then there were none.

That last one was the worst. I was always so sad that he died of lonliness. As a kid, I couldn't think of anything worse...I'd have rather been eaten by a shark or a lion than to die alone because no one loved me. I guess I was also quite depressed as a tiny Wednes as well.