no poor georgie

george has died, george is dead, and george is gone. poor georgie couldn’t be a more untrue statement because george was happy most of the times anyone saw him over the years…especially since his brush with death a few years back and so there is no poor georgie… there is only poor us, the living left to live without him, holding his memories dear… lesson(s) (being) learned/more good times with my impossibly, wacky, extended clan (*i am sure to digress into tangential rambles, but still i must post about george…george…). i am mostly agnostic, possibly atheist, and find the concept of heaven dubious at best, but if ever there were those golden gates, i’m sure george slid through them in the nick of time with a wide grin and a firm handshake, pleased to meet his maker…

there is no poor georgie; there is only poor evelyn (my daughter’s father’s mother and my fairly odd god-/other-mother) for she was the lover and partner of george, the man.

and she is the survivor of one more offense at the hand of “that God,” the questionable. first there was bush (aka W), and then her art stopped selling. her house was broken into and set on fire, remodeled, and then, broken into again. and so she lived with george, a welder, a sculptor, a wood carver, dollmaker, guitar player, electronics aficionado, nationally and internationally exhibited folk artist, a “patriarch” of the black arts community, and a faithful, but fun, believer in god… george was a man who used to run the streets, but in later years, settled into the business of making, exhibiting, and selling art. he also settled into the dogmatic feistiness that dominated his relationship with evelyn (or should i say, he happily settled into the dogmatic feistiness with which evelyn dominated their relationship).

he made wood carvings and paintings and sculptures; devilish church women in red dresses, pimps in colored suits, prostitutes, preachers, clowns, roosters; and all manner of black personalities reminiscent of rather shady pasts, hopeful and faith-filled presents, and uncertain but seemingly sanguine futures…all of which have now been circumvented and presently ascribed to the sheer value of art. and life. and love. and god’s goods…i guess… (i mutter to myself)

george could be intense, with his shock of pearly dreadlocks, buoyant cheekbones, and mischievous grins. he corrected his english when evelyn was in earshot, and cracked lewd jokes with her when he thought we were not. he’d adopted my daughter and my daughter’s father’s other three kids as his own grandchildren. not really interested in legally binding nuptials, evelyn and george never married. regardless, after being around for more than ten years, he was our kids’ grandpa.

he attended all graduations (mine from college and the kindergartners’ alike), birthday parties (oh lawd, how he obsessed over finding the perfect big girl bike for my little z. last december), plays (he was one of the few proud parents and grands who brought flowers for the shaky performers), art exhibitions, celebratory dinners, births, weddings, and any other thing we were involved in that he could support. be bought and bartered artwork, brought groceries across state lines, and could always be counted on to be at evelyn’s side. god, he was supportive.

i am blessed, to have found such good people to befamily after my own flesh and blood drifted into three disparate, and frequently impenetrable directions. my parents moved south and my brother remains in jail, but george and evelyn were the pillars of our hodge-podge art and blood and sweat and tears family of ex-boyfriends, baby daddies, current lovers, step-children, half-siblings, ex-wives, new boyfriends, and the aunt in LA. more on this family of mine later, but george and evelyn were the consummately wacky and loving constants.

and now, shockingly, george is gone.

last wednesday morning, he simply slipped away from this life… he woke evelyn in the middle of the night with a headache from hell. it was a brain stem aneurysm. he was gone before he left the house with the paramedics. the night before, he’d spent a romantic and playful evening with his love… he beckoned her to bed with a memorable, “terry, are you coming?”

his funeral is in two days. i am in disbelief. he came to z.’s play in june. my boyfriend was teaching him to play guitar. we all smiled when he sang his blues song… hell, he even smiled when he sang the blues…

to be continued…