futility in a bottle

i wonder what it is like to be her, my aunt margie.

she sits in her chair all day and waits for nothing to happen.

she is brilliant and creative but she hums to herself and has my uncle joe bring the medicine, sandwiches and diet pepsis to her lounge chair.

if you walked in right now, she would be dressed in an elegant gown with her make-up on and three curlers on one side of her head, rolled into the only part of her hair that touches the pillow. she would tease it out while watching the news and, once the helmut had been perfectly restored, she would take her cup of coffee. black. she hates cream. and a dry piece of toast. she hates butter.

she wanted to be an actress so she holds a dramatic air. when she speaks of her husband, joe, she clenches her teeth and raises her fist, breathless with emotion as she approaches the end of her sentences.

she does not hate her husband, but their love for each other is alien and surreal.

uncle joe looks much like an aging, seedy elvis impersonator in 70's attire. he has had the same pair of glasses since 1967 and is fond of v-neck t-shirts with sans-a-belt shorts, black stretch socks and black dress shoes. he loves his sideburns and his 30 pounds of thick, gold jewelry. he is tall and loud, his voice able to carry over the roar of jet engines. he has opinions on exactly two topics: golf and judge judy, the latter making him absolutely apoplectic when speaking.

aunt margie and uncle joe have never used a civil tone when speaking to each other in all the years i have know them. yet they are infinitely tender and patient in their care of each other. they are an odd couple, each with a history of antics that are both appalling and wickedly funny.

whatever they had in mind for their lives is not exactly how things turned out.

i saw them this weekend. when i pulled up, uncle joe was setting up the christmas decorations on the lawn. they have lived in this house over 40 years. they are the same decorations they bought when they bought the house. the plastic reindeer, santa and snowmen are faded, chipped and fairly sad looking. uncle joe came into the house and screamed at aunt margie for a sharpie marker. she raised her fist and gasped back that she didn't know where one was and why, on god's green earth, had he decided to put up the decorations on today of all days, for god's sake.

he shouted that he needed to re-draw the faces on the reindeer and santa claus because the sun and wind had effectively removed them. she snatched a pen from the drawer beside her and flung it his direction. he left and, a few moments later, asked for red lipstick. when i asked why, he said, "santa needs a mouth." they certainly know how to put the "ho" back in ho-ho-ho.

after the exchange, aunt margie told me the story about the jello. she had planned a fancy dinner party (fancy for western florida in the early 70s) and had used all of the bowls and pans for the dinner when she realized she had nothing in which to make the jello. in a frantic moment, she chose the glass milk bottle she had washed out earlier that morning.

it was a great idea. when she poured the jello in.
it must have been the moment when she went to serve the jello that the reality of her choice in containers hit home.

and i understood the metaphor as she hummed a gospel tune and talked about how much she enjoyed guy and ralna from the lawrence welk show:

all of this seemed like a good plan when she first thought of it.
it was only later, when everyone was looking, that she understood its futility.

her life congealed and set in vibrant color.

jello in a milk bottle.