Postcards to say something: 021 – Day Of The Dead
I buried my Stepfather today. He was more of a dad to me than the gene donor.
He was not a learned man, although he was more than brilliant in practical ways. Bush mechanicking and skill with even difficult animals were just two of the things that, like his ears, stuck out.
We had to try a little harder to get along together than is the case for blood-relatives (I’ll excuse my father from this particular comparison), but I thought I knew the man.
His entry into christianity was gradual, as this man had a low tolerance for bullshit. He was apparently scared into the flock by some of that alarmist material Stan Deyo was putting out in the late 70s.
The man I knew was kind. Not a soft touch, and guaranteed to give the “pretend-looking-for-work” bloke some actual hard work to do, but a fair reward at the end. Of course, association with church people influenced him over the years.
I haven’t had a lot of contact with the old man since my mother died. He went to stay with the sister I can’t stand, and I gather he attends her church in the relatively-affluent suburb where she and her unpleasant husband live.
I don’t know what sort of tolerance and charity Affluent Jeebus teaches, being of the sort who thought, even when a believer, that the whole Jesus thing was more about the unempowered.
Still, when the only email I get from him in months is all BIG RED LETTERS, saying:
Good Day and welcome to a brand new edition of :
And here’s your game show host…here’s KEVVVIIINNN !!!
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Hop on a boat
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… then I know the man I once held dear has died.
And may they put Anglo Jesus in the ground with him, before I piss on it.