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Forgotten Friday: Sister, Single

March 27, 2015 · by Oliver Gray

A week from tomorrow, my sister will be married.

She’s incredible, as far as sisters go. Sure, she used to beat me mercilessly until I was old enough to fight back, and then continued to psychologically torment my teenage years in that special way only an older sibling can. But our spats, never truly serious, built a foundation for mutual respect as adults, taught us each other’s strengths and weaknesses, gave us insight into each other very few can ever match. Becca is my sister, and yet, on another level, she is me, and I am her.

Excitement buzzes around the nuptials like worker bees returning to the hive, spindly legs covered in potential future sweetness. The stress of months of planning fades, leaving behind a warm, heavy blanket of exhausted joy. My own wedding felt like a drop of water on a hot skillet; beautiful to watch dance and sizzle with frenetic exuberance, but gone much too fast. A few hours on a single day doesn’t seem to do justice to the proverbial ascension into a combined tomorrow, but it’s all we’ve got, so it’s what we do.

A sibling wields a unique kind of love; one born from a nearly identical shared experience. A companion to all those stories lost behind closed suburban doors, a peer like no friend or fiance can be, if only by virtue of the length of the relationship. Not even a very close parent can understand the generational, cultural, and emotional ties that tether brother and sister. Your sibling knows you at your very best and very worst; the haven of your home where you hid your fears and hollered you successes was theirs too, after all.

The wedding will be wonderful. I have no doubts. But a part of me selfishly mourns. A week from tomorrow, the last bastion of the life I knew as a child will be gone.

The house we grew up in was sold years ago, and I can’t bring myself to pull it up on Google Maps, never mind actually drive by it. My cleats have long been hung up as soccer made way for computers and paychecks. My father’s strong hands and voice no longer fill my days with mentoring and humor. All the pieces of youthful vim I cobbled together into the collective tale of my upbringing have melded into the flat pages of the family’s history book, save for my sister, and those tangible, living memories that still swirl around her.

Becca is finally happy, after a long stint of what one could argue was decided unhappiness. Ian’s a good dude, and their future is more than bright. Marriage is what we expect anyway, right? That step that solidifies romantic success, forever friendship, societal acceptance as a lovingly legitimate couple? It’s a major milestone into adulthood, one undertaken by serious adults seriously planning the rest of their lives. Children don’t get married; they shoo it away with cootie-laden ews. To be married is to be mature, or at the very least, brave enough to peek tentatively into the future while holding someone’s hand.

When I walk her down that aisle playing impromptu patriarch, I’m walking us both down an inevitable, unchangeable path. When she says “I, do” the echo will resonate through all our lives, signaling the beginning of an era when we’re all finally free from the fetters of nostalgia, free to appreciate and acknowledge the source while actively moving towards the destination. My dad’s motto was, “never look back,” and now, on the verge of having the freedom to relish in all the possibility wrapped and bundled in each tomorrow, I realize that his words didn’t mean “never remember” but instead “never dwell.”

I mourn, because that’s what you do when you lose something. But the death of one thing often means the birth of another, so my mourning is tempered by the celebration that my sister, the female embodiment of Gray, flowers anew, in a garden of her own tender creation.

A week from tomorrow, my sister will be married.

A week from tomorrow, I can finally let the ghosts of the last thirty years rest, while the spirits of the next sixty come out to play.

Session #81: (The) Women In (My) Beer

November 1, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

I started writing this post as an essay on the gender of inanimate, gender-less things, but then realized it was a little too close to the essay I wrote a few weeks ago titled: “Brews Don’t Wear Bras, Bro.”

Instead of rehashing the same concepts, grammatically puking up those same ideas with different phrasing, I decided to detour slightly from the ethical quandaries of gender equality and bring this session entry a little closer to my everyday.

This month’s session topic (hosted by Nichole “Nitch” Richard) is supposed to be about women, beer, women in beer, beer in women, beer on women, women on beer, and whatever else we can do with those words and their related prepositions. Women “of” beer seemed pretty tempting, but my approach is to add an article and a prounoun: The women in my beer.

There are a number of women in my beer, women who have informed my pint-glass view on our ever-bubbling beer culture. The few who spring instantly to mind are those I’ve never actually met outside of a tweet or an essay, but have imprinted on my brain none the less. Jill Redding, editor-in-chief of Zymurgy magazine, whose curated glossy content I eagerly await every three months. Carla Companion (The Beer Babe) whose New England-centric beerview inspired my own local focus on Maryland beer. And a woman I’ve never met, but whose name is hard to ignore as it appears on the bottom of the copyright page in a lot of my favorite books: Kristi Switzer, Publisher for Brewers Publications.

And while these women are doing fabulous things for beer in general, even more important to me are the women who act as the nutritious wort to my creative S. cerevisiae: my wife, my sister, my mother. These three have never doubted me, always encouraged me, and without them I’m not sure I’d be where I am today. They are my beta-readers and taste-testers, my confidants and clever-name-comer-upper-withs. Two of them don’t even drink beer, which makes their support of my chosen path even more impressive, to the point where I think they believe in the power of me, not just the power of the beer.

Tiffany –

My wife is just Tiffany – no clever nicknames or aliases or blog-based disguises. She’s a brilliant, ever-grounded yang to my yin, the Benson to my Stabler, the one who lets me know when an idea is great, and another idea is just not so great. She’s more of a partner in creative design than anything else – a coworker, a shotgun-rider, a member of the Fellowship set out from Rivendell to brew the One Beer. She’s the one who puts up with my daily Oliverisms, only scoffing at my field research when the pile of glass recyclables starts to threaten the safety of the cats.

She doesn’t drink beer. Doesn’t even like the taste of beer. Once, after I gave her a sip of Victory Golden Monkey Tripel, she accused me of trying to poison her. Tiffany often wanders bottleshops with me when trying to find that elusive brew, grinning delightedly when she finds something new. Instead of laughing that I’m on the crawling on the ground, trying to get a good angle, she’ll stop, observe, and ponder; then suggest props and positions for photos of beer.

She more than encourages, she inspires. She more than tolerates, she promotes. She reminds me that love is tangible, is beautiful and rare, and that sometimes in life, your homebrew comes out perfect.

Becca –

My sister is the closest thing to a clone I’ll ever have, and I’m cool with that. She’s got this genetic problem where she actively likes and drinks Coors Light, but we’ve been working through it, one lager at a time, as a family. I joke with her and claim she’s not supportive of my habits when she doesn’t read a blog post within 8 minutes of it being posted, but in reality, she’s been in my corner since before I even knew I had a corner.

She knows me in a way not many do, in that way only a person who shared a near identical copy of your childhood really can. We have a shared history that spans the most formative years; decades of inside jokes, disturbingly similar mannerisms, predispositions and aversions to a lot of the same things and people. She’s the one I go to for the blunt honesty that comes from sisterly love, and I owe her more than she knows for equally feeding my ego or stepping on its head, whenever, and whichever appropriate.

Now if we can just get her to drink good beer, we can end the years of exile, and reassimilate her into the family.

Mummy –

Yea, I still call my mom “mummy.” I was born in England. Big whoop. Wanna fight about it?

Properly named Denise, my mom is my constant champion. I’ve written about her before, but she’s the unfailing bastion of optimism and compassion in our family, the lady who keeps us all afloat, regardless of the struggle or the emotional tax she levies on herself. She lives her life like an fully realized archetype, embodying all of that Jungian psychology of motherly duty. She seriously puts herself second to her children, even when her children chase frivolity in the form of beer and writing.

My mom formed me both literally and figuratively, and I am a product of both her womb and her mind. If I can even hold half of the love of life and family that she does in my heart, I’ll consider that a success.

These are the women in my beer, but to me, they’re just as important as the most famousests women in all beer.

Who are the women in your beer?

Beer Review: Dogfish Head Noble Rot

April 19, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

The Earth’s breath swept through the stones as long interred guests howled in disapproval of our gathering. It was a late winter 8 A.M., everything floating in lifeless grey, nothing bragging about the joy of life except for a few bouquets of violet anemones that were propped up next to a sign that read, plainly, “Matthew Leonard Cole.” Leafless skeletal hands reached into the ashen cloud-cover, like some mischievous undertaker had come in the night and flipped all the trees upside down.

Roots above, blossoms below.

The priest, a stranger to us but not this town, stood stoically in his freshly dry-cleaned robes, performing his never ending duty with that bible like Sisyphus with that rock. A red silk bookmark hung from the pages of the holy text, tongue wagging in the winter wind, holding a place of reminder, of memory, of last rites.

Well practiced but unfamiliar, the priest stumbled through an exaltation of Matthew’s life: his myriad but inconsistent successes, his tragically short but intense relationships, the nothing and something and everything he left behind. He did the best he could, having received the scribbled pages of notes from friends and family only hours before, to make Matthew seem like a person who would be missed after this small crowd dispersed.

The priest read and read – those canon phrases buried in Pslam; valleys and walking and shadows and death – monotone to match the grey, somber to match the cold.

My mind wandered, drunk on loss and beer from the night before, and I had a hard time understanding the religion that filled my ears. His words seemed familiar, like I’d heard them before, like I knew their shape and structure, but it felt like I was listening to someone try to explain a complex idea in a language I didn’t know. Or at the very least couldn’t remember.

The few people who had shown I knew through Matt or Matt knew through me – a conclave of our combined social lives. Some had come far unexpectedly, others had come short, full well expecting. They hunched, coats like clerical robes covering sadness, the morning mist gathering on then rolling off waterproof fabric like tears. I counted nine. Nine to remember twenty seven. One for every three years.

Finally, the priest stopped communing and looked at me.

“I believe Katherine has a few words to say.”

I had hoped he’d forgotten, that the idea of this eulogy had slipped away in the midst of the verses, had been carried off by the holy spirit. I fumbled in my pocket for a square of white, my memories of Matt condensed into eight point five by eleven. I unfolded it carefully, reminding myself that he would be doing this for me were roles opposite; were I horizontal and he vertical.

I stared down at the crease in the sheet, one line a little longer than the other, meeting perfectly in the middle.

“Matt asked me to speak for him, but I’m worried that I can’t. I only knew him as a sister and a poor one at that. Many of you – his friends, cell-mates, fellow-trouble makers – might have known him better. But because I share blood, the responsibility falls to me to remember how he was and who he was, when he was.”

The Times New Roman on the paper blurred, deformed and refracted through the water in my eyes. I said I wouldn’t. Didn’t think I could. I folded the paper along the cross and put it away.

“I had prepared something, but it won’t do. It’s too sterile, too formal. Matt isn’t an anecdote, isn’t a punch line to some bad gallows humor. Well he wasn’t, at least.”

Several that had been staring down at the coffin looked up to me now.

“Death baffles me. What does it mean to go away? To disappear from the places you used to be? To leave a house, a car, a life that is full of your things but is empty of you? If our words still appear on paper, if our voices still echo in memory, do we ever really leave? I think Matt is still with me, still in the spaces around me, in all that air that we think is nothing, in the poems and photographs, still lingering like an eternal radio transmission.”

The wind threw a left hook, a massive gust that toppled the sign with Matt’s name, blew the purple blossoms across the graveyard’s tombstone teeth. A few errant strands of blond whipped across and stung my face, self-flagellation for a sister who’d in recent years misplaced her piety.

“And when we go, does our dignity flee? Does it run from this life, this planet, like a scared child in the face of a pillaging army? Or does it persist, angry that it has been dethroned by something as inevitable as death? The Egyptians buried their dead with gold and jewels and all those beautiful things that defined worth and value. I’d like to think we bury Matt today with all the love and spirit he brought to the world. I’d like to think we bury him beautifully, bury him with all kinds of otherworldly riches…

…but I wonder. Death equalizes and strips. The body decays even when encased in gold. Is it possible for a corpse to be regal? Is it possible to nobly rot?”

“Western funerals: black hearses, and black horses, and fast-fading flowers. Why should black be the colour of death? Why not the colours of a sunset?”
― Daniele Varè

Calling all Nurses

January 16, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

It’s easy being a patient.

The patient’s only job is to fight and recover, put all of their energy towards healing. Sure, it’s a miserable, pain-filled, nauseating experience, but they are allowed normally unreasonable exceptions when sick. The short tempers and illness related lethargy are tolerated, forgiven.

A lot of people affected by the same illness aren’t given the same allowances.

I often think about the nurses. Not just the ones who gently reassure me as I come out of anesthesia. Not just those who’ve helped my dad in this years-long battle. Not only the compassionate few who patrol hospitals halls in an effort to help people they don’t know.

I think about the nurses with no formal training, who don’t work in a hospital and can’t walk away from their jobs when the shift is over.

The nurses like my mother, my wife, my sister.

The people hurt by the horrible realities of cancer without experiencing any of the physical pain. The ones who selflessly exchange their own wants and desires for someone else’s; not because they have to, but because they want to. The ones who fight to make everything better using love, the best medicine they know.

I know that the fight is just as hard for them. Sometimes, maybe oftentimes, worse. I know that they are forced to see their love ones brought low, and are expected to stay strong when all they want to do is cry. I know that they don’t get breaks that they completely deserve.

To all those helping their brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and husbands and wives: thank you.

Thank you for being a stalwart champion of optimism when things look bleak. Thank you for never questioning that long drive to the hospital or the even longer nights by someone’s bedside. Thank you for being an emotional surrogate and partner in struggle.

We couldn’t do it without you.

But mainly, I want to thank my nurses. Even when my mom told me “everything was crap” I could hear the determination in her voice. Even when I felt like life had hit me with a big metaphysical garbage truck, my wife was there with a perfect hug. Even when I thought the world had run out of good, my sister reminded me that there are still some great people out there doing great things.

I dedicate this post to Denise, Becca, and Tiffany. I think I can speak for my father when I say that we would have never made it this far with our bodies and minds and sanity intact without all of your support.

And to all the other nurses out there, who are as beautiful and kind and amazing as these three, thank you too. Your patients appreciate you, even if it’s not always apparent.

Three of the best nurses I know, and two really good looking patients. Go team!

“Invisible Time”

August 4, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

A short story for my sister:

“Invisible Time”

I bought them at a gas station, on the way to the beach. Nine dollars and ninety-nice cents, before tax. The black plastic shines ever so gently in direct sunlight, but they’re obviously cheap as hell. They’re too big for my face, but that’s the fashion.

I like to drink. No insane bacchanalian extravaganzas, just a few chardonnays to unwind. My tolerance is garbage. Long gone are the days when I could drink an entire box of Franzia on my own, and still make it to an 8:00 am class. I get hangovers on the regular. They are almost always accompanied by headaches.

Headaches I can feel in my blood.

On days when my body is fully rejecting the previous night’s decisions, I keep my sunglasses close. Their crappy Chinese lenses offer me respite from an otherwise intolerable world. They block out the harsh florescent light of my cube. They protect me. They build a little wooden sign for me that says, “leave me alone.”

When I put my sunglasses on, I declare it, “invisible time.” I can still see the world, but the world can’t see me. I’m a ghost, a phantom, a wandering soul just looking to make it through the day unscathed. I pretend that my darkened view is a netherverse; a place where everything is shadowed and comfortable and mine.

My boss hates my netherverse. She always wants to talk to me, even while I’m there. She wants to talk about work stuff. She has an ability to somehow see through my cloak. I try to pretend I don’t see or hear her, but she persists.

I’m not a misanthropist, I just don’t like anyone. I like me, but no one is like me. With my sunglasses on I don’t have to see anyone else, which makes me happy. Happiness is a pair of sunglasses.

Today is a day I’d like to spend entirely in my netherverse.

My boss wants to talk. I want to yell obscure obscenities at her. My brain feels like it spent the evening in a butcher’s shop. Whipped cream flavored vodka takes like hairspray the next morning. She’s not a bad lady, I just don’t feel like talking. I put on my sunglasses.

She asks me why. I say, “Invisible Time.” She doesn’t laugh. It was funny, she should have laughed. She asks me about some emails but I’m not really listening as the internet is very distracting. She asks me to take off my sunglasses. I don’t.

She didn’t have to start yelling. In fact, if she had been reasonable, I may have come out of my netherverse voluntarily. This is why I don’t like people, always yelling about something. I take off my sunglasses, but she’s still irate. Something about disrespect, which is ironic because she deserves about as much respect as a cheap hooker. She tells me to go home, and I oblige.

It’s pretty bright outside, so I put on my sunglasses. Sweet, sweet sunglasses.