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jere7myAfter my flight was cancelled on Wednesday, I arrived at my gate on Thursday just in time to hear them announce that they were about to close CLE airspace for the arrival of Air Force One. *sigh* We managed to sneak out before the chimp landed, but it was a near thing. It would have served my grandfather right if his beloved Bush had kept me from his funeral.
The funeral was nice enough, held in the church where my parents were married and my grandmother was laid to rest, a lovely stained-glass Presbyterian building in Roslyn. I sat in the front pew with the other Thorpes, my two aunts and my cousin Daniel and my dad, just in front of the incongruous drum kit. My mother was there as well, and I took the opportunity to have a photo taken of both my parents and me, since the last one had been taken when I was eleven. Mom, I think, has a crush on Dad, which is a bit odd; she was giggly and girly when talking about him afterward. Dad spoke during the service from a handful of index cards, stammering and monotone, and forgot the punch line of his joke, but he charmed the mourners anyway. My dad's a good guy. At age 60, he's taken up the guitar, he told me afterward, on the way to Grandpop's favorite family restaurant.
Back in Swarthmore, I escaped the bitter cold with Katy in Pitt for a while before going to English class, where I danced with Jenny B. and Joanna R. and Miriam, and lamented the recently removed water fountain. I then went with Miriam back to ML for further outhanging and snuggling. I was sleepy indeed by that point, but it was a lovely time, soothing and low-stress and friendly.
When I left, c. 2AM, an unknown young woman was also taking her leave; I expected her to shy away from the creepy old guy leaving ML in the middle of the night, but instead she piped, in a thickly-accented voice, "Where are you going?" and we fell to talking. She was Iulia from Belarus, trapped in this country after her dictator closed the university that sent her here. He seems to be sort of a wacky dictator—just today, she said, he had banned all billboards in the country. But then, she was worried that the article she'd written for a Swarthmore publication would get her father arrested. Perhaps not that wacky. Many people there fear we're going to invade them, and she keeps having to explain to them that spreading freedom doesn't mean everywhere. Silly Belarussians.
I got to Greylock just as Jimmosk (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eclecticboy) was starting to worry about me, and due to the subzero temperatures ended up using one of his livingroom futons as a blanket—a j7y-sandwich, if you will, upon which Jim nearly sat in the morning. After escaping being squished, I visited with Miriam for half an hour, then ordered a 'Natos cheesesteak and munched it while my mom and cousin Alice drove me back to the airport. My flight was happily uneventful, and K. met me at the airport, and home I was.
I thought about my grandfather quite a bit while I was there. I mean, obviously. My dad related one of Grandpop's favorite stories during the service, which ended with "Thank you, Mr. Thorpe." And I realized: so many of his stories ended with "Thank you, Mr. Thorpe," some student or young person whom he affected, finding him years later to express gratitude. Gratitude was incredibly important to Grandpop; making a difference in people's lives was important. I don't think I realized that before, and I'm not sure how well I let him know that I was grateful.
The funeral was nice enough, held in the church where my parents were married and my grandmother was laid to rest, a lovely stained-glass Presbyterian building in Roslyn. I sat in the front pew with the other Thorpes, my two aunts and my cousin Daniel and my dad, just in front of the incongruous drum kit. My mother was there as well, and I took the opportunity to have a photo taken of both my parents and me, since the last one had been taken when I was eleven. Mom, I think, has a crush on Dad, which is a bit odd; she was giggly and girly when talking about him afterward. Dad spoke during the service from a handful of index cards, stammering and monotone, and forgot the punch line of his joke, but he charmed the mourners anyway. My dad's a good guy. At age 60, he's taken up the guitar, he told me afterward, on the way to Grandpop's favorite family restaurant.
Back in Swarthmore, I escaped the bitter cold with Katy in Pitt for a while before going to English class, where I danced with Jenny B. and Joanna R. and Miriam, and lamented the recently removed water fountain. I then went with Miriam back to ML for further outhanging and snuggling. I was sleepy indeed by that point, but it was a lovely time, soothing and low-stress and friendly.
When I left, c. 2AM, an unknown young woman was also taking her leave; I expected her to shy away from the creepy old guy leaving ML in the middle of the night, but instead she piped, in a thickly-accented voice, "Where are you going?" and we fell to talking. She was Iulia from Belarus, trapped in this country after her dictator closed the university that sent her here. He seems to be sort of a wacky dictator—just today, she said, he had banned all billboards in the country. But then, she was worried that the article she'd written for a Swarthmore publication would get her father arrested. Perhaps not that wacky. Many people there fear we're going to invade them, and she keeps having to explain to them that spreading freedom doesn't mean everywhere. Silly Belarussians.
I got to Greylock just as Jimmosk (
eclecticboy) was starting to worry about me, and due to the subzero temperatures ended up using one of his livingroom futons as a blanket—a j7y-sandwich, if you will, upon which Jim nearly sat in the morning. After escaping being squished, I visited with Miriam for half an hour, then ordered a 'Natos cheesesteak and munched it while my mom and cousin Alice drove me back to the airport. My flight was happily uneventful, and K. met me at the airport, and home I was.I thought about my grandfather quite a bit while I was there. I mean, obviously. My dad related one of Grandpop's favorite stories during the service, which ended with "Thank you, Mr. Thorpe." And I realized: so many of his stories ended with "Thank you, Mr. Thorpe," some student or young person whom he affected, finding him years later to express gratitude. Gratitude was incredibly important to Grandpop; making a difference in people's lives was important. I don't think I realized that before, and I'm not sure how well I let him know that I was grateful.
