Dear Diary -

It occurred to me that a woman of my age would probably rightfully have a journal rather than a diary, but "Dear Journal" sounds very dry and stuffy and since I've already started with the "Dear Diary" thing, I'm sticking to it.  No one ever accused me of being a proper model of a woman of my age, anyway.

A little more background - my dad, Anthony James (A.J.) McClary, and my mom, Anna, divorced when I was nine.  Mom and I stayed in the family house in Sycamore - so I wouldn't have to change schools, I guess - and dad moved down here to his parents' farm.  Mom married Phillip Lidwell right after my eleventh birthday and dad married Sue a couple of years later.  I am an only child (of my father's), a big sister (to my half-sister Samantha) and a little sister (to Sue's son, Mark).  Go ahead and try to dissect my personality based on birth order - I dare ya!

I got the call about my dad and Sue's accident the Saturday before last.  Like almost everyone else in this day and age I no longer had a home phone so I tried to be good about taking my cell into the bedroom when I went to bed each night.  I forgot to take my phone to bed with me that night which meant that I found out about my dead dad not from the nice (but very nervous-sounding) Deputy Jarrod Herrington, but from Facebook.

Fucking Facebook.  I don't know why I had an account to begin with, but after I started playing Candy Crush I was hooked.  I can't lie - it was nice getting back into contact with some of my old high school classmates and seeing the pictures of who (else) got fat - but it was those colorful candy pieces and the rush of completing another level that kept me logging in every morning.

That particular morning my account notified me that I had twelve posts to my wall which, considering it was not my birthday, was more than a little unusual.  The first one I saw was from Mrs. Dixon and simply read, "I was sorry to hear about your dad and Sue.  Call me if you need anything."  The other messages bore similarly confusing sentiments.  Only then did I check my phone to find Deputy Herrington's message with an urgent request to call the Sheriff's Department.

I couldn't call, not right away.  I guess I needed those last few minutes of not knowing for sure that something catastrophic had happened in my world, a few more normal breaths, normal heartbeats, a few more precious seconds of being the me that I had always been.  And as I sat there, trying to gather myself together enough to make the call, my computer alerted me that I had another message and then I looked and it was from Abigail Moore, one of my Grandma McClary's old sewing buddies and a very sweet old lady and my first thought was to reply with an expletive-filled rant about the misery-suckers on Facebook and how everyone seems to want to be the first person to post about a death or a sickness or a calamity of any sort and instead I deleted my Facebook account, Level 135 on Candy Crush and all.

 I never did get to speak to Deputy Herrington.  Instead my call was routed to Sheriff Hugo Thompson, who sounded grandfatherly and not nearly so nervous as Deputy Herrington had been.  Sheriff Thompson told me about the accident (late night, single car, possible alcohol involvement, dead at the scene) and that my dad and Sue had been sent to Peoria for autopsies and I should contact the coroner's office to make further arrangements.

I spent that Saturday in a daze.  I know I called mom who, for some reason, knew that dad had already pre-paid services at a local (to him) funeral parlor.  I called my friend Tara who I'd known since high school and my friend Tyson from work to let him know that I'd be taking a few days off and then I ran out of people to call.  You never realize how small your world is until you have news, good or bad, and run out of people to share it with.

I left my tidy little house in the suburbs and my tidy little life and drove the three hours down here the next day.  I spent the evening looking for the important papers and the night on the couch with Pee-Wee.  The visitation, sparsely attended, was Monday night with the funeral following on Tuesday.  I saw Aunt Victoria and Uncle Pete for the first time since Grandma McClary passed away in 2007 and re-met more second and third cousins, some removed, some not, than I ever remember seeing before.  Other than that, most of the attendees were old friends of my grandparents and a few of Sue's co-workers from the insurance agency.  I guess you could say that I come by my quiet lifestyle quite honestly.

Oh, I almost forgot.  Sue's son Mark showed up, not in time for the visitation and almost late for the funeral, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer, rumpled, crumpled and disheveled, but he showed up.  We talked for a few minutes about the service and I told him that I planned to come back in a week or so to go through paperwork, deal with insurance policies, etc.  He pled a busy schedule and left his number in case I found anything that he needed to know about or deal with for his mom and then he was gone.  See what I meant about being the only responsible child?

Argh!  My hand is cramping up again.  I wonder which is worse - writer's cramp or carpal tunnel?  I guess maybe I won't have to worry about getting carpal tunnel if the power doesn't come back on soon.  You can count on me to always find the bright side...

S