Thanksgiving with the Grump

Apparently, with Grandpa Grumpy, there is an expiration period for frank talks. Those of you who check in here from time to time may remember last holiday when I had it out with the old guy. Not in the screaming-in-your-face kind of way, which knowing him, would have resulted in immediate banishment from Sweetpea's beloved grandma, but in calm, direct debate (and a raised middle finger behind my back). I thought we'd worked out the main kinks, but apparently, like many old folks, his short-term memory is very short.

Grandpa Grumpy is kinda-sorta my father-in-law. Not really, but to have him hear it, he grafted onto my husband's family when the kids were all grown, and takes territorial possession due to marital imperative. And since he has no contact with his biological children from marriage number one, his step-children, their spouses, and grandchildren have become the psychological equivalent of crash-test dummies. He's constantly working out his angst about the fact that his own flesh and blood cut him off, clumsily poking and prodding in the only way he knows to connect to his current 'kids'. These kids being three step-sons, and relationships are problematical. One of the brothers has found a way to connect with him, and gives him his due, something I find difficult given the old man's penchant for thrashing me about at any opportunity.

One problem I have, among many when it comes to Grumps opinion of me (as a woman, a mother, a wife, and generally in pretty much every aspect of my life) , is a particularly toxic ball and chain around my neck. Nothing I do or say can ever release it. I've committed the most egregious sin of all:

I'm a Canadian.

Grandpa Grumpy is a dyed-in-the-wool, blue-blooded American Patriot. Current Tea Party Member, proud card-carrying member of the NRA, hell, he even keeps a squirrel rifle leaning up against the living room wall (antique and de-commissioned). And he despises anyone who has the temerity to live in this greatest country on earth and not be a citizen. To him it's as inconceivable that I would actually choose to remain here and not take the oath. In the past I toyed with the idea, given that Canadians are currently able to carry dual citizenship, but rumors that this might end have put the kybosh on this idea. I've been a legal resident of the U.S. for decades, and so far it's worked out fine. I mean, Dan Rather said it quite eloquently during the Vancouver Olympics earlier this year, the U.S. and Canada are political pals, and share the longest peaceful border in the world. Heck, we're practically married.

But in Grandpa Grumpy's view there is no namy-pamby UN in this messed up world, and he has taken jingoism to new heights when it comes to his belief that America is the only nation in the world worth living in, or for. And my reluctance to swear allegiance to it that has finally pushed Grumps to new heights of fury, for as all fanatical, true-believers of any radical ideology will concur when it comes to a line in the sand: yer either in or yer out.

And I am most definitely out.

It has escalated in the last few years, partly fueled by his advancing age and the fact that he is now fixated on the WWII years, especially the Pacific Theatre. To an interested listener, his weaving in and out of both sides of the Japanese-American conflict is a fascinating dance of blame on both sides, and is a chilling portrait of the hell of war. From his now-distant perch he obsessively relives the last gasp of a world conflict, cleaning up the rotting remains in Nagasaki, running security detail at the War Crimes Tribunal, seeing hunger and starvation from the streets of his adopted home of over two decades. He will freely hold both sides accountable for the atrocities committed in the name of freedom, with a generous mixture of compassion and sympathy for the plight of POWS tortured in Baatan along with the millions of civilian Japanese diaspora who returned home to starvation in a devestated land.

All this ceased to be fascinating years ago when he told it for the second, then third time, then on and on. And as the daughter of another elderly raconteur stuck in a loop, I'd be content to simply nod and listen, except that it just ends in the same place: I'm a Commie Pinko, and should be run out of town on a rail. On all matters regarding this issue, his logic gets very fuzzy when it comes to fighting for liberty. But to spare you the long version, it boils down to this: Fought for the U.S. Worthy. Fought for any other Allied country: Not worth mentioning. Apparently you can only defend liberty if you are an American. His idea of liberty, freedom, and all the other ideals that go with it are country-specific. Uncle Sam's got the copyright, apparently. Literally and figuratively.

Grandpa Grumpy is the Ugly American. And who would want to line up for citizenship when faced with this kind of welcome? To borrow (liberally) fromWoody Allen, I'm not interested in joining any club that would have him for a member.

Grumps is a tough old bird, and has gotten back his God-given mobility after knee surgery (over a year ago, sibs take note), and as much as I'd like to make peace with him, we have reached an impasse. It's an ironic one, as you might have guessed. I am as loyal to my birth nation as he is to his, and the only difference is that I keep my mouth shut. Which, for those of you who know me, isn't easy. Keeping quiet mostly entails a dumb, wide-eyed expression when he tries to bait me during what seems like an ordinary conversation (he is very good at approaching the subject from any manner of obtuse avenues). This puzzled look allows him to get to the punch line, which is usually a direct insult to me, Canada, or any number of Obama connections to our socialist policies, like health care for the disabled or sick children. Here's an example:

"Hey, I met a gal from Queebeck the other day at the cemetery when I was paying my respects last week."

Looks at me.

"You know why I was there, right?" Cocks his head, stares with a smile. I nod politely.

"Well, I dunno what you do, but that's what we do on Veteran's Day, pay our respects to the men and women who served our country to protect the freedoms you enjoy here in America." I nod, try to mention the poppies we wear as the Canadian symbol of respect for our armed forces. He cuts me off and moves on.

"Well, anyway, she was an interesting lady. I wish I'd taped our conversation."

Looks at me (I keep my expression neutral).

"Yeah, she said she loves it here, and that there ain't any place in the world like America. And if you don't want to be a citizen she says you should get the hell out and go back where you came from!"

Grins and stares at me, as if waiting for a retort. Which does not come.

Then he sits back and puts on his best Kansas drawl. "Yeaaah, man, that's what I'm talkin' about."

Looks around the room to see if anyone agrees with him, but surprisingly the others are all picking lint off their clothes or staring at the ceiling.

After a long period of these one-sided conversations, when he starts to relax and get chummier, we might exchange a few friendly shots across the bow. Only a few mind you, because this more direct approach inevitably ends in a tirade, or a shouting match with his wife (my mother-in-law) who recently has begun to object to his abuse. Then I go to bed, where I am now, writing this to you all.

On this trip I did learn something remarkable - we both share ancestry to the Mayflower. My father's family descended from John Howland, made memorable by his fall from the ship mid-Atlantic, and his frantic grasp of a trailing lanyard that got him hauled back on board. A true survivor, he married another Mayflower passenger and had many children, which led to half-million of us in future generations. GG has a similar chart, but I didn't stay long enough to figure out from whose loins he eventually sprang from. It was as annoying as hell for Grumps to find out my people had been here at the first Thanksgiving, a claim he has long reveled in, being the champion American that he is. Unfortunately, he sees this as further proof that we are elitist fops of the first order, snuff-sniffing, poppinjays who defended the evil King, and ran tail when the Revolution began. So now I'm a Commie and a turncoat.

Oh, Canada!