Taking the fun out of funeral.

I had a pretty interesting and exhausting weekend. I had to travel back to the old homestead to attend a funeral. Boo, funerals. This one wasn't as trying as a normal funeral generally is, but it was still emotional, nonetheless. It was for my schizophrenic grandfather, a man I barely knew. As a child I would visit my grandparents' farm, and he was almost like an extra on the set of a movie. I honestly don't have any memory of any kind of interaction with him. Then when I was about 12, my Gramama left because she couldn't take it anymore. So in the last 17 years or so, the only time I saw him was at my great-grandma's funeral about 10 years ago. He didn't acknowledge me, and I wonder if he even knew who I was. I debated whether or not I should even mention anything in this blog about my weekend, because it was such a private, emotional time. And maybe someday I'll go into more detail about him and how he lived his life, completely detatched from reality. But for now I'll leave it at that, and just share a couple pics of the house he died in. This is not the farm from my childhood; he somehow aquired another farm and decided to live there, without electricity, plumbing or furnature. Sharing pics from the house my grandmother raised her family and where I spent so many formative years seems too personal right now.As you can see, he didn't live like anyone you probably know. Truth is, none of us knew him, either.