a melancholy life

It is probably impossible not to lead a melancholy life when all the medications taken warn of drowsiness.  I suppose it might be possible to be silly and tired….not in my case though.  I started life as a serious child with nothing in the middle to lighten the burden.  Epitaphs such as “Still water runs deep” piled up with each stage of my life. 

By the time I was in college all the fun had been pushed into the corners.  I’m not saying that it was the fault of those around me.  They seemed to be having a pretty good time.  For example, my sister had dates.   Lots of dates.  She even had two dates in one evening and tried to pass off unwanted dates to me.  In fact, she had so much fun in high school she missed being valedictorian even though she is way smarter than I.   Even now when we are in our sixties, she has dates.  

I blame my melancholy on my Swedish ancestors.  Just way too much uncolor in their life:  potatoes, white sauce, snow, lutefisk, snow, turnips, and more fish.  How can that be a party?  After being stuck in a cabin for the greater part of the year because of cold and snow, you pretty much have used up any mystery about the other parties sharing your space.  I think I need a little vodka.  Well, maybe a cup of strong coffee and a good book would do.  I can see how the people in Babette’s Feast fell victim to unimaginable lives.  The French blood I do possess is so watered down that if takes a Long Island Tea to wake it up.  I had a cousin who could sit in the weak light of the morning with her mother – each with a cup of coffee- until it was clearly paste breakfast without saying a word to each other.  How melancholy is that?  

My grandmother thought I would never learn to talk because my mother and father were not talkers.  I think you have to talk if you want to break free of the blues.  ‘

It is easy to mistake melancholy for seriousness.  I do not think that they are congruent, but they certainly cross paths.  My penchant for serious things exhibited itself as soon as I could read.  I was a very serious reader, inhaling books, all kinds of books.  My favorite activity was going to the library.  The smell of books was intoxicating.  I sometimes choose a book by the smell of the pages.   I cannot remember if that really worked for picking interesting books, but I can remember the smell of books.  Weirdly, I wound up working my way through college working in a bookbindery.   Unfortunately, the smell of book glue sort of ruined the smelling book thing.  At least for awhile.  Older books had a much different smell  (more inviting, alive)  than the new books.

Mistakenly, I though all people who went to college were interested in learning, in books, and were smart.  Then I thought it was just because I was at a church college that it wasn’t true, and that if I was at a ‘real’ college, everyone would be interested in learning, and in reading, and would be smart.  Ha!   I am such a slow learner.  It took awhile for the truth to sink in. A degree only means you figured out how to pass the classes.

There were not very many students who had spent time watching Greek plays on Sunday afternoon (of their own choice) while the rest of the family was doing something else (I know not what-I was really into those plays).

So here I am at sixty, still seriously afflicted with melancholy, so much so that watching Norbet with my relative was totally painful.