What Family Reunions Are Good For
Five years worth of group therapy in one event. A litmus test for potential partners. Opportunities for personal growth you may never have considered, nor wanted to
The first family reunion my husband attended thirty-three years ago contained our usual messy mix of strong personalities. The moment we walked in the door a deep voice thundered, “Lookie what the kitty dragged in! Becky with her latest.”
My fairly recent, significant other looked at me puzzled. “Latest what?” The poor guy came from a proper New England family. His parents were progressive liberals and regarded as civilized intellectuals in their University community.
Mine were creatives putting together a living while they proceeded to have six children in New York and five more on the West Coast. Your thoughts and prayers are appreciated.
His family ate dinner at a reasonable hour. Our parents embraced the 8 to 10 pm Mediterranean dinner scene. All siblings were onboard in mutual protest over this ravage of the night.
We had activities to attend! Some are legit and others, use your imagination.
Hubby’s family had well-modulated tones of voice. They never raised it and always treated others with respect. They didn’t refer to one’s relationship history while one is introducing the latest model. They used cloth napkins at the dinner table every Sunday.
They weren’t Italian.
I thought J would be overwhelmed by the bodily assaults, landing a nanosecond later. I was crushed by flailing arms as chiropractic, back-adjusting hugs were provided by my strapping bros. Lifted in the air and plopped back down with an assessment.
“You’re too skinny.” A fruit, shish kebab magically appeared and was shoved into my hand lest I faint. I roll my eyes conservatively, knowing they will get plenty of exercise before we walk out the door.
I’m taken aback as the new beau metamorphoses and joins the cacophony with a slew of satirical replies and exaggerated expressions. His background acting in a theatre group is paying off nicely.
He gains control of the savages and they’re playing in his court. I’m impressed. This one’s a keeper.
J has developed an immunity to the inevitable rehashing of family lore and legends at our gatherings. Tomorrow he will crash out in a comfy hammock under shade trees. Digesting the copious quantities of food, mercilessly shoveled onto his plate.
He’ll snooze to a melody of hoots and screams from the pool and conversations coming and going, white noise waves lapping the liminal shore.
This would all take place in the near future. My intuition was on fire!
We arrived in my nuked hometown and were checking into our riverside hotel. “Your family has quite a few rooms,” notes the receptionist. A bro, one year older, and his family also arrive at the desk and my phone starts chiming.
It’s my niece, reporting live from Friday night’s “light” dinner gathering. There’s only enough food for one army. We won’t hit global levels until the next day.
“Where are you! People are asking about you. Get your butt over here Auntie!” I show it to bro. He rolls his eyes, paying allegiance to the family's signature. “How sweet sis. You’re in demand before the show has even begun.”
I text back. “We had to investigate a haunted hill on the way. OMG, it was! The Queen of Woo has a tale to tell. See you soon.” That’ll give her pause.
A portion of the tribe is due for arrival Saturday morning. The Friday night scene remains relatively tame until beers dwindle down in the cooler and a passed-around whiskey bottle contributes to heated political debates.
I venture to the kitchen, on the hunt for Tabasco sauce. I open the refrigerator and view a strange turf I’ve never trekked before. There are multiple doors in the doors and shelves beyond shelves. An ice maker is grunting and popping in a rather alarming manner.
Our gracious hostess, my nephew’s wife, manifests at my side. “What are you looking for? I probably have it somewhere.”
“I’ve had a sheltered existence,” I conclude. “I’ve never seen a refrigerator like this. Where’s the Tabasco? Wait, I just found three versions on this back tray!”
I begin receiving the refrigerator’s history. A four-month battle with the manufacturers over a dysfunctional ice maker. Fifteen minutes later all the harrowing details have been downloaded. The company surrendered and gave her the Palace of Cool for free.
We drift toward the car eventually, with the lame excuse of too little sleep the night before. None of us had a full night’s sleep growing up. You try sleeping with 13 people in a four-bedroom ranch house.
Collective eye rolls are spotted in every direction. I’m threatened for good measure on the way out the door.
“We’re starting lunch at noon tomorrow. Be here or beware.”
We show up at 1 pm and food had not yet progressed to the table. In fact, there was enough time for three more back adjustments from late-arriving huggers.
Name tags were donned and ambitious youth tried sorting through the chaos of who belonged to who. Forget it.
Food began appearing at the altar and the masses gathered in anticipation. Yep, enough for three armies today and we’ll most likely crush it to extinction within hours.
We await our eldest sister’s blessing for the meal. She expounds for a suitable minute or two but feels the group wants more. I see her pondering and dive to the rescue.
Suddenly I’m ravenous and my stomach’s growling at the aromatherapy fumes wafting from the table.
I hastily recite the little ditty our mother displayed above the kitchen sink as a clean-up inspiration for our serf chores. Ritual requirements were satisfied and the feast began.
Fully satiated, half-conscious people began staggering off, lying down on the grass in smaller groups where raw stuff was being discussed. Censors had collapsed and new alliances were being formed.
A pleasant interim arose and I floated merrily along until some recap from the past was requested from the sibs. The moment had arrived for our annual, age regression, therapy session. A cleansing practice on the rapid path. An uplifting of one's ancestral line.
We begin arguing from the “you’ve got to be kidding me” platform of a defiant, rebel teen. That’s my specialty archetype. Protests abound over who said and did what. Why things happened the way they did.
Who suffered the most? The least? Who was the favorite? Who was the villain, the rat, the snitch?
Nieces and nephews filter over in amusement. They’re all fully-fledged adults. Many have grown kids of their own. They’re eager to get in the mix of this particular brew.
One miscreant inquires, “Was my dad as big a jerk when he was a kid as he is now?”
“You don’t get to ask such things until you’re our age,” I reply. “Scat, go back to your buddies and talk trash over there, you little whippersnapper.” I blow him a kiss and he pretends to be knocked down, then woos me. “You’ve always been cool Auntie. You’re our favorite.”
I attempt bashfulness and don’t succeed. I begin glowing, although it could be the radiation drifting off the Hanford reactors 35 miles upstream.
This is our family’s declaration of love. An abundance of good food, scathing remarks made in jest, occasionally barbaric physical displays, and comments many might find rude, but elicits laughter among us.
The full moon rises over our bacchanalia. I point it out and yip a little howl in salute. An alien calls out from the shadows, “Where’s your broom woman? I want a ride!” I spot the outlaw and reply, “Watch out! I’ll cast a spell dooming you to an ordinary life.”
The rowdy mood subsides and we transition into a gentle regard for each other as the warm desert night wanes on. Our fires have reduced to glowing embers. Sentiments begin flowing. Soft laughter peals out.
My heart swells unexpectedly as I roam different areas, checking in with anyone I missed. I’m on the verge of crying and I don’t know why.
Insight arrives as I bathe under the moon’s luminescent glow. Yes, my family is cray cray on some levels. Whose isn’t? But every single person here is heart driven.
No matter what drops out of their mouth, their eyes are saying I love you. We’re walking disasters at times, but we’re all willing to admit it. No one is posing here.
This is my family. Four generations doing their best.
They’ve taught me compassion, empathy, joy, and connection. They’ve mirrored my shadow and seen past my veils. We accept each other for who we are.
This is my extra large, hot mess of a family I will always love.
I walk out the door with tears of gratitude welling in my eyes.
And a quick backward glance.
My silence loving soul,
suddenly relishing those hundreds of miles between us.