All In The Family

Reunions are especially precious now, wrinkles mark the unrelenting abuse earned by an endless cycle of oblivious and often misguided life choices. Well worn souvenirs covering brittle bones proving life hasn't been wasted on self preservation, but having clearly neglected and corrupted every last inch of it in the pursuit of living. Gathering with siblings brings an acute, bittersweet awareness of the acceleration of time even as the days slow and years fade.

Ignorance is bliss I've heard and so we are a happy, clueless bunch. Reliving those awkward days of youth, indestructible and now paying the price with bodies more similar to Mother Teresa than the Flying Nun, our Catholic school days brutally preparing us for both ends of the spectrum. Tales told may or may not be entirely true, no worries, as the further you are from the actual event, so much further are you also from the actual truth. And so with arthritic, unbending limbs, thinning hair and foggy recollections we gather together to laugh, to reminisce, to shed a few years, to fill our souls.

My sister Jolene (hates that song) has a reputation for enjoying the company of numerous elderly admirers at the gym. Well into her golden years these relationships are understandably platonic in nature, romance doesn't necessarily come to mind when spandex is stretched across lumpy bodies having reached their prime several decades earlier. She designates them her "Y Husbands" and so begins the Soap Opera. Sis recollects a recent lunch with friends including a few of her "husband" tribe, "Ward and Bill" (aliases to protect them from stalking cougars). Leaving the restaurant after a lively conversation, Jolene asked Ward why he was so quiet, "Well Bill was the center of attention, he is so much more interesting than me." Added to this stinging rejection was Ward's utter disgust as Bill's oblivious habit of spitting while sharing his stories landed squarely on Ward's face. These are the Days of their lives.  

Sister-in-law Katie, typically not one to join our sordid recollections of untold family dysfunction, succumbed to a haunting memory of agonized misery, one that could have happened to any one of us, Katie took the bullet. The tale begins with our father's eccentric friends Harold and Arlene, drinking buddies and Johnny Cash karaoke-ers-with-the-hi-fi-blaring-well-after-midnight-while-children-are-trying-to-sleep pals. Dad sent my brother and his innocent bride Katie over to Harold and Arlene's place to help them with something that Harold and Arlene had forgotten they needed help with and instead, declared Happy Hour, insisting on drinks all around. Sharing a cold bottle of Falstaff with my brother while rifling through hoards of dishes, newspapers, old boots, holiday decorations, telephone books and mysterious fuzzy blobs, unable to find the family crystal, resourceful Arlene poured a hefty serving of finely chilled Lambrusco into a not yet empty moldy jelly jar for poor Katie. Katie is not an embellisher, this nightmare is gospel true.

Back in the day my mother had not learned to drive. Sure she maneuvered Grandpa's old truck down the gravel to the farm as a toddler, but never ventured onto the hard road. Mom patiently waited for every one of her children and even a slew of her grandchildren to earn their driver's licenses before deciding it was her turn. Lord Help Us, she sat behind the wheel of our old family jalopy, my brother John in the passenger seat nails gripping the armrest, my ten year old self crouched with head covered, rosary in hand reciting Our Fathers and Hail Marys from the back seat. John was clearly not the best candidate for this assignment, meek and mild mannered without a care in the world he turned into a frenzied, raging lunatic behind the wheel. John, swearing uncontrollably couldn't handle the stress, got thrown to the curb, replaced by brother Brian who was undoubtedly less volatile at age 15 and the ideal instructor for our mother.

My inheritance is surely not monetary but a wonderfully misfit collection of siblings, a band of survivors, an equal number of brave, loyal in-laws, nieces and nephews by the busloads, an army of colorful kindhearted relatives each claiming a unique, crazy legacy, this is going to take a while. Bide your time and I'll tell you a story…