Family

Summer is not my favorite time of year. When you’re overweight, out of shape, and work in an office with air-conditioning for most of your day, it’s not easy to step out into the thick muck of heat that has settled over us. It is only the beginning of July and we’ve already had more ninety degree days this year than all of last year; so to say that my mood has not been pleasant is an understatement.

I’m a fall person…or better yet…a winter person. I’d much rather put on more clothes than take anything off (and after taking a brief survey of both family and friends, they too agree that they would rather I put on more clothes than take anything off. It’s a rare moment of total agreement; although some of the survey comments were a bit more hurtful than I felt was necessary).

Last weekend Connie and I traveled to Kentucky for a family reunion of my father’s side of the gene pool. Shelby and Ashlyn had to work Friday night and Saturday morning, so they could not go, and Taylor was away at a church camp until Sunday, so it was a rare, but pleasant road trip for my lovely bride and me. We listened to the music we wanted to listen to, and we got to talk without constant interuption. Unlike most of the trips from our door in Oak Ridge to Mom and Dad’s door in Shelbyville, it seemed to pass by too quickly. I am sure I did not drive any faster than usual, but the 211 miles sped by in a blur.

When we arrived, Dad was out on the front porch, which is the throne from which he overlooks his little kingdom. Dad is an outdoor person and is as resistant to Air Conditioning as I am to heat. He has worked outside all of his life, from farm work as a child to hard, manual labor on the County Road Crews in his teens. Through his years as a truck driver, he drove with the windows down and his left arm lay across the edge to receive a dark, permanent tan.

Mom likes to give Dad a hard time about sitting on the porch, and I’m not sure why. I think she sees it as a waste of time, but the way I see it, if you’ve worked hard all your life and you’ve finally retired, then you should be able to do what you want to do.

Dad enjoys sitting on the porch more than sitting in the house watching television. He enjoys the feel of the sun and sound of the occasional breeze in the leaves of the dogwood tree nearby. He enjoys watching the cars pass by on their way into or out of town. He recognizes a lot of the people and waves…and they wave back. He sometimes waves at those he doesn’t know too. Most of them return the friendly greeting.

As the sun was slowly setting Friday evening and the air got slightly more bearable, I sat on the front porch with Dad and we waved at those driving by together. I had to admit it was relaxing.

When it got a bit darker, we went inside, where Mom and Connie had been sharing stories about mine and Dad’s problems and how they intended to fix them. Although I had told Mom we would eat dinner on the way and not to fix any food, she couldn’t resist breaking out some home-made pound cake and ice cream. Far be it from me to hurt her feelings by refusing to partake of her generosity.

We talked into the evening about family and the kids. Again, the lack of interruption was nice, but there was a bit of sadness in the undertone of the conversation. My kids were growing up and their absence was like a vacuum. Not only had I grown up and moved away, but now my kids were growing up and moving on with their own lives. They would visit again, of course, but not nearly as often.

Saturday morning Mom was up before five, starting a kettle of green beans. Dad had hoped for a mess of fresh beans from his garden, but we were about a week early so Mom was using canned. Still, a piece of salt pork for seasoning and a long time to simmer and they would taste just fine.

I had made a Mississippi Mud Cake, since it travelled easily, and planned to buy fried chicken from Kroger’s. Mom made a big pan of baked macaroni and cheese and Dad made his world famous banana pudding. We were prepared to feed the multitudes.

The reunion was supposed to start at 11am, but since everyone had been told that we wouldn’t eat until noon, that’s when everyone showed up. There was more food than there were people, and we had to add tables for desserts and drinks. Everyone out-did themselves with their favorite recipes, and when I say “out-did” I also mean that some went too far. I didn’t recognize what everything was…although it mostly resembled food.

There are some excellent cooks in my family¸ evident by the numerous shirts stretched near the point of fabric failure, but there are a few experimenters as well. I don’t mind trying new things, or new recipes, but I generally try them at home, where smoke detectors and waste baskets are close by. My basic rule at pot-lucks and reunions is that I don’t partake of foods that I can’t easily identify or if the ingredients aren’t obvious to my naked and extremely well-trained eye…especially if I have be somewhere in the next twenty-four hours.

Fortunately, there were plenty of the basics. Fried Chicken in all varieties except home-made (I guess no one actually fries chicken at home anymore), several batches of Mac and Cheese (with varying levels of cheesiness), corn, beans, potatoes, and a variety of casseroles with cracker toppings. One odd thing that Connie and I both noticed (and discussed in some detail on the way home) was that no one had brought “deviled eggs.” In retrospect, I still find it rather shocking.

Connie also noted (on our quiet drive home that evening) that my family was obviously a “mac and cheese” family and her family was a “hash brown casserole” family. It took only a moment’s thought to realize that she was absolutely right. No Warford family gathering seemed complete without a dish of baked macaroni and cheese, while the Dunkel family could not seem to meet without the hash browns. There is probably an interesting social study in that nugget of information, but I don’t really care. Fortunately, I like them both.

I always look forward to the reunion to see family members that I do not see the rest of the year (unless it is at a funeral). After the loss of my uncle Lee last year, there are only three siblings left in Dad’s family, from the original thirteen. Dad is now the oldest, followed by his brother Bill and sister Eleanor.

There were many of my cousins at the reunion, and many more that did not make it. The greeting etiquette of family members who have essentially become “strangers” is an odd, but consistent one: for male cousins, there is a quick handshake and a chipper “Hey ______, how have you been?” This is answered by a simple “Good, and you?” The response to this question can vary between “fine” and “great,” but never more detailed than that.

Female cousins sometimes get a hug, followed by the same general dialog. Occasionally someone will ask me if I still live in Tennessee, and I’ll say “yes.” They might follow that up (if we haven’t been interrupted by another arriving cousin) with, “now that’s near Nashville, right?” And I’ll say, “No, near Knoxville.” Since I’m always afraid of asking a question that I should already know the answer to or might not want to know, I generally shuffle my feet awkwardly and say something about how unbearably hot it is.

The heat was miserable. We were under a shelter, but it had a tin roof that seemed to be conducting the sun’s rays into a microwave. Dad and my brother David had brought some fans to sit around and people were not so casually situating themselves in front of them. Those spots were prime real estate and provided the only breeze and relief while trying to eat.

Despite a strong suggestion that we sit with people that we normally don’t see, everyone mostly broke up into their immediate family groupings. Old habits die hard, and we all gravitate to our comfort zone. Nothing is more comfortable than family.

Barely an hour and a half after getting in line to eat, people were packing up to go. It was just too hot to sit around and try to make conversation. It was really a shame though; because I think the longer we had stayed, the more we would have been forced to catch up. I might have actually learned what a few of my cousins do for a living.

My cousin Kevin, however, was the hero of the day. When a discussion arose about next year’s reunion, he suggested that we find a place indoors (even offering his church’s fellowship hall). As sweat dripped off my forehead and down the tip of my nose, I think it mixed with tears of joy at the thought that we would be in air-conditioned comfort next year. I quickly added my support to the idea and so did most of the others. (I think Dad was a little disappointed, but he was the only one present who didn’t look like he had just stepped out of the lake. He was as cool as the glass of ice tea he was holding).

Soon we were back at Mom and Dad’s house unpacking leftovers. I lifted the lid and looked down at my carefully and lovingly prepared Mississippi Mud Cake. One solitary corner piece had been removed. The rest of the cake sat there in the pan like some unwanted ugly stepchild. Connie noticed the cakes sad plight as well and said “Didn’t you get a piece of that at the reunion?” Yes, I nodded. One piece had been eaten from my cake and it was I who ate it. Kind of sad.

We visited a while longer, then hugged and kissed everyone before heading south toward home. I cranked up the air conditioning and set the cruise control. Another peaceful ride home, full of uninterrupted conversation and music of our choice. I couldn’t help but miss the kids.