A Week of Family

It's easy to get caught up in the world outside, easy to forget how important family is. There's more to life than work.

Last weekend I was bickering with my parents, short-tempered to the point that they actually suggested we might need therapy. I had some other things on my mind, and I was unfairly snapping at them over simple questions, and complaining about disruptions in the coming week. My mom's cousin was visiting from out of state, so we were cleaning the house and doing our best to sort out all the things my mom brought home from my uncle's, to make it more presentable. “Is it okay if we have company? It is our house!” was my mom's reply when I was particularly indignant over the possibility of coming home to a crowded house more than once.

Family is important, and when we lose loved ones, those left behind become that much closer. We tragically and unexpectedly lost my mom's cousin, my Aunt Gerry, to sudden diabetes two years ago. When her brother Alan wanted to visit us, and bring my mom old photos of their grandparents and uncles, my mom said yes. He didn't get along with his sister's family, so we were among the few blood relatives who would welcome him while he spent a week in New York. I meanwhile worried about my job and about missing television shows while we entertained, even though my parents would be doing most of the work.

On Monday morning, Alan called to say he had a cold and would not make it that day, giving us a reprieve. I was able to work late, hit the gym, then come home and enjoy the season finale of Prison Break. There's nothing I watch on Tuesday, and I'd already set the VCR so my dad wouldn't miss House. I skipped the gym that night and came right home at 7, finding a driveway full of cars. I was exhausted, and took a deep breath before entering. Inside, conversation resonated and dishes clanked. I was just in time for the Italian feast my mom had prepared.

Alan's a nice guy, and more comfortable with emotions that the average New Yorker. I shook his hand and he pulled me in to a bear hug, an embrace that thankfully didn't include a traditional Italian kiss on the cheek, because MCF don't play that. Also at the table was my Uncle Ciro, who'd lost his wife last Summer. My mom's other brother, my Uncle Jerry, couldn't make it because he had previous plans with friends.

Even though I was tired, having a big meal followed by pastries made it seem like a holiday, and for a few hours I forgot my problems, didn't think about what I had to do the next day, and listened to old stories from when my family was young themselves, and of how things are down South where Alan lives. We bade everyone farewell by 9:30, as they'd all had a long day of visiting.

Wednesday night brought a similar scene with a slightly different cast. This time my Uncle Jerry was there in place of my Uncle Ciro, and Alan brought his cousin Patty. Another feast was prepared, this time chicken and potatoes. More stories were shared, and as Alan talked about his experiences taking piano lessons as an adult, I told him about the great music teacher I had growing up, and the life lessons I got along with musical knowledge. That night brought with it another tradition, the gathering close together around the table so Uncle Jerry could take our picture, only to have to pose a second time when his flash didn't work or his batteries were low.

The phone rang during dinner, but we ignored it in favor of our guests. Curiosity outweighs manners with my dad sometimes, so he left the room to go listen to the answering machine. It turned out to be our neighbor across the street, calling from Florida about an “incident” the night before. My dad thought it best if my mom called her back.

While my mom went in to her bedroom to make the call, Alan started wondering if it had anything to do with “something” he thought he backed into leaving our driveway. It was dark, and he felt something small like a garbage can, but looked and saw nothing. I headed down the hall to hear what my mom was talking about: “...stood by the door waving to him. I think I would have heard if he hit something...”

“Oh my G*d,” I thought, “He backed over their dog.”

In the other room, chatter continued while I searched for a pen and paper. My dad was washing dishes, and I whispered to him what I'd heard. “WHAT?” he asked, shutting off the faucet. “Never mind,” I said, not wanting to raise my voice lest the others hear.

My mom gasped when I handed her the note saying Alan thought he hit “something” but didn't know what. She politely ended the conversation with her friend, saying she'd call back after talking to her cousin to see if he knew anything. She filled me in. Fortunately, Alan didn't kill a dog. Unfortunately, he'd dented a rather large pickup truck parked at the curb across the street.

“He shouldn't be parked there!” railed my dad, when my mom recounted the story to everyone else. Before driving to Florida, they'd discovered the damage, and had heard a loud crash. Alan was a little more rational than my dad, and willing to talk to our friends and settle any damages. My father started going in to a tangent about all the kids in our neighborhood, how they skateboard in the street and how many obstacles there are, none of which had anything to do with the current situation and I told him as much. My mom grabbed a flashlight, and I headed outside with her and her cousin to check.

“No that was there. Yeah that was from another scrape.” As we examined the marks on Alan's bumper, I grew concerned for my parents' safety. He has another home in Pennsylvania, and was planning to drive my folks there for the day on Friday. I was going to trust them in his hands? We walked over to our neighbors to see the three foot diameter dent in the side of the truck, now (and probably in the future) in their driveway. Chances are they won't be parking in that risky spot anymore.

My mom called her friend back and she put her husband on the phone to speak to Alan. They worked things out pretty peacefully, and exchanged information. My dad grumped that Alan shouldn't have to kick in for the damages because the truck is a nuisance where they park it, but the damage was done. As our guests left, a minute or two before a new episode of Lost, my dad forgot about his complaints. I meanwhile noted that this time our relative had backed in to our driveway, so his headlights faced the dark street. He knew he'd hit something the night before.

It was strange to have a routine Thursday, a day of work, gym, and sitcoms. During the day my mom sang with her choir to some senior citizens at a local home, now entertaining her family as well. The next morning all would have to get up for a long drive, so no one came over for dinner. I left for work Friday just as my Uncle Ciro pulled in with my Uncle Jerry, who said what I assumed was “you're not coming with us?” but we both had our windows rolled up. At work, the usual distractions kept me from worrying about half of my family going off a bridge somewhere. In the afternoon, I got a call from my mom to say they'd gotten there safely, to a beautiful house in the mountains with fresh air and incredible cell phone reception. She couldn't believe how clear the call was. I got home before them of course, but it wasn't long before old people with coolers and tote bags were marching in to our kitchen. They all seemed ten years younger, and I'm really glad my parents finally went on a real road trip as opposed to the one or two hour rides out East to pick apples when I was a kid. I think they got a taste of why I go gallivanting with my friends.

Alan walked up to me with a small white box, holding it out with both hands as though it were something of great value. By his gesture, it actually seemed to be glowing. The box was taped, but I lifted the flap enough to peek in and see several cannoli. I thanked him as a handshake was pulled in to another hug. He bid everyone farewell, and my uncles left soon after.

I slept late on Saturday. I took a few naps. I'm sure my parents were more tired. As they discussed their trip, my dad asked if my mom noticed that Patty had bought a hamburger at a rest stop, or that Alan had a bite. “They're religious but don't follow rules; I don't understand that,” said my dad, shaking his head. During Lent, Catholics don't eat meat on Fridays, especially Good Friday. I'm sure it was an honest slip, and honestly there are worse sins and Catholicism is about more than just following rules. A rule is meaningless if you don't understand the reasoning behind it, as I'd learned in many theology classes. It's actually possible to follow rules and just go through the motions without your heart and your faith being properly focused. People outside the faith think its just about a set of rules, and my dad was perpetuating a stereotype.

When my dad was a kid, the rule was no meat on any Friday, so when the church updated that, he continued to honor the old ways. My dad is also religious about time, and complains that my mom and I go to mass late. He goes to 7 AM mass by himself all the time, even though his church doesn't start until 7:30. “I meditate for a half hour, and 7 is really when they're supposed to start. That's how it was when I was a kid.” It kills him when we have to go together on holidays, and he does his best to make sure we're on time. This year we were going to a 5 PM Easter Vigil on Saturday. By 1:30 he had already shaved, bathed, and dressed, except for his tie and jacket. On one hour intervals that became half hour intervals by 3, he started asking my mom if we were going to be on time.

“WE'RE LEAVING IN FIVE MINUTES!” he called out, while I was in the shower at 4:30. I always know what time it is when I go into the bathroom, and I usually have my watch on the sink counter too. Why he thinks the psychology of shouting a later time will work after all these years mystifies me. I had resolved a week ago to be more patient with my folks though, especially if my temper had them questioning whether or not I was normal. “WE'RE LEAVING IN FIVE MINUTES!” he called out a second time, and once more I didn't answer. I toweled off and got dressed.

My mom wasn't ready yet either, and as my dad paced back and forth muttering to himself, he paused to ask me if I'd drive her, because he was ready to leave without us. “We have fifteen minutes,” I said, and pointed out that the priest in our church usually starts about five minutes late anyway. That didn't seem to matter to him, but fortunately my mom was ready.

I did my best to get us there quickly and not embarrass my dad, but as we struggled to keep pace with him, we soon saw a crowd gathered outside the church by a small fire. It looked like the ceremony had started, and that made my dad walk even faster. Fortunately, the priest was still inside getting ready and people were still getting candles. I ducked around the crowd and went in the side entrance, finding some candles for the three of us and returning just as the ceremony began. We filtered inside and extinguished our candles after the first few prayers. Some young people were being baptized for the first time, and the overall celebration took about two hours this year with this added event.

It's been a long week of family, and it's not quite over. One or both of my uncles will be over for Easter, and my mom will prepare yet a third feast followed inevitably by more dessert. Monday will be back with a vengeance though, and things will get back to what I consider “normal”, subjective though that term may be in any context. Things change, and life can be thrown into a state of flux when you least expect it, or hope that it won't. At the end of the day, family is the only constant. You love them; they love you. You fight with them; they fight with you. But family is always there, even when they're not, and that's one of the few unchanging things in this world.