Today I sat for a portrait with my sisters, dad, his third wife, and her three teenage sons. The photographer recommends we all wear a unifying color, like black. Everyone looked good, but I couldn’t help thinking it looked a little morbid. Maybe it’s because I wore the same black dress to my mother’s funeral, but I wasn’t about to bring that up when we picked out clothes. This dress is too comfortable.
And the picture went well and hopefully looks good. And we all walked down the block in our dresses and khakis to wait in line- as it is the first day of the year that the ice cream store is open.
And I got to eat my small chocolate soft-serve dipped in cherry hard-shell while people in hats and scarves and winter jackets bought their slushies and sundaes. I thought about pistachio frozen yogurt, as it is clearly one of the better flavors, but there’s plenty more days for that.
And it was 44 degrees and it was a beautiful day. I had bare legs for the first time in months and my ice cream tasted like Spring, and it didn’t melt too fast and I didn’t get too cold eating it.
Then, I joined the maternal grandparents for weekly dinner. Tonight was extra-special as my little sister is leaving us in two days for a fancy Chicago job, so my cousins and aunt joined us as well.
First came the conversations of family updates- an uncle that travels often to Japan was there on Friday, but is home safely now. My great-grandmother just celebrated her 95th birthday, but seems disinterested, tired with her life. My grandfather, newly returned from the birthday party, is exhausted and frazzled—but good enough to put up with our laughter and silliness as my sister and aunt throw out their arms and declare themselves to be ‘huge cake people’ in retort to lil sis’s comment: “I’m not a huge cake person.”
Later on, after my grandfather has excused himself to clean and pace and hope to go to bed, my little sister will say, in a discussion of buying furniture in Chicago, that she is not a huge dresser person, and my aunt and the oldest will look at each other and laugh as they pretend to be huge dresser people.
My youngest cousin is too impatient to sit through three courses, despite how good the food is- but she is perpetually willing to entertain herself alone in the living room; occasionally appearing through the doorway as she leaps across the room in her tights and leotard or walking slowly as she tries to get a marble to roll into the center of a wooden labyrinth. That's about all you can expect out a 6yr old. My sister's and I used to do the same.
Beside the questions about my sister’s preparations for the move , the new apartment, the new job, the new roommates.—most important of which are how close is she to the zoo, and does she have a list of all the contacts my grandparents also know who live in Chicago? – the hot topic of the night is the state of the local Catholic Church. Maybe I’ll write more later, but short story is this: if the Church is trying to attract/keep members, they’re doing it wrong.
I have plenty to say about this but I don’t. My grandpartents are faithful people. They keep the label because it’s tradition. Because it’s proper. Because it’s what their parents and their parents’ parents did.
And my family are good people. I forget that when I’m far away. When I’m far away- whether it’s in distance or lost in my mind somewhere- I see the ways I don’t fit in and the ways I’m not like them. Not as hard of a worker, not as social…
Today I sit at the table and I enjoy the presence of family. These are the people that taught me to grin and bare it in the face of adversity. They value community involvement, respect for elders, tradition and tact. They encourage liberal thought and realism; education, self-improvement, independence. And they are proud of me even when I may seem to move in the opposite direction of all these things.
I know there are plenty of imperfections within my family members that I’m not displaying here today. And there are plenty of times that I can write about all the things that go wrong being so close to home.
But today I am content- if momentarily- in the blessing God has given me with my family here.
And I am blessed to be in this place where there are lines at the ice cream store in 40 degree weather.
Where the traffic lights blink yellow after 10pm and the newspaper occasionally mistakes “baklava” for “balaclava.”
(think: ‘the bank robber was wearing a baklava’ Aunt and sister’s predict suspect’s description: smells like honey, kinda sticky. Grandpa says: ‘he was a bit of a flake.’)
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I have meant to write often in the past few months. There are plenty more things I could say too. But I just wanted to say- it’s good to be home. I thank God I am here, now, and seeing everything with new eyes. I was naive and a bit oblivious for most of my childhood. Maybe I still am- but I see more of the things I missed before, and it changes some things. And seeing clearly reinforces other things I already knew- like how much I am loved even when I don't see it or let it in. And how- no matter what happens- family stays family.
Growing up is hard. But it could have been a lot worse.
