The Family Reunion

by Sue Gillis

We have all been there. The family reunion date is set. The cousins are coming from all directions – Missouri, Texas, Florida, Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts and (horrors!) that commie liberal state, Vermont. The weather is forecasted to be glorious. Perfect for a picnic.

But… it poured. So, for the first time ever, we sat at a large dining room table. Now, at first this may not sound too bad. But here’s the rub: perfect weather means freedom to wander, safe from confrontation, always an easy escape. That’s the genius of a picnic style reunion.

Plan B forced us to a structured formal setting. The table seating meant we had to really talk. And therein lies the challenge of getting along.

Topics off the table (and everyone instinctively knew this) included:

Meat of any kind;

hunting;

global warming;

politics of any kind – from last week or the last 50 years;

TV programs are okay, but it is best not to mention that you only watch Fox and believe every word of Glen is heaven-sent;

and speaking of heaven, it’s best kept to the silent sign of the cross before chowing down on your hotdog (or grassburger).

Also, diets are off the table, as in “How did that diet go you were on a couple of years ago?” Likewise hair color – never, never talk about hair as in “gee you look different, did you get a…..?”

Acceptable topics seem to run like this: “I love being retired. Pity you still are working. Been retired for 10 years. Did it right. You’re still working aren’t you? Golly, how old are you?” Updates on children are fine, but seem to head straight to glazed-over eyes.

So it’s very important to have what I call spark topics, such as:

“Hey, how about those Red Sox?”

“How ‘bout those Cardinals?” And around the table it goes until…

“Hey, how about Joan Baez?”

Dead quiet. I mean dead.

“Yeah, going to see her concert on Nov. 2.”

“Isn’t she still singing those war-hating songs?”

“Well. Suppose so.”

Silence.

Okay then, “How about that Jane Fonda?”

Goading.

Guilty.

BAM! Fist goes down hard on the table. Glasses shake.

Good time for more wine.

Let’s try the good ole days. Just the fun stuff, like the time you and your cousin stole a rowboat at 6 a.m., sunk the motor, had to be rescued…

Ho Ho Ho!

Gloom gently shadows the room. Memories of punishment by parental beating follow. Someone said they remembered the screaming like it was yesterday instead of 50 years ago.

More wine please. Or better yet. How about an ice cold Smuttynose?

Hey, remember when we went to New Orleans? When was that? Must have been ‘bout ’72. Bourbon Street, remember the girls had on long dresses, no underwear. (Lots of raucous laughter here, and one very stern look) Wild, weren’t we? Walked straight into the pool. (A 12-year-old eavesdropping asks incredulously, “You did that, Gram?” Oh dear.)

As the afternoon moved on to early evening, and our hosts kept the food and wine flowing, stories of our shared childhoods were told once again, taking us back to a time long ago now and, for a few hours, bringing to life those who have passed on.

Driving back to Vermont after the reunion, I felt an overwhelming sense of pleasure and satisfaction that this family dinner party was the best ever.

Our differences are still there and, I suspect, as fiercely held as ever, but the edges were mellower. We are, after all, family. And that is that.

However, next time the invitation says BYOB…. bring extra.