In life, the ones who are closest to
us are the ones who are related to us through blood. This is common. People who aren’t directly related to us will
be kept at a certain distance compared to those who are. There are certain extreme circumstances in
which this is not the case, but I think we can unanimously agree that this is a
standard. There are exceptions such as
spouses, or maybe a steady boyfriend or girlfriend. When speaking of family tradition, however,
your blood relatives always come first.
When
I was much younger in the late 80’s and early 90’s, we would meet at an almost
randomly chosen household for certain holidays.
Everyone was much closer back then.
Sometimes it was my grandma’s house in Dayton for Christmas, or it was
my Uncle Bob and Aunt Velma’s house in West Virginia for Thanksgiving. This would have been my mom’s side of the
family. There were other times when we
would choose to share these holidays with my dad’s parents, siblings, and in-laws. The strange thing about these gatherings is
that there was almost always a dominant “host”.
There was one person who always held the entire thing together. Like a general rallying his troops, these
people were the ties that held everyone at the same pace.
On
my mom’s side, it was my Uncle Bob. Full
blooded Italian, he was my Uncle by marriage.
There were times that he found his laughter at the expense of me and
would tease me about my once lethal fear of insects, but damned if the man
couldn’t cook just about anything you could imagine and do it better than most
people ever could. As a young boy I
remember him. Regrettedly, I was not
there for his funeral as it was my job to look over the house while everyone
else went to see him off. I only
remember his cooking, his hoarse laugh, his salt and pepper hair, his powerfully
fluent speaking of the Italian language, and the look he always carried in his
eyes. Some of the best holidays were
spent in that outlandishly scenic house, and I haven’t been there since he
passed.
On
my dad’s side, it was always a combined effort of my grandma and grandpa. Much tamer than my mom’s side of the family,
it was always religiously infused. In
these days, my family and I don’t say grace.
It’s not that we don’t believe in God, but perhaps that we never
understood the tradition of saying grace.
As a child, I can attest to the fact that I certainly didn’t. My uncle Dennis, a college professor of sciences,
was an agnostic. Each and every time
though, he would agree to the set rules of the household and humbly nod and
pray, even though he must have thought the entire thing to be played out. I recall their old furniture. I recall that same grandfather clock, and the
sound of whooshing cars zipping down the busy roadway 100 feet from the house
as I nodded off to sleep in the nighttime hours. Hearing my grandpa walk along the semi-damp linoleum
of an ever-aging house, knowing he still had his apron on from cooking all day
was the last thing I could recall while falling asleep. Just the same as my Uncle Bob, he and my
grandma were the staple which held the whole thing together.
Fast
forward 16 years later, and there is one thing I can say for sure. There are so many family members that I haven’t
seen in good times. My cousins Aeryn,
Jason, Jarrod, Zack, and Angie have only been seen during funerals. This is the case every single time since they
comment on how much I’ve grown (or a lack thereof). Small talk is had between us, and we all go
our separate ways just as before. In
fact, I’m certain that there will come a day that we are all alive and well,
young, and still with our wits about us that we will never speak again for one
simple fact: The ones who held us together are no longer here, and have been
gone for quite some time.
I
personally can’t explain the reason behind this phenomenon, but I can certainly
theorize. The people who held us all
together and kept us communicating between one another were so respected that
we all came to spend our time with them.
Not unlike going to a concert to hear one-of-a-kind music, we came to
them to experience the rare form of hospitality that they had presented to
us. On top of an adamant desire to bring
everyone together, this was what kept everyone close. Without them, we all fall apart. Traditions, like people, fade away as the
years pass. Depending on your family’s
closeness, this is not always the case.
We grow older, we learn new professions, we raise our separate families,
and we expire. Not to sound grim, but
this is the pattern of life in our modern age.
The great thing about particular moments is that they can live on in our
memories forever so long as we don’t forget where we come from. It’s what we choose to pass along which is
presented to the next generation. Not to
sound cliché, but remember to choose wisely.
