The summer months tend to bring the ritual of the family reunion. Images of Norman Rockwell-esque gatherings on the porch of a cottage somewhere, hamburgers, hot dogs, and potato salads as far as the eye can see, smiling faces and casual chitchat everywhere. So, let’s not kid ourselves – we want to see how the other branches of the family are doing, and feel so much better about ourselves in comparison.
My father’s family would get together on Old Home Day in the little village of Nelson, New Hampshire. Collectively, there were beaucoup third and fourth cousins – nobody immediate. They’d establish their turf around the village square and the church yard, the proximity determined largely by who was speaking to whom at the time. My mother would give us a running commentary on each branch, and she in truth, didn’t have much use too many. At one such event, my mother was asked by a local, who perceived us to be outsiders, how we were connected. She responded that her husband’s grandfather was a Hardy, born just down the road a mile or so. The local answered rather condescendingly, “Oh, then you do belong!” Lucky us.
My wife’s family got together in just such a setting a couple of weeks ago. First cousins ranging in age from mid-sixties to approaching ninety. This was occasioned by a long-lost cousin. One found through DNA testing who it turns out was the product of a dalliance, and explains my wife’s uncle abruptly going into the navy. That had been hitherto a bit of a mystery as he didn’t seem to be the military type. My sister-in-law had scoured the landscape for family photos, and produced a bountiful supply of the previous generation standing in front of wicker rocking chairs or farm wagons loaded with hay. There were some unidentified folks in the photos, which leads me to believe that photo-bombing isn’t entirely a new trend.
This reminded me of a story from my mother’s family. My grandfather, an inveterate storyteller of epoch proportions, and who sadly died before I was born, would begin stories of his youth with, “myself and Una Flahaven were sitting on the front porch. . . .” They never got much farther than that because the unfortunate Una’s name alone provoked gales of laughter. The siblings were convinced that Una was a figment of his imagination. Years later, when I was a child, we were visiting elderly relatives on my grandfather’s side of family, and sifting through old photographs, my mother asked who that lady was. Cousin Mary replied that it was “Una Flahaven”, at which point my mother again dissolved in laughter before explaining that was a family joke, and they all assumed that poor Una was fictitious.
Back to the family reunion. One of the quotes of the day, and it’s a good one, came from my sister-in-law, who as the hostess, was watching the proceedings like a hawk hunting its dinner. We were waiting for a cousin who hadn’t made it to any family gatherings in a number of years. Several suspected she wouldn’t come this time either. A car pulled up and a lady got out. My sister-in-law observed, perhaps a bit more loudly than she intended, “she’s got long hair – wait, she’s shorter, and she’s Asian!” That tended to suggest it wasn’t the anticipated cousin – in fact it was another cousin’s lady friend who had come separately. One of my wife’s cousins, visiting from Pennsylvania, swore on the ride home that Cousin David was not in fact who he said he was. When she returned to Pennsylvania, she was going to get out a picture of him as a boy with his parents and check to see. Of course, he’s now eighty-six, has lived on the West Coast for most of his adult life, and she’s only seen him once or twice over the years. Perhaps he’s changed a bit? No, she insisted he was not David. There’s a novel idea – imposters that infiltrate family reunions, particularly small, intimate ones. Image the joy of sitting around all afternoon with people you’ve never met, passing yourself off as a relative. I’m not sure the free hot dogs are worth it. However, it segues into another adventure . . . .
My sister and I were going to my father’s family reunion. His family was pretty well spread out and greatly diverse (see above). My father was the only grandchild from my great grandfather’s line. My great grandfather’s sisters, however, went forth and multiplied in great profusion, so we have lots of third and fourth cousins. Several have been once or twice removed for safety sake, but that’s material for another day. We’ve had the quirky ones – two elderly sisters that we used to visit growing up who’s house looked like an episode of extreme hoarding. The one that lived by himself far up on a hill, growing blueberries that nobody came to pick. He introduced us to Moxie. My great Aunt Elsie, who believed that her feet smelled to the point where she had to be institutionalized for deficiencies at the other end, and great Uncle Warren who worked for forty years at a horse farm nearby, but admitted in later life that he thoroughly hated horses. And there was Cousin Parke, who built an elaborate bomb shelter because, and I quote, “when the Russians come over that hill (pointing the hill behind the house), he’d be ready.” Would it not make sense that the Russians would mass their troops and prepare a strategic first strike in rural New Hampshire?
Anyway, off we went, my sister and I, to the family reunion. It was in a lovely rented B & B, not just out, but way, way out in the middle of nowhere. In fact, the voice of the GPS might well have said, “you’ve got to be kidding”. After driving seemingly for hours (but was only about forty-five minutes), we were told that “you’ve reached your destination”. A dirt road in a town I didn’t know existed, although we had passed a general store about five miles back, so perhaps it was legitimate. We looked up a saw a house (though it really didn’t look like the one on the invitation’s picture), but there were lots of cars parked in the yard. Yup, this must be it. We drove in, parked, carried in the food and drink we’d brought with us, and began introducing ourselves. Strikingly, nobody looked familiar – not a one, although we’d been assured this was the “family reunion”. I’d brought a dessert that needed to be refrigerated until served, so we went into the house to find a cool spot. There we met the hostess, again someone we didn’t recognize, so we asked again. She told us, “no”, this was not our family. I should say these were all lovely people and very welcoming, but just not our relatives. The place we wanted was a quarter of a mile down the road on the left. Ah. Then she said, “I suppose you want your food back”, which of course we did. She reluctantly gave the dessert back and off we went to the right reunion. Who knew that on a dirt road, miles and miles from civilization, two family reunions would be taking place simultaneously?
Our family reunion turned out to be a delightful event. We met a cousin we’d known as a child but hadn’t seen since. Our cousins are distant, so it’s just a matter of keeping up and explaining how we’re related. No “there’s cousin Howard – I don’t want to see him.” The family picture was interesting. We all trooped down to the pond on the property for a group picture. The photographers couldn’t get far enough away to get everyone in one shot, even as they backed into the pond for a wider shot. Perhaps we should have commissioned a drone for an aerial shot? We older folks stood in the back, hoping for some degree of anonymity and so we wouldn’t have to “scrunch down”. My scrunching days are well behind me. Will we be able to identify everyone in the picture, or even a majority? There will be a multitude of questions – starting with “who the heck is that?” (My sister and I) Maybe we should have stayed for photos at the wrong reunion. It would have giving those folks lots to talk about. Could there be one or two Asian Una Flahavens in the picture? I’m thinking . . . . . .quite possibly.
I'm Thinking...No! 