Her cup runneth over…

Summer is usually the most popular time of the year for family reunions. I don’t have a reunion scheduled this year, but many of my friends have already gone and returned, while others are busy preparing physically and mentally for their family gatherings.

Some friends packed their bags and left reluctantly. They viewed their reunion as an obligation. It wasn’t a vacation — it was something they had to do. They fully expected to have a terrible time and they did. As one friend put it, “It’s a short trip to hell, especially when you know your destination.” I guess if we’re expecting the worst, we just may get it — partly because we have inside knowledge and past experience to guide us, and partly because we’re looking for it.

Sure, I recognize the never to be completely understood and sometimes scary dynamics of “family.” I also understand the philosophy behind the phrase “Friends are the family we choose for ourselves.” Nevertheless, family is family — no matter how we try to spin it. Good friends are good friends, but nothing really replaces family — maddening and frustrating though they can be at times. On the other hand, I know several people who have no real family. They long for these family gatherings and reunions that others take for granted. The grass always appears greener on the other side of the fence, especially if the fence represents family.

I write this essay with one special friend in mind. She was dreading her family reunion for a specific reason. She wasn’t worried about sibling rivalry, or that her family might judge her lifestyle choices, or that her husband might not fit in with her family. She wasn’t worried about the size of the mosquitoes she might encounter, nor was she bothered by the high humidity and triple digit temperatures lying in wait at her final destination. She dreaded her reunion because she recently had news that her elderly father had terminal cancer. She feared that this reunion might be the last time she saw him in relatively good health. She also knew that she would have to leave him after the reunion, knowing she might not seem him again before the onset of his illness ravaged his sharp mind and took away his last bit of independence. She knew that her father had lived a long and full life, but regardless of his age, this was her dad and she knew that she couldn’t be there during his final days. She packed her bags and mosquito repellent and left with a heavy heart.

I didn’t hear from this friend while she was gone. I know she is a strong chica on the outside, but her heart is tender. I was concerned that she might have a difficult time coping with the situation. Due to financial commitments and family obligations at home, she couldn’t stay longer than two weeks. I worried that she would be bedside with her father the entire time, beating herself up with guilt because she hadn’t spent much time with him in the last few years. Each day, I sent positive thoughts her way and hoped that she was receiving my signal.

During this same time, I heard from other friends who were attending their reunions. The weather was there and he wished I were beautiful, joked one wise guy. Another friend was stuck in a basement hiding from tornadoes, while others were being eaten alive by bugs they swore could wear saddles and be ridden in a “Ripley’s Believe it or Not” rodeo. One friend complained that all she heard about was what a disappointment she was to her family, and how she never lived up to her potential...and why on earth would she want to live in California, dealing with the traffic and surrounded by the desperate housewives and spoiled children so prominently portrayed on TV. Yes, it’s true. Even some of my friends abroad think that everyone behind the Orange Curtain serves up “margs” in bikinis (even at night), and has a fancy pool house designed for illicit “hooking-up.” I won’t even discuss gardeners here, except to say that entire generations of foreigners now think that a California gardening job comes with wonderful benefits, and I’m not talking about health care.

Two days after my friend with the terminally ill father returned from her trip, I mustered up the nerve to call her. I expected her to be down in the dumps and sad. What a wonderful surprise I encountered. My friend was laughing as she picked up the phone. For the next half an hour, she entertained me with wonderful stories about her trip. She and her siblings “kidnapped” her father and took him (and all of his various medical hook-ups) everywhere he wanted to go for the entire two weeks. This included amusement parks, restaurants and two trips to Wal-Mart. They had backyard barbecues often and then returned her father to his nursing home after his curfew. She laughed at the glee her father took in “breaking” his curfew. This lead them to conversations about the curfews my friend broke as a teenager — and how her brothers and sisters ratted her out. She was tickled that her father weighed in and told her that he always knew — even before the snitches got to him. Every day of her trip was spent making the most of these two weeks with her family, and every evening was spent laughing about their day with bits and pieces of the past interspersed in a positive manner.

Now, one might say that it’s easy to peruse the past in a positive light, when everyone grew up rosy — all warm and fuzzy. I happen to know this isn’t the case. This friend (and her brothers and sisters) had a tough childhood. How then, did her family manage to have such a wonderful time? They were also dealing with the impending death of her father, while feeling the tragic loss of the eldest sister a year ago. How did they laugh about the past when not all of their past was good? Were they wearing rose-colored glasses for the sake of the father? Were they in denial because they didn’t spend every moment sniping (and swiping) at each other about their past? Absolutely not. They were in acceptance — acceptance that their family (with all its imperfections) is the family that was chosen for them. They, in turn, chose to keep their family as friends and confidants no matter their differences. They accepted that not everything turned up rosy, but it did turn up — and they did turn out okay in the end.

Before we ended our conversation that day, I told this friend that I admired her spirit and attitude and that I envied her steadfast loyalty to her family, and her ability to see everything and everyone for what and who they are — in a nonjudgmental manner. This is true. I admire her ability to not cast stones nor dwell on the past. I told her that I did not, however, envy her the 20 or more mosquito bites she brought home as souvenirs. She trumped me yet again. She told me that she knew when and where each of these bites occurred during her trip. She said she would be sad when they were gone...and that she would always remember her father teasing her about her sensitive “California” skin, and telling her that she better get some calamine lotion on those bites before she swelled up like a balloon.

The glass is half-full for this friend and her family...even though each chooses to fill their glass with something different. Her brothers and sisters may be convinced that her glass is half-full with a “marg,” and that’s just fine with her. She knows the truth — her glass is filled to the top with wonderful memories of a great family reunion. In fact, her cup runneth over…

Postscript: There are many people who actually enjoy getting together with their family. Kudos to you! Those people dreading their reunions may want to pick a play from my friend’s play book and have some fun...in spite of yourself, or your brother, or your sister, or your aunt, or your uncle, or you cousin, or your mother, or your father...or your outlaws. Let’s not take ourselves too seriously. Let's embrace the time we have with our families and find some common ground — even if only for a few days every five years or so. We might not know what we’re missing until it’s too late.

One more thing. Tongue biting doesn’t work real well, and can be rather painful. A good friend told me that if all “they” think we do in California is sit around and drink margaritas in our fancy pool houses...then “Let them drink margs!” Yep, she took Margaritaville with her and all of the antagonism from past reunions just “wasted” away.

Dedicated to my “chocolate” friend. Here’s to you chica.

© 2006 Teresa G. Franta