It’s surprising they’re even talking to me seeing how I’ve never ONCE mentioned my husband’s family. “Are they that bad?” I’ve asked myself. Here’s the deal. If I’m fighting with my mate, I absolutely don’t even want to hear their names mentioned because they’re part of ‘him.’ But if I’m on an adoring kick I’m so thrilled and blessed to be part of the crew and Divine Plan. Forgive me for being so fickle; be thankful you’re not related to me. Recently my in-law relatives had their family reunion and it was so sad to see the clan had dwindled.
“Some have died, divorced or lost interest and energy in making a salad, something for the Chinese auction, packing up a cooler, folding chairs, and a box of toothpicks,” lamented one cousin’s daughter.
The ‘business meeting’ began with the head organizer for the past twelve years confessing that she felt she had done enough and she was asking for volunteers. You would have thought she was speaking in Arabic because nobody uttered a single syllable.
I nudged my husband and whispered, “Why don’t we offer?”
“Let the young blood do it,” he insisted. “I have tired blood and because I’m the oldest one here, I’m on my way out.”
That remark terribly depressed me until I softly said I would help him with the planning. “Help? You’re the most disorganized person I’ve ever met. You’d be more of a hindrance than a help.”
About ‘his way out’ — sure wish I would help him with that.
Food, a lot of food, has always comforted me. I fully understand why people, especially spouses, are mushrooming out all over. But when we try to get even with others, we hurt ourselves even more. The picnic table was a plethora of everything homemade, sweet smelling and delicious. Corn kernels stuck both in our teeth (hence the toothpicks) on our cheeks, mustard, relish and ketchup dripped from hot dogs and hamburgs, and onto our summer whites, but hey, we were there to eat, drink and to mingle. That was the order, to mingle!
“Clusters of the same immediate families stick together and you never get to know anybody else,” announced Irene, a revered family member.
I decided to heed her suggestion and it cost me twelve bucks. Instead of sitting with the ‘girls,’ I plunked myself down with Glenn, Dave and Charlie, and before I even burped up my beverage, I was in a hot Cribbage card game and here’s the pathetic part, I don’t really know the game. You can’t imagine what it’s like counting cards with seasoned sage card sharks whom just glance at the suits and yell out 24. Twenty-four? I can’t even remember to take one crummy point when a jack is turned up for me. Oh well, I was there for the fun and folly, but between being told I was disorganized, no help, men discovering that I can’t count faster than a first grader, and eating at least 5,000 calories, I was looking around for a plastic knife to slit my throat. Flimsy spoons and forks, that’s all there were because of small children and maybe an unstable adult or two.
They’re an awfully nice bunch — a patchwork of what most families are — a mixture of nationalities, races, religions, society’s finest and a few tired souls who look like life has clobbered them over the head with a two-by-four. Let’s face it — life may not always be kind, but family is there to act as a buffer for the blows, unless of course...
To be continued.
Karen White-Walker is a Wilson resident. Her column appears every Tuesday.
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WHITE-WALKER: Young blood, tired blood, no blood
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