“Going Home”

Everyone tosses out the standard question when they hear that I’m finally on vacation: any big plans? For the most part my summer revolves around savoring the Pacific Northwest. After all, this is the best season of the year here and we’d be fools to go elsewhere. Bill and I are making one excursion, however, to parts far away: we’re heading to Chicago for a brief family reunion.

I would not ever choose the beginning of August as a time to head to the Windy City. Having grown up in Evanston, Illinois, the first suburb north of Chicago, I am well aware of the blistering heat and high humidity that usually occur at the height of the summer season. This wilting weather might explain why I was able to get the deal of a lifetime on our tickets and hotel. Still, August is the date selected by my cousins for a gathering of the clan, and since I haven’t seen my father’s side of the family much since my wedding (a mere 32 years ago), I thought it would be good to show my face.

It will be reminiscent of my childhood summers when we gathered at Grandma Bruhn’s for huge picnics and potlucks, but in those days the old people were my grandmother’s siblings. My father’s siblings and cousins were the middle generation, and my siblings and cousins were the kids. All of us youngsters ate and argued and played for hours while the old folks sat and ate and talked and argued and ate some more. (Food was the central theme at all family gatherings.) Our reunion will be different from those old parties because I will not know any of the kids and hardly recognize the middle generation. Worse yet, since many of my father’s siblings and cousins have either died or become too feeble to attend a gathering, I fear that MY group may have inherited the not-so-coveted crown of “old folks.”

I refuse to accept that dubious honor. As long as one of my father’s generation shows up at this affair (and I’m pretty certain my 92 year-old aunt and her 80 year-old cousin will be there), I’m safe. I may be shocked to see the gray hair, bald heads, and pot bellies of all my cousins, but I will not let that encourage me to sit around and act like an old fogy. No plastic lounge chairs for this little lady, no siree bob. On the other hand, telling stories about our crazy family and sharing all our fond memories and greatest horrors may be the best part of this reunion, and while we sit and eat and laugh ourselves sick, the new kids can eat and play and create their own Midwest memories.

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