Family Reunion Part 1: Inconceivable Conception

My family isn’t very good at the things most families are good at. We don’t send post cards to each other when we’re on vacation, or call each other on the holidays. We’ll drive right past each other’s houses on the way to other destinations and never even think about stopping by for lunch. On my last birthday I received phone calls from Ki Ki’s Dad, Ki Ki’s Mom and Ki Ki’s Brother. I received birthday cards from the aforementioned in-laws as well as Ki Ki’s Grandmother. If it weren’t for a lone phone call from my cousin Frank, my family might have pitched a shutout.

But I’m not complaining.

All my life and to this day I knew my family loved me, and they knew I loved them. Try to come between us, and you’d suffer our wrath. Say an unkind word about one, and you’d have to deal with all. It was like being part of a weird pasta eating cult, with my Mom as its sauce wielding leader. Mom was the matriarch that kept the boys together, so when Mom passed I sort of figured we’d all go (lovingly) on our separate ways, and that’s exactly what happened.  Two of my brothers had moved to Arizona, one lived in New Jersey, and I lived in Richmond VA.

I like it in Richmond, and frankly I never liked New York all that much, so for a long while I had no desire to return.  But last Christmas something strange happened: I started to miss New York. I missed the snow, and the smell of chestnuts in the city. I missed the tree at Rockefeller Center and I missed Macy’s and I missed 5th Ave.

I missed having a warm scotch in the city on a cold December night, and a hot chocolate by the fireplace at the Algonquin. But even more baffling was this, the strangest sensation of all:  I missed my family. On Christmas day as I sat staring at a Christmas ham surrounded by Christmas casseroles and Christmas sweet potatoes I wondered: “What are these strange foods doing on my Christmas table, and where is the old sauce wielding woman who doled out the meatballs with love in her heart and a rolling pin in her hand (in case you got out of line)”.

I told my wife “We have to visit my family this year”

And so I decided to do one of those things that other families do: I called my brother Vinnie.

Oh yeah, my brothers all have proper New York Italian names: Vinnie, Frankie, and Angelo, except don’t ever call Angelo “Angelo” because he’ll kill you with his bare hands. No, seriously. He goes by Pete, or as we affectionately call him “Butch”. We never ever use the “A” word and (insert Gump voice) that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

In the course of our conversation Vinnie mentioned that he and his wife Deborah were going to New York to visit the family in the spring or summer. At first we talked about having them visit us in Virginia, but then I had a brainstorm: “I’ve got an idea, we’ll come to New York and meet you!” Wait, that’s wrong. It was Ki Ki’s idea. I think she mouthed it to me and then I presented it as if it were my idea. Whoopsie! Credit officially given where credit is due. OK, so I say “I’ve got an idea, we’ll come to New York and meet you!” and Vinnie fires back with an even greater stroke of brilliance “I’ll call Frank, and we’ll have a family reunion”

And that’s how it began: the family with the ethnic names and the lifetime membership in the cult of the overcooked ravioli that isn’t very good at all those things that other families are good at began its journey towards that very traditional All-American event of events: the family reunion.

Tomorrow: Family reunion Part 2: “Wait, we’re spending our vacation visiting MY family???”

Driving in circles

I still drive the car my uncle gave me as a graduation gift back in 1992, when I finished high school. Back in the day I called her ‘Girlfriend’. Today she’s mostly called ‘The Old Hag’. Or, if behaving particularly badly, ‘That Cantankerous Bitch’. She’s a 1989, Mazda 323, four door sedan in speckled (now peeling) tan with a moon-roof. Her seats and dashboard are cracking, the floor is permanently stained and the trunk leaks. She had 15,000 miles on her when gifted to me and currently has 134,134.1 miles. (I just ran out and checked.)

The air conditioner no longer works. Or rather, it does, but knocks against the engine so badly and loudly, we took off the belt. I’ve had the radiator replaced once but it needs it again. She often overheats in the summer stop-and-go traffic making a 95 degree day even hotter when you have to turn on the heat to pull it off the engine. The struts, as it was once explained to me, are bending inward and could stand to be replaced. The shocks gave out a long time ago so you can feel every bump in the road. And she doesn’t have the pick up, ready-at-your-beck-and-call-just-step-on-the-pedal, she once had.

But I know her better than I know most people. I know exactly how long she takes to brake when I stand on her full weight. I know what top speed she can take any curve just by looking at at the road. By the shimmy in the steering wheel, I can tell you if she needs to go to the shop or if it’s just the stutter due from the scrapings at the bottom of her gas tank.

She’s taken me over those West-By-God-Virginia mountains in rain, snow and sleet. Usually at night when the mountains block out any light you could hope to get from the stars and moon. Making it safely to the family waiting to see me on the other side. I drove her to my college classes, earning the first degree on my father’s side of the family. To innumerable parties, clubs, midnight rendezvous with boys not worth my time, daytime trips with girlfriends I shoulda spent more time with, and tons of sucky jobs I’d rather forget I ever worked. She’s driven my favorite four-footed friend home from the shelter that rescued him. And then drove him to the vet 6 months later remove the bullet his previous owner saw fit to torture him with. She drove me back and forth to New York City. First to spend time with the man I would eventually marry. Then to take care of my husband’s mother who welcomed me into the family with true Sicilian warmth, even as her health failed.

I’ve loved this car. All the miles she’s carried me. All the adventures we’ve experienced.

Two years ago Steve and I had just started saving up money to replace one of our cars. When, just as Murphy’s Law dictates, his car died in a most permanent fashion. Not having the extra $10K difference between his convertible Toyota Solara… we bought the Toyota Camry I wanted. And she’s pretty. Pretty leather interior, sun roof, and heated seats. She drives like a dream and has room for the children we want in our lives. So, Pretty Car is what we call her. Pretty compared to our old busted down hag.

We agreed to start over with the savings and in two years we’d get his convertible. Here it is, two years later, and the money is exactly where we agreed it would be. We’ve been looking forward to road trips and jaunts to the beach with the top down. Simply driving around town while we’re still at an age where it could look a little more cool than a little more fool.

But plans change. Or life changes. Maybe it’s more along the lines of: life changes the plans we’ve made. Whatever it is, the convertible is once again out. We’re going for something (much) cheaper but reliable. Something practical. And we’re going to try and hold off until next spring, to build up the cash reserves. But before the heat of summer, along with the heat off the engine, roasts me for another sweltering August.

We’re happy with that decision. Actually, we’re ecstatic about that decision. Because that decision, that car decision, means we’re one step closer to creating the family we’ve been wanting.

But I sure will miss my little round about town gal. My Girlfriend. My sweet, Old Cantankerous Hag. And I have nine more months to say my goodbyes to her.

Uncle Ron, I only wish I’d been given that kind of time to say my goodbyes to you.