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???”