> > ALREADY KNOW HER NAME > > The aroma of homemade gravy filled the air. > More food was laid out on the long brown school tables than I had ever > seen in one setting. The school cafeteria was filled with a mass of > people. They stood in close, intimate groups laughing and talking. > I turned to him. "I thought I was meeting your family," I said. > "You are," he replied. "This is my family." > I stared at the crowd of people as they came toward me, welcoming me. > They already knew my name. > My husband said he fell in love with me the night he saw my brown hair > flying in the wind. He was the first farmer I had ever met, and I was the > first city girl he had dated. He was a third-generation dairy farmer. Of > course, I knew where milk came from -- you picked it up at the grocery > store. > Now I was in a room with 150 people that looked and talked just like > him. > In the school cafeteria, an elderly man and woman sat on a piano > bench. She was large-boned and pretty in spite of her years. She had soft > blue eyes and a tentative smile. The old man tapped his feet in rhythm > with the music that played on the school piano. His skin was dark, worn > and smooth. He wore a white shirt and overalls. They were the parents of > 11 children -- 6 girls and 5 boys. The room contained the children, > grandchildren and great-grandchildren of this couple. > I watched in amazement as more food came through the door. In > addition to steaming mashed potatoes, ham and turkey, there were 50+ bowls > of vegetables, salads and side dishes. The highlight was the desserts -- > lemon meringue, chocolate pies and chocolate cakes, apple pie and cobbler, > cherry, blueberry, pineapple, coconut cream, strawberry and pecan pies. No > store bought crusts for this crowd. > Around us, kids played ball, roller skated, and generally hollered > wildly. But the noise from the kids didn't come close to the noise > generated by the adults. These people laughed, danced and played at the > dinner table. > One pretty young woman captivated her audience. She laughed wildly, > gesturing with her manicured hands. The older women around her collapsed > into laughter. One leaned against the wall, tears streaming down her face, > "Quit girl, you're killing me," she cried. Another squeezed her legs > together, running to the bathroom, which only caused further hilarity. > Cowboy jeans and overalls with white, starched shirts held the day. > Every man wore boots. The men were tall and carried their wives' good > cooking around their middle. > One tall dark-haired man held court. A toothpick dangled from the > corner of his mouth, bouncing as he told a story. The men laughed with > this man -- my father-in-law-to-be. As the light caught his features, I > gasped, seeing a younger face of the elderly grandfather and, for a brief > moment, my love's face as well. > So many generations in one room. > How would I ever fit into all of this? > > This Thanksgiving, I have been an Eller for 22 years. A group of over > 200 meets in the same small rural cafeteria. Grandma and Grandpa are gone. > One of the laughing aunts has joined them. There are more kids than ever, > generally making noise and laughing. > The best part? > Being a part of these people. There have been good times and hard > times. I made mistakes adjusting to a large family, but worked through > them. > I learned that if I wanted something I had to open my mouth and say > it. If I waited until someone passed it, I might miss it. But I also > learned what it was like to have a family surround you when you find out > you have cancer at 32 years old, and to dance with you when you beat it. > > As I set my brownies from a box on the table, I glance up and see my > college-aged son leading a young woman through the door. I am captivated > as I recognize the look on her face. She looks stricken, and I hear her > say, "I thought you were bringing me to meet your family." > "This is my family," he replies, squeezing her hand in reassurance. > I quickly walk toward her, and the rest of the family follows. > We already know her name. > > -- T. Suzanne Eller O * O *O * O O * * O <º)(((((~((((((>>>< * <º)((((~((((>< missi