> THE FAMILY REUNION > by Cheralynn (Charlee) Wilson <charwil@nmia.com> > > It's summer, which means family reunions. Every other year, we > have a reunion for my parents' descendants. My folks live in > what was a "shelter over a picnic table" in New Mexico's Jemez > mountains. It's grown to a 3-story permanent residence and has > slept more than 50 people, 18 dogs, and a cat in a single week- > end. This is where we congregate. > Our reunions are not dull. The first one (1994) was so exciting > we almost decided to cancel further reunions, figuring (hoping?) > we'd never top it. Among the memorable events was the rappelling > incident in which my eldest daughter caught her hair in a > carabiner, and was suspended mid-way down a cliff. My brother, > the ex-Marine, went down on a safety rope to free her. To do > this, he required "The One Who Doesn't Hug" to entwine her legs > and arms around his body. He planned to lift her enough to free > her hair, but in doing so, managed to slip and get his T-shirt > caught in his carabiner. Now they were both caught, and to make > matters worse, his rope had slipped snugly around the most > tender part of his anatomy. To free his T-shirt, he opened his > pocket knife with his teeth and began sawing away at the > material which was about two inches away from my daughter's > face. Cut free, the added weight dropped them further, painfully > tightening the noose on his nether regions. The sensation caused > him to drop his open knife which fell point down into the > ground, narrowly missing a nephew. At this point, my sister-in- > law, who was filming the whole thing, ran out of tape, so we > missed seeing how Brother and Daughter got out of the mess. > Brother sang soprano for a few hours. A nearby rock-climbing > class witnessed the proceedings open-mouthed. Some of them quitthe class. > That night, after getting hordes of offspring to bed in tents, > cars, lofts, etc., the adults settled down for a cup of hot > chocolate. It began to rain -- a real frog-strangler, complete > with sound and fury. Lightning struck, rattling windows. I > yelled and grabbed a passing teenager, causing her to throw hot > chocolate on several relatives who yelled and stampeded. Lights > flickered. Another bolt hit with a loud crackle-boom. The lights > went out. Mojo (our St. Bernard/Great Pyrenees puppy) went > cracker-dog, yelping and running hysterically over and under > furniture, triggering a round of the "Howlelujah Chorus" from > the other dogs, whose owners began to shout and chase their > dogs, stomping on people & critters and waking the children > in the loft who began to scream because the lights were off. > The Tent and Car People ran inside, wet and shaking. I crawled > under a bed with one of the Siberian Huskies. Next morning, we > found that a huge pine tree next to the cabin had been hit, > exploding bark in all directions. To commemorate the occasion, > the ex-Marine carved the date and event into a piece of the > bark. It hangs in the family room today. > During outdoor church services, one Siberian Husky found a > porcupine, which goes to show what happens to dogs who don't > attend church. What a mess! Hubby, who had found a semi- > legitimate excuse to miss this reunion, got to share in the last > part when we drove into town and picked him up on the way to the > vet. When he heard about all the fun he'd missed, he got tears > in his eyes, and we could tell he was sorry. > Reunions are a lot of work, both for those planning and those > attending. The ultimate test of family endurance happens when > Mother's clan camps for four days in southern Colorado. There > are more than 250 of us, not counting dogs and friends. It is > not my idea of fun to pack everything we own and sleep in a tent > with wet, cowering dogs inside and vicious wild animals and > sneaky teen-aged relatives outside. I do not enjoy port-a- > potties, especially by the fourth day when the pre-school boys > in camp have figured out that the basin on the side is not for > washing hands, and consider it a matter of honor to use it as it > was intended. I am not fond of cooking on a Coleman stove, > although, in the mountains, people expect all meals to taste > basically the same -- burned or raw. I do not relish being hit > with five gallons of water traveling at 30 miles per hour in the > traditional water fight, although my sons-in-law tell me this is > their favorite part. It's the only time they may abuse me with > impunity. I do not like the 3 a.m. hike to the outhouse because > I can't resist the bedtime Peppermint Patty (hot chocolate made > with peppermint tea). It either rains, or it is dry and the > talcum powder dust coats everything. > So, why do I go? Maybe it's because I love to see all the little > kids call each other "Cousin" -- they never bother to learn > names. Maybe it's because we have kids with every shade of skin > and hair, and two hours after we arrive, they're all the same > color -- dust or mud. Maybe it's the demonic giggle from a five- > year-old throwing a cup of water on his Nanny during the water > fight, knowing this is the only time he'll ever get away with it. > Maybe it's the clusters of teenagers plotting to put Ora-Jel in > someone's toothpaste. Maybe it's the family church session or > the visits around the campfire when we hear new jokes and old > ghost stories. But, mostly, it's the magic it works on kids. In > these troubled days, when families are crumbling, reunions give > our children security in belonging. Whether they achieve great > things, whether they are "just folks," or rotten as year-old > eggs, they know that they are loved unconditionally. My kids > don't want to miss a reunion and that's pretty impressive. > * * * * * > > > _______________________________________________________________ > Get Free Email and Do More On The Web. Visit http://www.msn.com > > > ==== BLAIR-JACOB Mailing List ==== > "Do not move an ancient boundary stone set up by your forefathers" > -----------------------------Proverbs 22:28---------------------- > John Blair / Listowner / jblair@kalama.com