Family

When Sam went away, for five days in early August, to find some whitewater in Quebec with friends, I started preparing for the arrival of my aunt and uncle for a visit I had been looking forward to for months. I felt incredibly honored that they wanted to come; they are eighty and seventy-nine years old, and they have kids, grandkids, and even a great grandkid of their own. I felt so flattered that a trip to Vermont factored into their busy lives.

In addition to my excitement about just hanging out with them, this visit was a chance for redemption. My aunt and uncle had come to our wedding, six years ago, and first seen our house when it was still under construction. I was in love with it from the beginning; everything about our little homestead matched what I had imagined--it was immersed in woods, made by hand, done with family, and an adventure every day. So I was surprised by my aunt’s reaction to the place: I’ll never forget driving her up our road for our wedding day open house, “Oh, Kerry!” she said, “It’s so...desolate!” 

In spite of their surprise, my aunt and uncle were among many of our guests who hiked up the last steep pitch of our icy hill when the cars wouldn’t make it. We still had plywood floors and countertops at the time, and about ten weeks of work still to do. And while I tried to get my car out of the ditch and turned safely back to less icy ground, my aunt and uncle visited the house. I was disappointed I didn’t get to show them around myself, and assumed it was the last time they’d ever be here. So, when my dad asked if they could all come up for a visit this summer, it felt like great good fortune.

There was a lot of cleaning to do; not because my house is really dirty, but because when honored guests are coming I need it to be really clean. Sam once asked me why I need to turn our kitchen into an operating room whenever we have guests. I don’t know the answer, but with three years of baby sludge collected on every stainless steel surface, I wasn’t going to stop to try to figure it out. I wanted the visit and the house to be perfect, so I picked two quarts of blueberries with Quinn, baked scones for breakfast, made fresh peach ice cream to go with a blueberry buckle, and maple ice cream to go with brownies, I scoured Central Vermont for sweet corn before sweet corn was ready, I harvested my first carrots and cucumbers and tomatoes from the garden, made two loaves of sourdough bread, and I scrubbed and polished and dusted and oiled everything in sight. 

It’s not like they would have cared about a little dust; I know they wouldn’t have. Of all the Litchfields, these two have the best sense of humor by far. 

I don’t think any one of us has more fun than they do.

And they deserve it. They’ve raised three amazing kids, survived multiple cancers between them, and been there through the highs and lows of the entire clan. And through it all, all these years, they’ve managed to keep laughing and dancing their way through life. At dinner one night, my uncle was cracking everyone up with stories of pranks he and my aunt would play on Halloween, putting on the makeup from the funeral home where he worked, and laying in wait for kids on the porch. At the same time, my aunt was showing me the bruise on her leg she got from biking. “I didn’t fall!” she insisted, “just bumped into the bike.” I laughed the whole time they were here. 

My memories of growing up with the extended clan are just like that--memories of boisterous fun and laughter. Amy and I are the youngest of all the cousins and, whenever we were with the others, I looked up to all of them in awe. My aunts and uncles had a way of loving all of us as if we were their own, and while I’m not sure I noticed or fully appreciated that when I was young, I know I do now.

I find myself thinking of family more than I ever have, as I want to be sure Quinn feels connected to her people on both sides, so she’ll know where she comes from. It’s hard to put into words what family means, exactly, but it’s the kind of thing you know, unmistakably, when you feel it.

After dinner on their first night, my aunt asked me if she could help me with the dishes. I thanked her and said no, trying to be polite, but she laughed at me and grabbed a dish towel, “Oh come on!” she scoffed, “You’re doing all the work! Let me do something.” There’s no stopping my aunt; I’ve always loved that about her. She laughs at supposed obstacles, completely undeterred. We stood side by side at the sink and I was overcome by this feeling of being at home in a way I hadn’t yet fully been, even in my own house.

I’ve often tried to explain to Sam what my life felt like growing up, in the house with my mom and dad and sister, as a Litchfield. Late that first night, listening to my aunt’s stories as we washed dishes, I couldn’t stop smiling...I felt this overwhelming familiarity, this thing that I know in my bones but that sometimes feels diluted in my life away from the clan. In the years since my joyful smiling mom was the host of our family gatherings, I am often aware of what’s missing...an energy and pace and joyfulness, where everyone is talking and laughing and helping and teasing and bragging and playing. The kind of energy that makes me feel alive.

On their second and last night, after Quinn finally went to bed, we all stood in the kitchen and Sam got to hear, from someone other than me, some of the Litchfield family lore. I loved seeing my dad as the younger brother. I loved watching him look to my uncle for clarification or added detail. I loved hearing my aunt’s recollections of dating my uncle and babysitting for my dad. I loved hearing, again, the story of when they tried to pull his tooth out, tying it to a doorknob and slamming the door. I loved cracking up, while they cracked up, over the fact that the tooth never budged. I loved watching them laugh together and interrupt each other and correct each other and remind each other of the events of their lives. I tried to soak it all in, this bringing back to life of my family history. My lovely Auntie Francie, my legendary Uncle Rea, my always cherished Uncle Dale who lives farther away, the grandmother I never knew, who evidently used an electrical cord to keep all five of them in line...no wonder they couldn’t believe I wasn’t spanking Quinn when she climbed out of her crib!

When you grow up and you leave home and you find yourself mingling with other clans, the source of your own being gets watered down in a way. You behave differently, a little better perhaps, and that’s probably just as well. But it’s good to go back to the source periodically and be your original self, untempered. To be with people who share your sense of humor, people with whom you can say anything and don’t have to worry, too much, about being polite...people whose presence brings back what was magical about growing up in the first place.