One of the aunts and uncles that always come is Uncle Al and Aunt Allison. Everyone mostly calls them Al and Al. They always come and every year they bring a huge carrot cake, so big that they have to put it on their ironing board in the back of the pickup just to get it here. I have to remember to ask Pa which branch of the family shrub Uncle Al sprung up from.
Uncle Al
My Uncle Al is a smoker and proud of it. "Smoked since I was ten," he bragged. He swears he loves it. "I'll smoke till the day I die." A stiff, lumpy, hand-rolled fag droops from his nicotine-stained lip, bobbing as he talks, always squinting in his right eye from the drifting smoke. He rambles on and on as he always does seemingly without a breath; squinting, talking, bobbing.
He could talk your ear off about anything or nothing. He once told me a story about a horse with no teeth and a stubby tail. He jabbered on and on about this silly horse that had only one shoe until his rollie was nothing but an unflicked ash that eventually dropped onto his stained Molson Golden t-shirt that he almost always wore.
Don't know what Uncle Al does for a living, maybe nothing, maybe that's why he smoked rollies and is as skinny as a rail.
Little Grams called him Aloysius one day when she caught him swiping a cigarette from her purse. Pinching this or that was hardly a surprise to anyone but no one knew his real name was Aloysius Sheldon Marvin until Grams blurted it out. No wonder he kept his real name secret.
In one of cousin Mike's speculative moods, which seems to be most of the time, he said, "Did you know that Uncle Al was in jail one time when we all thought that he was livin' out west workin' on the Athabasca oil rigs? What he was in for nobody knows. He must'a stole somethin' from someone and got pinched for it. You can see it in his eyes can't ya? They are just too beady or close together or something. His eye brows are too thick and meet in the middle, you can see it in his face."
Aunt Allison
Uncle Al was married to Aunt Allison. Everyone called her Auntie but the fact is she wasn't any one's aunt 'cause Al and Allison never got married. They lived in sin, as some called it, and even then they only lived together some of the times. No one really understood why she would disappear for months at a time. She seemed a bit weird to me, sometimes more than others.
Cousin Mike constantly threw out his speculations - "I bet she's is in jail," he said one time. "I tried to sell her a life insurance policy one time and all she said was, she figured she didn't have no rights to live and walked away from me standin' holdin' her limp paper plate full of tater salad." Some times she was a gem and sometimes she was... well I will just say... not.
My pa said she was an enigma. I was puzzled over that word for months. For the longest time I thought he said she was a magnum but that didn't seem to make any sense neither. My pa always did know too many big words. He was always kind to Aunt Allison. He figured that everyone should be treated right. He gave her his chair once when she was pregnant with little cousin Vicky. Haven't seen her for a while, come to think of it.
Auntie Pat
Auntie Pat is an Irish gal with red hair and lots of freckles, is pleasant in the personality department and mighty generous when it comes to bringing food to the family reunions. Fried chicken, enough for everyone, macaroni salad 'cause its Pa's favourite with lots a dill pickle chopped in. She always brings dozens of white buns fresh from the grocery store. She says, "None of those cheap homemade kind. I like the fresh white ones from A&P."
Everything she makes is mighty good except for the mustard pickles. Ma, one time said, "Patzi has nice freckles." Patzi thought she said nice pickles, an from then on Auntie Pat takes her pickles everywhere she goes. Everybody hates them but because everyone is so darn afraid of hurting her feelings they always say "Mighty fine pickles Patzi, as good as usual?" She always leaves the open jar instead a taken them home. Pa discovered that they make a mighty good plaster for bringing down the swelling on the horses ankles if they get twisted in a gopher hole. The only problem with this fine remedy is that it attracts too many flies.
Uncle Eugene keeps telling the story over and over again about when they were coming to a family reunion one year. Patzi promised Ma that she would buy a pie fresh from the grocery store on the way over. She knows that Ma loves cherry pies an got all torn up inside when she mulled over buying her own favourite strawberry pie or cherry pie for Ma. Patzi's generosity must have been at an all time low that day 'cause she bought the strawberry pie and said Ma would never know she had a choice. Funny thing is that when Patzi opened the box and presented the pie it was cherry. Ma thanked and thanked Patzi for being so thoughtful for remembering her favorite.
Patzi never tried to cheat the Saint of Generosity ever again. "The angels switched the pies before I got there for dinner," she used to say and she never bought a strawberry pie for herself ever again. "It was divine intervention." Patzi said over and over again.
Uncle Eric
No family reunion would be the same without Uncle Eric. Uncle Eric is my Pa's older brother. He should have been the one to get my Pa's farm after Gramps died but Uncle Eric always said, "I'll have nothin' to do with no farmin'. Feedin' a bunch of dumb animals at one end and shovelin' manure at the other end, every day, twice a day, day in and day out, month after month, year after year is the life of a sorry man." He let you know it whenever he saw dirt under your finger nails or manure stuck to your heels.
Now there is one of those enigmas if I ever saw one. He was rich or thought he fooled us into thinking he was rich. He drove a sky blue 68 Mercedes-Benz full of rust. Said it was a classic and refused to get rid of her. I figured the binder twine that kept the trunk closed was the only classic thing about the car. "Classic poverty." said cousin Mike, under his breath, every time he saw the blue smoke belch from the broken tail pipe.
Uncle Eric was my funny uncle. Every year he always had a story with a funny twist. One year he told a story about his parrot called Crackers. Turned out he had a dog that liked to eat crackers, liked to eat anything for that matter. Another year he told a story about when he was a pilot in Word War II but turned out the only thing he flew was the gas truck back and forth from plane to plane.
Fine story teller though. Didn't matter if they were true. As long as we would keep the fire going in the fire pit out back he would keep spinin' yarn. Everyone was always ready for another story. No one kept track of the details to catch him on the truth. The fact is the truth didn't matter none to no one.
One year when I was just ten or so while everyone else was pitchin' horseshoes or gettin' dinner ready I asked him about a big black feather with a white tip that he had stuck in the dash of his blue Mercedes-Benz. He told me with great conviction that my pa was BBQing some big thick steaks when an eagle came swoopin' down and snatched the steaks right from off the sizzlin' grill. Just as that giant bird sunk his claw size talons into those steaks my pa grabbed the bird's legs with all his might and was dragged over the hot coals into the air. My pa didn't buy big fat steaks very often so he was not about to let go. As that eagle flapped with my pa danglin' he reached up with all his might and plucked that feather right out of that eagle's bum. The eagle squawked like he had been shot in the head and without thinking let go of the steaks along with my pa. Well, luck would have it that my pa fell into the lake and wasn't hurt none. With the feather and steaks clenched between his teeth he swum to shore, plopped the steaks back on the still hot grill and gave the feather to his big brother, my Uncle Eric. Wasn't till I was near 16 that I figured out that eagles don't like cooked meat and wouldn't a swooped down for no hot cookin' steaks any how.
One thing that is amazing about our family reunions is all the story tellin' that goes on and it isn't just Uncle Eric that spins a good yarn. Uncle Girwood can keep even Uncle Eric tilted forward in his chair.
Uncle Girwood
Uncle Girwood looks to me like he is about 110. He is the second cousin, twice removed of my Aunt Kate's first husband's brother's oldest son. He isn't
even on the family tree but an uncle, nonetheless. He must not have any of his own family because he keeps coming to our family reunions and we welcome him with open arms. Ma said he won't eat anything but grilled cheese sandwiches and french fries; don't know what he would have for breakfast but judging by the front of his stained shirt he always uses catsup with his fries. I did see him eating watermelon one time but I think he only ate that because he wanted to spit watermelon pips off the deck with the kids.
Uncle Girwood is as much of a story teller as anyone I know. With a grilled cheese sandwich clenched in one hand, he would light into a story like he was havin' it for lunch. He didn't just tell a story because it happened or 'cause it was true, because it was funny or sad, he told a story because it would make you think.
My favourite was the one about the chickens boxed up on a truck going to the slaughterhouse. I heard the story many times before but I always like how he would get you going. First he would get you thinking about freedom and making the right choices in life. Then he would start in by telling about this one chicken named Wilbur.
There was nothing particular special about Wilbur. He was just a normal, average, run-a-the-mill chicken. The only thing is that he took advantage of being in the right place at the right time. You might say he was smart enough to see an opportunity and brave enough to take advantage of it. It all started by accident when Wilbur stuck his wing out a small hole in the crate. He wiggled around a bit flappin' it in the breeze as the truck rumbled down the dusty gravel road. After a minute of flappin' his wing he realized he could squeeze his head out. The wind in his face was wonderful. Feathers were flutterin' in the wind of the fast truck like he had never felt before and it felt marvelous.
For the first time in his life he could taste freedom and he wanted more. Wilbur first felt just a bit silly with his wing and head stuck out a the crate. Can you imagine? All of the other chickens were looking at him strange, squawking at him, telling him they ain't gunna help him if he gets stuck good and can't move none. Wilbur ignored all of the cackling from his friends. With a bit more squirmin' and wrigglin' Wilbur manages to get another wing out of the crate, then half of his body, then all of a sudden with a mighty squeeze he was outside of the crate holdin' on for dear life flappin' in the wind wishin' he was back in the safety of his crate. "Oh my gosh," thought Wilbur. "What on earth have I done?"
As time went on he got used to the feeling of the rushing air that he had never felt before. Wilbur didn't feel afraid no more and felt better than he had ever felt. He starts squawkin' at his chicken friends. "I is free, I is free and you silly saps is still stuck in your crates. Come on you guys, with just a bit of a squeeze you can come out and join me." One of his brother chickens stuck out his wing and then his head and feels the rush of the wind. Wilbur sees him trying to make it to freedom and spurs him on. "Everyone can be free if you just try."
Wilbur takes a look at the open fields that are rushing by, he squats down and gets ready to take a jump off the truck. "Come on guys, lets go for it." With those last few words still clinging to his beak he takes a flying leap off the truck towards the open fields. In mid air as he turns to wave to his buddy chickens he gets splottowed by an on-coming truck. The air is instantly filled with feathers. Chicken parts is mashed on the truck windshield. Wilbur had no idea what hit him. His chicken buddies squawked in horror, quickly pulling in their heads, tucking in their wings and shrunk into silence. "Poor Wilbur," one clucked. "He would still be alive if he hadn't been so impulsive as to try to be free." Just then, with no one noticing, the truck rumbled to a gentle stop outside the slaughterhouse gate.
I have heard this Wilbur story over and over again, year after year. It never stopped making me think. Now I look around our family and wonder just which one of us is Wilbur. Which one of us was just about to get out of the crate?
Our family is as modelin' a bunch of odd balls as you would see at any family reunion. We aren't your normal family by any stretch. None of us ever had any special jobs and none of us, including me, ever got any real schoolin' side from cousin Bill but don't let that name confuse you none just 'cause we have five Bills in our family. Two cousin Bills, a brother-in-law Bill, handsome devil of a guy and two uncle Bills. The only one that is half ways to smart is cousin Bill the professor. Him and his wife come almost every year exceptin' when he is invited to present a lecture at some fancy smancy university in some exotic place like Hawaii. I figure he managed to get out of the crate if no one else has.
Cousin Bill and Cousin Bill
Dr. Billy Boy is what I call him. He is a doctor of clouds and rain an' stuff like that. He's always talking about the greenhouse effect, global warming and other science stuff like that. He goes way up north and does tests on the ice checking out how the polar bears are doing. Nice guy but only had two white shirts and two pair a grey flannel pants to his name. It wasn't before his honeymoon when his new wife got a hold of him and wised him up to the fact that he looked a might peculiar on the beach with a grey neck tie and black shoes. I figured that most of his body had never seen the light of day 'before the new wife put him in a golf shirt from Sears, a fancy pair a shorts and a pair of them open-toed sandals that you see Italians wearing. Now he passes himself off as almost normal when you see him at a family do.
At least he never shows up with mud on his heels like my other cousin Bill. Willy, as we mostly call him, usually comes to family gatherings straight off the farm and smellin' like it too. He lives out in the sticks way up the road from Little Grams with his big black dog, Rex. He said he feeds Rex gun powder to keep 'im mean so as to keep strangers and foxes away from the old barn. "Poor ol' thing." Ma would say, "He never knew no lovin' from no one since he was a pup. Willy kicks 'im and jabs 'im as he passes just 'cause he is an ornery kinda guy 'im self. I reckon that Willy wouldn't know how to love nothin' or nobody."
Uncle Eric said he was going to pay Bethy to go out an give him some lovin' that he has missed out on since his Ma died when he were just 10. Willy's Pa died when Willy was just 12, left his heart broke and he stayed on the farm ever since. Uncle Al and my Pa used to go over regular to make sure he was ok. They felt mighty bad for him but there was no way that they or no one could get him to leave his Pa's farm and move in with them.
Uncle Eric perked up noticing the cloud of dust streamin' up the lane. "Someone else is arriving. Looks like Willy's pickup. Crappers, it looks like he's got a woman with 'im!" Everyone turned and gawked with chins dropped as Willy got out of his truck and came strolling over with his hair shinin' and slicked back like it was dabbed with bacon grease. In one arm he was carryin' a watermelon, on the other arm he was clung to by a pretty, but shy-looking gal, with long brown hair. Her pretty, pale blue dress fluttered in the breeze as she walked pressed beside Willy. Willy didn't say anything, he just grinned from ear to ear like the time he won the hog callin' contest a few years back. Uncle Mike hollers "You old goat. We ain't seen you for so long that we figured you was in jail. Woo Eee, who's the pretty gal! How much did you have to pay 'er to come with you?" Susie, Mike's wife, punches him in the arm hard as she could and told him, "Shut up you knuckle head and be good."
Everyone gathered around Willy and his new gal. Ma reached over and took the watermelon from him and give him a kiss on his freshly shaved cheek. It has been a long time since anyone has seen him shaved and dapper. "Who's your gal Willy?" Ma asks, squeezing her hand in a welcoming way.
Mark the Mulch Man
I'm not just sure how our cousin, Mark the Mulch Man, as he is known to be called, fits into the family tree but we see him regularly at family reunions. For short we call him Mulch. If for some reason he doesn't come he always sends a fancy doggerel poem; he's the only real good writer in the family. If you haven't guessed he's big into mulching just about everything that decomposes.
I figure that Mulch is probably one of the very last hippies. He wears those Birkenstock open toed sandals, is kind of plu
mp with long grey hair and a beard that comes down to the middle of his belly. He wears a dirty old t-shirt that says "Compost It" on the front. Cousin Mike figures it looks like it got lost in the compost for a while on account of it being so dirty.
Mulch is the environmentally friendly one in the family. He built a whole series of mulching bins like no one has ever seen. He built a wind mill out of old oil drums (I've never seen it spin even once), a solar panel out of tin cans and an old window and get this, an indoor compost toilet. Well who would have ever thought you would have an outhouse IN the house. The "piece of resistance" - pardon my French - is that he built a house out of bales of straw and stitched it together with binder twine. We still tease him that the big bad wolf is just around the corner and ready to blow his house down.
Every year Mulch shows up to the family reunion with a tofu cheese cake and muffins that end up in our compost.
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A family reunion is a wonderful time for meeting up with folks you haven't seen for some time. It is an especially good time for seeing the kids running and having fun.