Family Reunion Follies

Dad parked in a shady lot at the bottom of a small hill. My brother, sister, mother and I joined him in hauling a picnic basket, cooler and baseball gear up to the park’s pavilion. We always arrived late and had to thread past crowded tables laden with food to find an open spot. Potato salad and baked bean dishes huddled side by side. Paprika-dusted deviled eggs sweated inside Tupperware containers. Occasional bowls of three bean salad added color accents to the spread. Hot dogs and hamburger patties hissed on a nearby grill, and the smoke rising from the briquettes smelled of fat and charred meat.

Aunts Katy, Deannie, and Rose had staked out their spot on the sunny side. They lay tanning on their chaise lounges, squinted shrewdly at less favored aunts and uncles and made tight lipped observations. Uncle Carl had grown a stringy beard that made him look like a billy goat. Aunt Carol had put on weight, and the lime green horizontal stripes on her knit wear top didn’t do much to hide it. One cousin had stretched out weedy and lean and sported a laughable upper lip fuzz that one day might become a mustache. Another cuz had poured herself into ultra tight jeans and was asking for trouble.

The uncles sat at a table drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and cigars, playing poker. They slapped cards down when they made a play, carefully scooped dimes and quarters into their piles when they won, and taunted the biggest losers. They mostly ignored the kids, but Uncle Paul gave me an unkind glare as I passed by. He disliked my mother, and his animosity extended to her brood.

The aunts gathered wandering children and herded them to their seats. An uncle served up platters of hamburgers and dogs. The men got another beer or two to wash down their meals. Folks wandered up and down sampling food from the communal spread. I stayed away from Aunt Jody’s potato salad. She put in too much mustard. A lake of bacon grease floated on top of Aunt Katy’s bake beans. A green salad had unidentifiable, smelly white chunks crumbled over the top. I stuck to food Mom had made.

Mom let us drink soda pop at summer reunions, and I sat down with a can of grape. The sweet acidity clashed with greasy chips, beans and burger making my stomach churn half way through the meal. I felt like I’d eaten a watermelon all by myself.

The men grabbed more beers, baseball bats and balls after the feast ended. They headed downhill from the pavilion to a softball diamond. The women stayed back to clean up and complain about their husbands. The kids followed after their dads and stood near the backstop to await team assignments. The uncles divvied up the kids bam-bam-bam then told us the most important rule of all: if a batted ball knocked over a beer bottle, the hitter was out.

Uncle Carl like to chatter at the kids when they came up to bat. He yelled, “You swing like an old washerwoman” after I took a cut and fouled off a pitch. I managed to punch a dribbler up the middle, but Uncle Jerry scooped it up and threw me out. Uncle Carl razzed me as I trotted back to the sideline. “You got lead in your pants!”

Older Cousin Mike slashed a burner to shortstop. Carl made an awkward stab at the ball and looked more interested in shielding himself than catching the grounder. Uncle glared at me when I yelled “No glove!” “Error!” I jeered as he returned to his position. Dad gave me a sharp look. I shut up.

Uncle Carl came up to bat the next inning. Dad’s pitch arced high and came straight down over the plate. Carl flailed at it. He lunged at the second, struck out on the third. Only little kids struck out hitting slow pitch. Dad turned and gave me a warning look while Carl retreated. I didn’t say anything as Uncle had already demonstrated he was the one who swung like a washerwoman.

My team lost. A beer-bottle-out was made. I caught a fly ball in left field but never got on base. We trudged hot and tired back up the hill. The kids hit the coolers for sodas and raided the snack table for chips and pretzels. Hunks of sliced watermelon waited on soggy paper plates.

The aunts and uncles ate, drank, talked and smoked as the sun dipped lower in the west. Mosquitos and fireflies appeared, and little kids chased flying, glowing specks in and out of the lengthening tree shadows.

We packed up and said our goodbyes. The air felt cool blowing into the back seat of our Dodge sedan as we drove home, and I wanted to doze. But every bump jolted the sodden lump in my belly.

What Kind of Man Are You?

I had contrasting male role models when I was a boy.  My Mom’s dad sang in the church choir, helped out around the house, read books and listened to classical music.  He was a calm and thoughtful man who took care of others.  The men on my Dad’s side drank whiskey and beer, smoked cigars, hunted and fished, played cards and bowled.  Some referred to cooking, cleaning and child rearing as “women’s work”.  They maintained an allergic attitude toward anything related to the “c” word: culture.  That’s not to say that they were stupid, but more that they liked what they already understood.  Reading a book, going to a museum, listening to a concert seemed like pointless exercises.

The movies I watched as a kid (pre-cable, often in black and white) starred John Wayne, Robert Mitchum, and James Garner.  These actors represented contrasting styles of manhood.  John taught me to suck it up and endure danger and physical trials with little or no complaint.  Women were to be treasured and protected, but would remain largely unknowable.  Robert showed me that men may act on evil tendencies and can’t be trusted at first glance.  James acted as a jester, as a man who pointed out the absurdities of life.  Running away from a stupidly dangerous situation, not of one’s making, was acceptable.

I’m not like any of these examples, and I can’t really define precisely what makes a man good or bad.  Many men I’ve known drift back and forth between kindness and cruelty.  Most lean hard in one direction, but even the extreme cases have surprised me on occasion.  Some evolve from one form of manhood into another.

I guess that my bases for self-judgment draw on all these influences.  I know who I’d like to be while remaining aware that I fail to meet my own standards.  I try not to judge other men’s lifestyles and choices, but a recent public example of  “tough guy” manhood seems particularly repugnant to me.  I’ll never take that hot mess of hyper-inflated ego, blind cruelty, and pointless domineering as a guide to anything exemplary about manhood.

Here’s what I believe:

1. A good man accepts defeats and success gracefully.  He doesn’t blame others for his failures and doesn’t claim full credit for his advances.
2. A good man acts for the welfare of his family and community.
3. A good man does not denigrate others or spread gossip and slander.
4. A good man acknowledges his mistakes and sincerely strives to do better.
5. A good man admits that he feels pain, and does not pretend that he is invincible and immovable.  Stoicism becomes an act of choosing a rational response to hardship, not a denial of pain.
6. A good man tries his best to follow through on his commitments.  He does what he says he will do.
7. A good man does not exploit the weak and less powerful.
8. A good man tells the truth as he knows it, but doesn’t believe that he is the sole and complete possessor of truth.
9. A good man does not believe that his current good fortune is God-given proof of his higher worth.  He chooses to be grateful for blessings received.
10. A good man is humble.  He understands that he is a small speck in a vast cosmos.