Family Affairs

Friday, 5th April 2013

Atlanta, Georgia

Now don't get all excited.  If you think I'm going to spill the beans here, you'll only be disappointed.  You're just going to have to wait for my book Everybody's Dead Now, Vol. 4---to be published posthumously.

Dreary weather was cast aside for springtime.  Flowering pear petals were floating in the breeze as we went for a lunch date with an ex-cousin I hadn't seen in some twenty five years.  That is, a cousin's ex.  We had reconnected through that Pandora's Box known as Facebook---she blackmailing me with fat childhood photos and I scraping for hush money payments.  Naturally I came prepared with plenty of brugmansia cuttings in all colors as well as a fragrant Petunia axillaris and a double lilac, which will likely lead a very unhappy Southern Lifestyle---but hey, something must be sacrificed.

We lunched at a very loud burrito joint---we would discover on this trip that it seems the South serves more of them than grits these days.  We maintained a conversation in spite of the music.

"You must have inherited your green thumb from your grandma," she said.  "You two were very close."

"Yes, we were," I replied---but the interior conversation was more complicated.  I ended up knowing and seeing too much.  It was a much simpler relationship when I was child, when it all revolved around flowers, buttermilk waffles and her chow mein dinners for my birthday.

"I always thought you'd take care of me," she said straight to my twenty-something face.

I burst out laughing---and I cringe at that recollection.  But hers was a passive-aggressive act, presented in front of other family members who were taking care of her the best they could.  I responded in kind.

"I have a life to lead," I replied airily.  Meaning this was a new age, where gay men aren't always nice and stay home with their mothers, or grandmothers.  I had a sex life---I mean relationships to pursue.  Never mind that I spent most of my twenties as a born-again virgin.

The music turned from grating to funky, and I strutted out of the restaurant---much to her amusement. It was good to hear her laugh as I remember it.

For some reason my husband went around the opposite end of the restaurant to Patsy Prius, so I had a moment alone with her.

"He yeeaahs in agreement just like she did---it's almost like being married to Grandma!"

The next visit was with my dear elderly auntie down off Caldwell Park---'elderly' being a family joke ever since a long-ago doctor once reported to her children that she was 'elderly' at the tender age of sixty-something.  This remembrance was only the first step going into family overdrive, which peaks at just below hysteria.  That's the way Grandma liked it---everyone practically wetting their pants (figuratively or otherwise), having fun, fun, fun.

"Can we throw our panties in your washer?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," she drawled in her fifty-year-old Southern accent.  "You wrote and asked about that.  Well, I guess so."

She took me the laundry room and adjusted the dial for me, since her washer is about as old as she is and tends to start washing in spite of one's instruction.

"Put it on scalding; our panties have been on the road for a long time."

"Oh gawd," she groaned.  "Do you want me to throw some Hexol in there, too?"

We sat and visited with aunt and uncle, drinking wine and eating brie and crackers---I conscious of the next impending date.

"I guess I better call Sally at work and see where we supposed to be next," I mused.

"Oh, I can tell you all about that," replied Auntie.  "We're ordering pizza and everyone is coming here to see you."

"My, what a surprise---and to think I left my tiara at home!"

"So you can visit without all that restaurant noise.  Isn't that nice?"

Well, yes---and no.  Because one isn't going to have the same type of visiting with parental units hanging on every word.  When I was asked for a run down of Western cousin relations, I quickly got into a pinch.

"But Momma," protested a cousin, "I know what he means.  You don't ask for something else when someone brings you a gift."

So that form of visiting was dropped for family stories---which, being the family historian, I'm highly proficient at.  I'd toss one out, Auntie would elaborate and then I'd interject another story, just to see if I got a different version or new information in response.  It's sorta like playing poker---if I knew how to play poker.  This is the only game I'm good at---this storytelling, where the truth squeaks out between gales of laughter.  This time I got Auntie to admit great grandfather had a mean sense of humor.

While Auntie received but another Petunia axillaris, I brought a family heirloom for the eldest cousin: our great-grandfather's mantel clock with his and my cousin's name on its face.  It just seemed more appropriate that he have it instead of me, and then there was the happy coincidence that he'd be soon celebrating his sixtieth birthday. The lesser gift for anyone at hand was an assortment of Grandma's Fostoria, which may be still sitting behind Auntie's couch.  I'm not a sentimental person, and since the latter-day Fostoria had only vague memories of birthdays and afternoon guests attached to them I didn't want anymore.  They may divide it as they please, or sell it---as I did the pedestal cake stand to pay for a road trip before I met my husband.  After all, I'll be inheriting a lot more down the road.

In the eye of this social storm was the newlyweds, my second cousin and her husband.  Poised and slightly incredulous, they reminded me of myself and my husband when I'm not 'on' or the center of attention.  It's easy to imagine them going home and exchanging observations: Did you hear what so-and-so said? or Couldn't he butch it up a bit more?---but of course they haven't seen my back hair.  I think they may be brave enough to visit our Rancho Notorious.  I hope so; I'd like to hear more of his mellifluous voice and have a quiet conversation with her.

"I'd like to do a family reunion," sighed Sally, "but the very idea makes me tired.  I was thinking of renting a big beach house in Ventura---what do you think?"

"I think y'all should treat it like a vacation, and let everyone know far in advance when you'll be in town---and then just see what happens.  Our social arbitrator is gone, you know---I don't think we have the same drawing power as she did."

It was an evening of new girlfriends and old boyfriends, raised voices and impromptu exits---all heavily outweighed by obligatory laughter.  We'll see if we ever manage it on the grand scale as Grandma did some twenty-five years ago.