A shot of family values

Do you live where you have always lived? With the same people you grew up with? I don’t. My family lives 450 miles away. I moved to Ohio in 1976 and have been here ever since. This is OK, but I have been immersed in my wife’s family’s culture all that time. They have shared memories, events, funny stories about this uncle or that aunt—things I don’t share with them. So, every once in a while, I drive to New Jersey to get an infusion of my family culture.

That’s what I did this past weekend. I took the new car so I could play my iPod through the speakers and so I could bond with this car. Kathy always drives everywhere, and I hadn’t had any quality time with this new vehicle. I love driving and I love driving by myself. And playing my tunes. Loudly. Repeatedly.
I kind of took my time getting there on this past Friday, just enjoying the ride. I couldn’t really hurry anyway, with all the road destruction that was going on. It took me two hours longer than usual, and a half hour just to cross the bridge at the Delaware Water Gap.

Kathy will never stop at the Water Gap, so I always do. I park and walk down to the river and take photos. Sometimes there are feral cats running around, sometimes you’ll see someone fishing. This time, I had the place to myself. The river was very low, with sand and a wide expanse of water-smoothed rocks exposed.
My parents owned property further up the river near the New York border, and built a small A-frame house for the weekends. It was kind of like camping. No running water, had to use an outhouse, but boy, were the woods beautiful in the morning.
In fact, I proposed to Kathy up there in those woods one weekend about 37 years ago.
There was an old car, 1940’s vintage, that someone had abandoned down the by the river near their property. It disintegrated over the years, and gradually just disappeared. We would watch it’s progress (or de-gress?) each time we visited.
I climbed back into the car and rejoined the long line of travelers inching their way into northern New Jersey.

My sister had arrived at my dad’s house a couple of hours before me, and she was busily cleaning the place: dusting, sweeping, wiping, vacuuming, straightening. Dad can’t see that well anymore, so he doesn’t see the dirt. I had brought a bucket of gardening tools to help out in the yard, but was discouraged from doing so by my dad because he has someone come to cut the grass. I said, well, I can weed the front yard, in that case. My sister said, “Don’t bother—the weeds will just come back.” I figured, hey—the dirt’s just going to come back, too! She’s too nice, though, for me to say such a snippy thing.

I noticed that the paint on his garage door was peeling, and realized that that was where I could make my contribution! He bought the paint, and I spent the next few hours scraping, sanding and painting. It looked great when I was done. He was pleased.

We all went out to dinner that night, along with my other sister. No husbands, brothers-in-law or anything. Just us. My brother was not due back into town until late Saturday, so he was the only one missing. Of course, my mom died in 1998 and my youngest brother in 1984, so maybe I should say, most of the surviving members of the family were there. It’s fun to be with people who look like me, who share the same tastes and who remember the same things I remember. For instance, after dinner, my sister walked into my dad’s house and said, “Got any chocolate?”—which is exactly what I do—look for chocolate after dinner, before dinner, after lunch—you get the idea. When I went into my dad’s kitchen, there were cookies, peanut butter crackers and candy around the counters, and a freezer full of ice cream—just what I would have if it were up to me.

On Saturday I went for a walk with the sister who was staying at dad’s house with me. We talked about our spouses, our kids, our plans, our hopes. Later that night we had dinner at our other sister’s house. My dad doesn’t really like to go over there, though, since her husband is an opinionated poop. He did admit that Bush was a moron, so things didn’t go too badly.

On another walk, we went up the old house where we all grew up. My sister boldly knocked on the door because she wanted to see what they had done with the place. No one was home, though. So, we trespassed. We walked around the house peering into windows and saw that everything was different. The kitchen and dining room had been moved, one bathroom was much nicer than what we had, and they had added a fireplace to the family room. How could they afford to do all this? Apparently they had sold a big chunk of the back yard to a developer, who tore down the house next door and was preparing something dastardly in the newly expanded lot.
We used to have our own baseball field out there. We had a backstop and a pitcher’s mound and everything. Now it’s all gone.

Anyway, we met my brother, his wife and two of his daughters for breakfast on Sunday morning, and I basked in the glow of the family energy there.

My trip back to Ohio was uneventful. I made it back in exactly seven hours. Pretty good coming all the way from Dad's. Usually I take off from ny brother’s house, and that gives me a head start, since he is further west. Route 80 New Jersey was very crowded, with three speed traps, so I had to behave myself. It took me until halfway across PA to find a truck that would go 80 miles an hour in front of me and thus serve as my front door. I would slow down when he slowed down, and it worked out very nicely for 150 miles.

It was so nice to spend time with people with whom I have a shared history like ours. Being out here is OK, but every once in a while I need a shot of old fashioned family culture.