Hooks, loops and the ‘nuclear’ family
Our first reunion in 38 years can’t help but be memorable
“Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.” – George Burns
Next week our family is having its first reunion since 1978. I suppose after 38 years the wounds from the previous reunion have nearly healed. From across the continent we will gather to embrace, reconnect and remember. The remembering part is vital. What good is having a memory, if you can’t at least hold a grudge?
There’s a great saying in French that describes people who have natural connections. It’s “avoir des atomes crochus” and directly translated means having “atoms with hooks on them.” In my mind, I picture (at the atomic level, of course) clinging Velcro strips – and a family reunion is the ideal environment for observing these in action.
If our family were a professional sports team, the colour commentators would remark there has been a bit of turnover since the last time we took the field (what after 38 years and all.) Some loved ones have passed and there is a crop of bright new arrivals from the farm club. For one, my cousin will be there with his new wife. She may be from the other side of the world, but when you spot their intertwined spirits – there is no doubt – they have those Velcro’d atoms.
Velcro is made of hooks and loops and I believe that each of us resides somewhere on the hook and loop scale. On the surface, hooks and loops share many physical characteristics, but the defining difference is in their identities. The hooks see themselves as planners and the loops see themselves as spontaneous.
The loop horde (for they are only ever loosely affiliated) views the hooks as uptight and controlling. While the hook squad (usually adorned in matching club colours) judge the loops as irresponsible, and, well … a bit loopy.
However incompatible they may appear, the hooks and loops lose their purpose when not mixed together. A gathering consisting only of loops would never get going – because they rarely arrive at the prescribed time. The recipes (misplaced, half-remembered and improvised) would be scrumptious – but the roast leg of lamb would still be half-frozen at 10 p.m.
A gathering of hooks on the other hand would be exceptionally well structured but perhaps a little on the dull side with the careful repacking of decorations, the folding of tables and chairs and the antiseptic clean-up achieved about half an hour before dinner was served.
I foresee our reunion featuring exchanges over the identities of grim-faced ancestors in dogeared, black and white photos as patriarchs and matriarchs jockey for the prestigious title of Chief Family Archivist.
Fuelled by beer and potato salad, eerily similar looking people who likely have never met will make such affirmations as, “Your Mother’s Cousin’s Daughter’s Aunt was my Father’s Mother’s Brother’s first Wife.”
The patience of our hosts will be nothing less than noble as vehicles tear up flower beds, tents are noisily pitched at 3 a.m. and peace keepers are called upon to settle a dispute of unknown origin (full of waving canes and sharp spittle) between cousins who haven’t spoken in 55 years.
And then on Sunday morning prior to departing, the hugs will last a little longer, the embraces will be a little tighter and the gazes will seek one last moment of connection as the Velcro is painfully pulled apart and we begin making plans for the next family reunion – penciled in for sometime around the year 2054.