Throughout my life I have traveled to a small house on the edge of the San Fernando Valley to visit my grandparents. Always these trips seem connected with some kind of holiday or special occasion. Sometimes it is only for a day, other times for a week or more. This time it was for Thanksgiving. There was the familiar collection of Aunts and Uncles, cousins and siblings. In the past it was like we all came out of storage and resumed our association the same way a child returns to his dreams each night and picks up right where he left off. There was always a brief moment of awkwardness until we remembered that we knew and were safe with these people. Even though we saw them but once a year, if that, they were not strangers but family. Once this bond was remembered time would slip by in a blur of food, long talks, listening to Grandpa discuss the most recent conspiracy from the fringe news organizations, and sleepy back rub-induced naps (or perhaps a product of all of the above).
Those days are fading. Some years ago people began to be missing from the gatherings. A teenager here or there would get caught up in the other life and miss a trip. Or someone would get married and spend Christmas at some other house. I had to reorganize and realize that even when we were only portions of the group we were still family; each unique collection was still us. Then time passed and I was the one that missed the gatherings. Summers became full of working in the mountains, then 2 years of missionary service, then another summer gone, this time in Israel. Suddenly the roles were reversed. The rest of my life became the reality and the family gatherings became the dream. A memory of the way things once were. A shadow of a past rapidly coming to a close. My cousins are mostly beyond high school now. I, who use to be the young child annoying the older grandchildren, suddenly became the oldest grandchild present. With no older children to follow I was lost. Time demands that we move on, soon I too will have to leave childhood—I’m 22, perhaps childhood is already more memory than reality—and join my older peers in independence, marriage, career or whatever. Soon I will become part of the scattering Rackliffe gene pool.
My dear Uncles and Aunts who always seemed so timeless are also aging. While my cousins would change rapidly from year to year the older generation seemed constant. Now I don’t think any of them are free of gray hairs. They all rest comfortably into their fifties and some seriously consider their responsibilities as grandparents. My own grandparents are beginning to slow down. Its something I can measure now, I note much clearer now the errors of age creeping in. I struggle to follow the wandering speech and understand what has made them who they are. My grandfather comfortably presides over his ever growing family of 6 kids, 19 grandchildren, and 9 great grandchildren, who may never be all together again. How sad it is to see the effects of time on those you love.
The timeless view behind Grandpa's house
And yet, to walk into a room full of relatives, who perhaps you haven’t seen in 3 or 4 or more years, and realize that you are unintentionally wearing the same shirt, and cover your feet with the same shoes, brings a measure of comfort. No matter what time may do or experience may teach you in your vastly different life experiences you are still family. The moment of awkwardness passes and you remember that these are still your people, they will love you and have a space for you around their turkey dinner no matter how much time draws you apart. You will always be able to go there and find a taste of your mutual selves. Thank goodness for the strength and power of home and family. Thank goodness for the expanded memory the holidays give to us. Thank goodness for matching red-flannel shirts and sandals over stocking-clad feet as familiar shapes and voices surround a Thanksgiving feast.
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