Starting with my grandmother and counting every child, grandchild, great-grandchild, and spouse, down to the very smallest (aged six months), my Dad’s side of the family numbers 57 people.
We are all patently aware of the tally, because every time someone new joins the family, whether they’re born or married in, they are gifted a tee shirt with their surname and ‘family number’ on the back, sports jersey style. I, for example, was the eighteenth person to add to the family count.
Big families aren’t exactly unique–I guess what makes mine unusual is how close we are. With a couple exceptions, we’re all local, and for most of my life we would get together every Sunday at Grandma’s house. Now that the family has ballooned in size and Grandma has moved into a smaller place, it’s more difficult to get everyone together, but family loyalty remains paramount.
Traditions have arisen. Every Advent, we all get together for the unappetizing task of making our own Polish sausage. Every Easter, the third and fourth generations will inevitably huddle together on someone’s lawn in what is typically freezing weather, squinting into the sun, at least one of us struggling to hold a screaming baby, while the older generations snap the annual ‘cousins’ photo. At every wedding, all the males will at some point take over the reception to perform their rousing rendition of ‘Friends in Low Places’.
And every Fourth of July, I wind up trapped in Middle of Nowhere, Wisconsin.
We rent the same bank of rooms every year at the same lakeside resort: first floor, facing the lake, with patios that open to the best of the resort’s amenities: a set of picnic tables, which are ours for the duration of or stay; the beach volleyball court (also ours) and the swimming pool (ours as well, when we choose). Seriously, we dominate that place when we’re there. There’s a piano in the lounge? Open that sucker up, because my professional pianist cousin will be leading us all in a singalong. There’s a DJ in the hotel bar tonight? Well, he’d better have a good karaoke selection, because that’s what we feel like doing.
The weekend is a tough one for me. It certainly doesn’t help that I don’t fish or golf, which are two of the main draws of the trip. The real trouble is–most of the family don’t realize how emotionally challenging a weekend like this can be for someone like me. It’s a family of unique personalities and strong, unapologetic opinions. Introverts are in the extreme minority in the family, and I think some of them struggle to understand why 48 solid hours of proudly raucous hoopla can get overwhelming for me–why every so often, I need to take a step away for a breath and a moment of quiet.
Here’s the thing, though: The assurance, the assertiveness, the confidence that the rest of my family so readily displays–I have it too. I may not always have it on display, but I can show it when I need to. And this year in Wisconsin, I apparently needed to, because the resort was invaded by (ominous music please) A RIVAL FAMILY.
They were easily as populous as we were, and just as, uh, boisterous–however, and I say this as carefully as possible, there was a certain element of class lacking among them. Not that my family is completely blameless in matters of social grace, but we at least know which lines are not to be crossed.
The rival family wasn’t even cognizant of all the magnanimity we displayed toward them; we granted them temporary use of the volleyball court, for example, and when we found, of an evening, that they had overtaken the piano lounge, we elected not to press the issue, opting instead for guitar playing around the fire pit (even if the Philistines were merely using the piano as a surface on which to place their CD player.)
Sunday afternoon was the appointed time of the family’s annual Bags tournament (another Fourth of July tradition that isn’t exactly my forte.) We had several sets of boards between us, and once we got down to the finals, a few members of the rival family approached, asking if they could play on one of the empty sets of boards. Permission was granted, and little thought was given to it…until several minutes later, when a number of my cousins were suddenly shouting and pointing.
I looked over to discover one of the male outsiders facing away from the crowd, towards my grandmother’s patio, in a tellingly familiar stance.
To everyone’s surprise (including my own, a bit) I was the one that immediately jumped up.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” I shouted at the inebriated outsider.
He finished what he was doing and turned around nonchalantly. “Peeing.”
“THAT’S OUR ROOM!”
That didn’t seem to impress upon him the gravity of the situation. “We’re outside.”
“THAT’S OUR PATIO!”
He shrugged dismissively. “It’s just pee.”
By now, his mortified relatives were pulling him away. “Oooookay. Come on, buddy. Time to go.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to one of them, “I just–”
The more sober outsider shook his head. “It’s fine. He’s an idiot. He ruined it for us. If he can’t respect your stuff, we’re done.”
Well–problem solved, then.
I hadn’t realized at the time that yelling at strangers would earn me so many badass points within the family. Not all of them had witnessed the confrontation, but within minutes, it seemed like word had spread to the whole family about how I ran off the drunken idiot–and it seemed like they kept talking about it the rest of the weekend.
That evening, I was standing around talking to my parents when one of my aunts wandered up. “Did you hear about how Laura yelled at that drunk guy?” She asked. My parents replied that they had.
My aunt turned to me. “Next time, Laura, get one of the men to help you handle it.”
I rankled inwardly at the idea that I needed to ask anyone for help, but I tried not to show it. “I was handling it,” I said stoically.
A chorus of cousins nearby agreed. “She was handling it just fine!”
I may not always fit in with the family, but I can represent when it counts.
Laura Writes 