I had a lot of reservations about Saturday evening's family gathering (previously referred to -uncharitably- as The Seance) but it was great.
I'm not mad about family gatherings in general. As the eldest child in the family I'm one of the kids and one of the adults at the same time, which sometimes leaves me not quite knowing what to do with myself. My adult self is at ease with them all, confident, but in their company I occasionally catch glimpses of my teenage self and cringe in embarrassed discomfort. I was unhappy for much of my early teens, low self-confidence and self-esteem, both bookish and bullish in an effort to hide it. Most teenagers are the same, I suppose. I wonder how long it takes though before one can look back on those years and not feel those anxieties surface again, or even if that point is ever reached.
Yesterday marked the beginning of something new for us as a family. My father's parents were lost when he was a teenager, the eldest of a family of five. Although we've occasionally talked about it amongst our immediate family we've never all of us remembered them collectively, deliberately. That was what last night was about. We gathered in my uncle's house for takeaway in a scene reminiscent of the Home Alone movies (ever seen 22 hungry monkeys descend on a box full of unlabelled takeaway cartons?) and once everyone was fed and furnished with a drink, the ball started rolling.
Cleverly marketed to the little cousins as a talent competition, they were only bursting to do their party pieces (Irish dancing, guitar playing, stand up comedy, ambushing Rosie in the pitch-dark garden) but my dad was up first. He told us a story. A simple one, of how my grandparents met and fell in love while on a cycling club outing with work colleagues. We know so little about them that to hear the small details of this story told was precious and very affecting. His story was followed by a slideshow of old family photos, a gorgeous family tree poster that we all added our fingerprints to, a reading from Dermot Bolger's Taking My Letters Back and a wealth of memories shared. There was even a singsong, something we've never done and I'd never have expected. That part was pretty horrible, truth be told. I'm allergic to singsongs. None of us knew the words (some enthusiasticator had printed them off, but the elder lemons had all left their glasses at home and couldn't read them anyway) and we're all tone deaf. It deterred no-one. And we had a ball.
So I'm left wondering; when the fuck did we turn into the Waltons?
I'm not mad about family gatherings in general. As the eldest child in the family I'm one of the kids and one of the adults at the same time, which sometimes leaves me not quite knowing what to do with myself. My adult self is at ease with them all, confident, but in their company I occasionally catch glimpses of my teenage self and cringe in embarrassed discomfort. I was unhappy for much of my early teens, low self-confidence and self-esteem, both bookish and bullish in an effort to hide it. Most teenagers are the same, I suppose. I wonder how long it takes though before one can look back on those years and not feel those anxieties surface again, or even if that point is ever reached.
Yesterday marked the beginning of something new for us as a family. My father's parents were lost when he was a teenager, the eldest of a family of five. Although we've occasionally talked about it amongst our immediate family we've never all of us remembered them collectively, deliberately. That was what last night was about. We gathered in my uncle's house for takeaway in a scene reminiscent of the Home Alone movies (ever seen 22 hungry monkeys descend on a box full of unlabelled takeaway cartons?) and once everyone was fed and furnished with a drink, the ball started rolling.
Cleverly marketed to the little cousins as a talent competition, they were only bursting to do their party pieces (Irish dancing, guitar playing, stand up comedy, ambushing Rosie in the pitch-dark garden) but my dad was up first. He told us a story. A simple one, of how my grandparents met and fell in love while on a cycling club outing with work colleagues. We know so little about them that to hear the small details of this story told was precious and very affecting. His story was followed by a slideshow of old family photos, a gorgeous family tree poster that we all added our fingerprints to, a reading from Dermot Bolger's Taking My Letters Back and a wealth of memories shared. There was even a singsong, something we've never done and I'd never have expected. That part was pretty horrible, truth be told. I'm allergic to singsongs. None of us knew the words (some enthusiasticator had printed them off, but the elder lemons had all left their glasses at home and couldn't read them anyway) and we're all tone deaf. It deterred no-one. And we had a ball.
So I'm left wondering; when the fuck did we turn into the Waltons?
