It's the end of another week-long family Christmas, and tomorrow I head home for a week of grading essays so I can wrap up 1st semester grades by the 11th. I always wonder how many people have Christmas weeks similar to our family's, a thick, messy mixture of projects, meals-in-shifts, contrasting agendas, rowdy games, and at least a little drama. Usually, at least one story evolves that will live an unnaturally long life, much to the dismay of the person at the center of it, "it" almost always being a joke. If this yearly get-together were a soup, it would be jambalaya: a bizarre mixture of stuff that would seem unrelated, but generally works together. Like jambalaya, it's not for everyone. Like jambalaya, it's got a little kick. Like jambalaya, you have to be careful with your ingredients, or you might get more than you bargained for.
Dad's agendas are the spice in the stew. They rule the time we have together, and his agendas are driven by time and weather. This Christmas Eve, he spent the biggest portion of the day freaking out and trying to get everything in order in case we got the blizzard-like weather that was predicted. He, my brother, and his boy Chris readied a tractor and a Bobcat to be able to move snow that we all, frankly, were praying for. With most of the ponds on the place completely dry, any moisture would be a blessing; our only concern was for my sister and her family, traveling back home from her in-law's place in Texas. Of course, we didn't need to prepare---no one saw a flake of snow. But that didn't mean Dad ran out of projects. There's always equipment for my brother to work on, cattle for my sister and her husband to tend to, and citrus business for mom. This year's special project was to get the hot tub out of the basement; the two-year drought has caused the house that I always thought indestructible to settle so much that the basement's concrete walls are cracking, and the hot tub only made it worse. It took an act of Congress, seven members of our family and a neighbor, and removing a patio door to get it out, but it's done and loaded to go to South Texas when Mom and Dad head back to the grove in a few days. This sort of thing isn't even unusual. Our parents have spent the better part of the spring through the fall building an apartment to stay in when they're here, which is about six or seven months a year. Whoever came around, Dad generally enlisted their aid for some part of the project. This in no way implies that he pawns things off on people. I have never known, and will never know, a harder worker, even though he 73 and in so much pain from arthritis and a hard ranching life. In our jambalaya, he is unmistakable, a little much, an acquired taste---and as necessary as water is to life. Dad keeps everything bubbling by hopping around fanning the flames, making sure everyone is moving.
If he is the spice, Mom is surely the substance. She's earthy and comforting, the veggies that balance the spice. And she. does. it. all. Running errands, prepping meals, doing chores (both inside and outside), watching kids, and running a citrus business that would, by itself, be more than most people would want to take on, from customer calls to bagging and delivering fruit: she's a world wonder. I can't even try to keep up with her, but I try to be at least a little like her. Like the veggies, she tries to keep everyone's perspective healthy throughout the days together, to smooth over a little extra sting here, to give the weaker portions more substance there. If she feels her role is diminished, she doesn't complain of it, any more than those sustaining substances do. I can't imagine our family gumbo without her.
The adult children---my brother and sister, their spouses, and I---could be considered the roux that binds it all. We each have our parts we play: brother the reserved, sarcastic wit; sister the dramatic, high-energy, obsessively neat hostess; I the non-ingredient that works with everyone. I don't get to see enough of either of them, since they're often at the helm of a big project, and I am only working in the house from time to time, usually cooking or taking care of a kid or three. When we do sit down to talk, we're much more civilized than we used to be---we seem to be silently preparing ourselves and each other, because we know that the more time passes, the closer we inch toward the cataclysmic day when we must rely only on each other as heads of our family. I don't know if we'll have anything even similar to the same consistency when that day comes, but we're keeping the recipe on file.
And lastly, the six grandchildren---what part do they play in our jambalaya? Oh, of course, the meats, the true nourishment, the tidbits we search for and don't want to do without, for they are the true flavor. Chris, the oldest at 21, is just starting out to become his own man, and yet is so much like both his dad and his papa, such a hard worker blessed with common sense. Nolan and Logan, 18, brilliant, funny, and talented, but both are distinct individuals. Emeri, now 10, came to us at 6 and brought an immediate joy to our lives with her loving personality and exuberant ways. Katie was the first girl grandchild, born eight years ago with a personality as big and ever-changing as the South Dakota sky that nourished her. Little Allie, just a year old, her father's miniature in person, her mother's miniature in personality---she's the last dash of pepper that finishes off our gumbo-like family holiday.
No doubt there are a lot more elegant things to compare one's family time to, but not one occurs to me right now that represents our clan so well. It is NOT for the faint of heart. It never turns out the same way twice. I don't know if any other families are crazy enough to deliberately set out to spend just a little too much time together. But I do know they are missing out if they don't. And here's the oddest bit: I don't even like jambalaya or any form of Cajun gumbo. Spiritually, I would starve, though, without a Welker Christmas week cooking up at the end of each year, sending me fortified into the next year, knowing I make sense with at least one recipe out there, that I'm as necessary as the other 12 ingredients for it all to come together.
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