Act 1.
Scene 1.
Cue actors.
Cue door.
And, action.
Sister-in-law enters. Angrily.
Sister-in-Law:
This has been 10 years of dysfunction and non-communication!
Supporting actors stare, mouths agape.
Door slams. Sister-in-law storms up stairs.
More door slamming.
And, cut.
This was the opening scene of my side of the family’s much anticipated week in Egg Harbor last summer. And, when I say opening scene, I mean Sunday. And, when I say Sunday, I mean Holy Day. And, when I say Holy Day, I mean the first day of our much anticipated week in Egg Harbor last summer. This was the first pitch. It wasn’t even thrown by the home team. A curve ball from a “visitor”. Well, only on the home team by marriage, and that just ten years ago. We thought it best to send another visitor, my wife, to see exactly what the problem was, while the rest of us sat in the kitchen of our cabin dumbfounded. Secretly a little jealous because we didn’t get to be the first ones to yell and slam the door.
But still more dumbfounded and upset than jealous. Afterall, this was my mother’s dream vacation. Her Christmas gift to all of us children and grandchildren and, oh yes, the sisters-in-law, too. Her dream vacation, in the dream locale of Door County at her favorite resort in Egg Harbor. And, my dream, too. A week of reading and writing and swimming and exploring and eating and making memories.
Scene 1.
Cue actors.
Cue door.
And, action.
Sister-in-law enters. Angrily.
Sister-in-Law:
This has been 10 years of dysfunction and non-communication!
Supporting actors stare, mouths agape.
Door slams. Sister-in-law storms up stairs.
More door slamming.
And, cut.
This was the opening scene of my side of the family’s much anticipated week in Egg Harbor last summer. And, when I say opening scene, I mean Sunday. And, when I say Sunday, I mean Holy Day. And, when I say Holy Day, I mean the first day of our much anticipated week in Egg Harbor last summer. This was the first pitch. It wasn’t even thrown by the home team. A curve ball from a “visitor”. Well, only on the home team by marriage, and that just ten years ago. We thought it best to send another visitor, my wife, to see exactly what the problem was, while the rest of us sat in the kitchen of our cabin dumbfounded. Secretly a little jealous because we didn’t get to be the first ones to yell and slam the door.
But still more dumbfounded and upset than jealous. Afterall, this was my mother’s dream vacation. Her Christmas gift to all of us children and grandchildren and, oh yes, the sisters-in-law, too. Her dream vacation, in the dream locale of Door County at her favorite resort in Egg Harbor. And, my dream, too. A week of reading and writing and swimming and exploring and eating and making memories.
And then the slamming of the door threatened to slam shut the possibility of our—my--idyllic week. I wanted to kill her.
Interestingly, from that rough start, things got straightened out. The whole blow up was over food or something and who was eating what and where and when. All perpetuated by my lunkhead brother who didn’t pass along the details of our planning for the trip to his wife.
Oh, and it had to do with dysfunction and non-communication, I guess, too. Or something.
Some things under the rug got swept out into the light. We sat on the porch of our cabin and talked about stuff without our usual sarcasm and Teflon. And some vows were made to change a few ways.
Maybe yelling a little and saying what you think is OK. Perhaps “picture perfect” and “idyllic” are fictions. Even unhealthy.
Bruce Cockburn, the Canadian musician and activist, wrote, “I believe it’s a sin to try and make things last forever.” I think I am guilty of that sin. Guilty of trying to force life into a postcard frame to stand as a monument that I am OK.
Maybe it's sentimentality bred from being a kid from a divorced family. Maybe it’s the by-product of growing up as a spectator in a world of television and movies, where I feel like my life needs to be a clever comedy or an inspiring drama. Wanting each moment to be the perfect movie clip for others to watch.
Or maybe it’s just the curse of being a writer. Always wondering how this moment will play out, or spin out, on paper tomorrow. Never actually living that particular moment in all its glorious imperfection. I think I do that a lot.
For instance, my wife gave me a digital camera for my birthday . It was a thoughtful gift as we needed to graduate from our Walgreen’s disposable. It takes beautiful pictures. And, I hate it.
Because, at our third-grade daughter’s school choir performance of “World Music,” I was so busy trying to capture the moment on video that I missed her narrative on the people of Holland. The entire thing, including the fact that fishing and tulips are more popular with the Dutch now than clogging. And later I learned that I flubbed the video, too.
The same thing happened at my son’s kindergarten graduation (a concoction of sentimentality itself). I missed the entire rendition of the “PowWow Song” (a concoction of lingering Native American stereotypes) because I was trying to capture the moment on film.
And, “capture”—what about “capture”? The word has connotations of control and violence. “Capture the moment” for what? Well, there may be the noble motive of trying to provide a sense of history for our family. That’s fine. But, my other motivation--a not-so-good one--may be to submit the photos as evidence that our life is “idyllic”. Revisionist history.
Cockburn goes on to write, “Take your place with grace and then be on your way.” Meaning, I think: Stand in each beautiful, messy moment with awe and wonder. Enjoy it. And then, jump into whatever God has next.
Oh, and it had to do with dysfunction and non-communication, I guess, too. Or something.
Some things under the rug got swept out into the light. We sat on the porch of our cabin and talked about stuff without our usual sarcasm and Teflon. And some vows were made to change a few ways.
Maybe yelling a little and saying what you think is OK. Perhaps “picture perfect” and “idyllic” are fictions. Even unhealthy.
Bruce Cockburn, the Canadian musician and activist, wrote, “I believe it’s a sin to try and make things last forever.” I think I am guilty of that sin. Guilty of trying to force life into a postcard frame to stand as a monument that I am OK.
Maybe it's sentimentality bred from being a kid from a divorced family. Maybe it’s the by-product of growing up as a spectator in a world of television and movies, where I feel like my life needs to be a clever comedy or an inspiring drama. Wanting each moment to be the perfect movie clip for others to watch.
Or maybe it’s just the curse of being a writer. Always wondering how this moment will play out, or spin out, on paper tomorrow. Never actually living that particular moment in all its glorious imperfection. I think I do that a lot.
For instance, my wife gave me a digital camera for my birthday . It was a thoughtful gift as we needed to graduate from our Walgreen’s disposable. It takes beautiful pictures. And, I hate it.
Because, at our third-grade daughter’s school choir performance of “World Music,” I was so busy trying to capture the moment on video that I missed her narrative on the people of Holland. The entire thing, including the fact that fishing and tulips are more popular with the Dutch now than clogging. And later I learned that I flubbed the video, too.
The same thing happened at my son’s kindergarten graduation (a concoction of sentimentality itself). I missed the entire rendition of the “PowWow Song” (a concoction of lingering Native American stereotypes) because I was trying to capture the moment on film.
And, “capture”—what about “capture”? The word has connotations of control and violence. “Capture the moment” for what? Well, there may be the noble motive of trying to provide a sense of history for our family. That’s fine. But, my other motivation--a not-so-good one--may be to submit the photos as evidence that our life is “idyllic”. Revisionist history.
Cockburn goes on to write, “Take your place with grace and then be on your way.” Meaning, I think: Stand in each beautiful, messy moment with awe and wonder. Enjoy it. And then, jump into whatever God has next.
Guess what? The whole family is going back to Egg Harbor again this year. My sister-in-law, too, I think. Same cabin. I’ll probably bring the camera. And, we’ve even thought about getting family reunion t-shirts printed up. You know, like the ones good families have. Ours, I think, will say “Family Reunion: Eleven Years of Dysfunction & Counting”. Idyllic vacation, take two. Maybe we’ll get it right this time. But, I kind of hope not.
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