Kinfolk

As I locked the door to the house Friday afternoon, my mind was reviewing the many tasks I could accomplish if stayed home instead of traveling.  As I often do before going on a long drive, a piece of me fretted about unforeseeable traffic snarls and any other bogeyman that my irrational mind could muster.  Status quo and routine tried to drag me down like quicksand.

But this was on my calendar, and if something makes it onto my calendar it gets done.  So I hit the road.  I’d been to this part of the world so rarely these last few years, I was not 100% certain of the route to the lone road that climbs the mountain where my aunt, uncles, and cousins have lived for as many years as I’ve drawn breath.  I saw enough familiar buildings to know I was getting close.  But it took a quick stop in the parking lot of a Dairy Queen that allowed me to confirm the final leg of the journey with my aunt.

By 7pm I was eating tacos and catching up with my dear aunt Rachel.  Uncle Paul arrived an hour or so later, and we talked past my normal bedtime on all sort of family issues.  I slept hard, waking at sunrise, despite the blackout shades.  My body just knows it’s time to get up…

Rachel prepped a blackberry pie and popped it in the oven, a critical menu item for later in the day.  Then she made breakfast for Paul and me.  Paul and I watched the Scottish Open on TV, then assembled and loaded a new incubator he bought to hatch some fertilized chicken eggs.  Rachel continued prepping lunch.  

By midday, the first batch of cousins and their children arrived, the second batch appeared soon thereafter.  EIGHT glorious young ones, the next generation of the family tree, hugging, running, playing.  Just like I used to do, on this same mountain. 

It was lunchtime.  The stove held a big pot of pinto beans, another with sauerkraut and hot dogs in it, a large cast iron pan of fried potatoes, and another with a proper batch of cornbread.  So simple.  So well-executed.  So many sense memories.

Rachel made up a plate and took it down the road to the birthday boy.  Everybody enjoyed lunch.  The kids went back to playing.  I shuffled down the road to see the birthday boy myself.  He was sitting on his porch.  I know he is my uncle, but when he speaks I hear my grandfather.  I know he is my uncle, but when he speaks I hear my mother.  We talked about his beautiful grandbabies.  We talked about his health.  We talked about all the things different doctors have been telling him.  I told him I loved him.

My cousin put the birthday candles on the blackberry pie, and we sang Happy Birthday to her daddy.  The pie was heaven.  The kids went back outside to play.  I watched the Orioles/Yankees game, basking in the afterglow of the perfect Mountain Meal.  Rachel took the grandbabies for a ride in the 4x4.

When she returned, I said my goodbyes and hit the road for home.  I drove down the mountain with the windows down, breathing in the air.  I smelled sweet scents, and I smelled something foul.  It was all beautiful.  I saw perhaps three cars before I got close to the highway.

Mom’s gone, but her family is there, where they’ve always been.  And I’m a part of it.  How glorious that is.

Sunday Supper
This Sunday I won’t have as much time to prep food, so I might make just a big batch of this Bolognese Sauce to pair with some pasta or chopped, roasted cauliflower for my gluten-free gal.  Or, I may grill up a bunch of these Spicy Lamb Burgers w/ Tahini.  This Zucchini Salad w/ Basil, Mint, and Feta looks good.  So does this Corn Salad with Tomatoes, Feta and Mint.

Sunday Music
Check out this group I recently discovered from Lincoln, Nebraska - The Wildwoods, singing their song, West Virginia Rain.  And here’s the Punch Brothers’ NPR Tiny Desk concert from about nine years ago.   Enjoy! 

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Have a great week ahead!  Offer support to others.  Make good use of this day.  And let me know how I can help.

Peace & Love,