First we had to RSVP and pay a $50 registration fee. It was an extra $15 per person for a t-shirt emblazoned with the family name. We opted for no shirts. Marty coordinated with his brothers, and made hotel reservations in Hot Springs for several nights - black family reunions apparently go on for days, like Hanukkah without the presents.
This pre-event fanfare was foreign to me. Growing up, all my family reunions were simple afternoons in a Lancaster County public park or church. Grown-ups brought food and lawn chairs, and there were games for children usually involving getting pelted with candy or peanuts. An oldster with a notebook would make announcements and give prizes to the youngest and oldest people attending. We prayed and passed the offering plate and went home. No registration fees, no t-shirts. My favorite was the Shaubach reunion, partly because of its cake walk. Cake walks involve forming a circle and walking 'round and 'round until Someone said stop. Then Someone would ask for a characteristic, like "Birthday in May." The first person in the circle from a designated starting point who fit the criteria would win a cake of his/her choice, and leave the game. Shaubachs were Mennonite and Mennonites can bake like no one else. This means getting eliminated early was a perk, because you had the biggest selection - apple spice cakes, shoo fly pies, chocolate layer cakes, whoopie pies and angel food cakes galore.
Marty and I drove 13+ hours to Arkansas. The first night of the reunion, Friday, was a "meet and greet" at a lake house the organizing family rented. It was a small event, followed on Saturday by a larger gathering of families. We were there for 10 hours on Saturday, and another 4 hours on Sunday before leaving town.
Being bombarded by 50 never-before-seen spousal relatives in matching t-shirts is overwhelming. Even moreso when they have multiple names: Cookie, Button, Tee. Which one is Ruth - Cookie or Button? There was generational confusion, like Uncle Jerry and Jerry Junior, who is also Uncle Jerry to some. My all-time favorites are Uncle Little Brother (Uncle Li'l Bro), who is Little Sister's (Li'l Sista) twin. They are Mama's youngest siblings. Li'l Sista is deceased and ULB (who always calls me "Li'l Missy") lives in Chicago and were both missed. And there sat Mama herself, 83 years old, half deaf and fast asleep in the chair. Marty and his naughty brothers joked about who should slide a mirror under her nose to test if she was still breathing.
The most popular question I was asked: "Who are you married to?" My answer was always, "The bald twin." The second most popular question was, "Do you have children?" While I would expect this at a family reunion, what I did not expect was the "Why not?" that often followed. I don't think I've ever been asked by strangers WHY I have no children. I find this incredibly personal. Maybe I am an ovarian cancer survivor or miscarried 10 times. Maybe Marty has no genitals or we just hate kids. At any rate, it's a question best left unasked. Otherwise, it was a raucous great time. Once the board games came out, it was ON. I was the #1 draft pick when teams were selected - I am, shall we simply say, enthusiastic and experienced. We were loud and crass and laughed until tears streamed. The Barren White Girl Married to the Bald Twin was HOME. This was FAMILY!
I think the trip was so valuable, not only to meet these wonderful relatives and get flashy with my gangsta game skilz, but to be enriched by Hackett perspectives on current events involving the Confederate flag, the 1-year anniversary of Ferguson, and police brutality in Baltimore. Black Lives Matter, especially when they are family. I miss Kim and Bobbi the most, even though proper Kim thinks her white girlfriends are uncouth for eating off each other's plates all the time. She asked Marty if I did that. He said, "Oh yes. And much worse." I smiled and kept my thoughts on food safety to myself. Secretly I was thankful she didn't see me fork-and-eat a random glob of potato salad off the kitchen countertop earlier.
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