A Bump in the Road

“We’ll just play some party games with them,” the other room mom said to me when I called her to help plan a party at the Son’s school. “You know, games everyone plays at parties.”

“Oh. Right. Those kinds of games.” I had no idea what she was talking about. I knew of a few drinking games, but as alcohol was a necessary component of those games I doubted they were what she had in mind. “Tell you what,” I said, “why don’t I get the prizes and you can bring the games?”

We lunatics run up against this sort of thing all the time. Our cultural references are far different from those with a more traditional background. This is particularly true of parties. We simply are not a party people. Sure, Father frequently declares, “Boy, it’s a real party”, but this generally only means there is a visitor so cheese and really thick coffee are on offer. One of my earliest memories is returning home from one of the Golden Child’s (Sibling #2) summer track meets with a watermelon that we had picked up somewhere along the way. And due to the presence of the watermelon, I remember the atmosphere was festive and Father declared it a party.

So, when an actual, more traditional party is called for, we are generally at a loss. We stumble through the proper steps, but there is always something not quite right. So we prefer, instead, to avoid such events. Besides that, we often don’t get the point. Being one of six, you develop the mentality of, well, yes, of course it’s your birthday. Isn’t a birthday at some point rather inevitable? The same goes for things like graduations. Shouldn’t it just go without saying that you’ll graduate? And weddings.

The last thing I wanted was a wedding party, hence the unannounced trip to the basement of City Hall one Saturday morning where the then boyfriend and I made it all very legal. I was amazed at all the crazies there, actually dressed up as brides and grooms, with photographers and flowers and family. I was probably the only bride there that actually looked suited to the dismal basement wedding as I was sick as a dog from the cheap champagne my co-workers had poured down my throat the evening prior.

Anyway, after this momentous occasion, I foolishly allowed the Mother-in-Law to coerce the Husband and I into having a reception. It started off on a slightly askew foot to begin with when people began calling in confusion over the invitation on which it simply said we were celebrating Lucifer’s purchase of a pair of ice skates. (The now Husband had been around for seemingly ever prior to the trip to the basement of City Hall.) Naturally, when the event finally happened, as I was untrained in the art of party etiquette, I mostly hovered nervously around the single (not quite full) table of my family members, wearing my $12 antique store dress that Brother-in-Law #2 likes to refer to as my “Alice in Wonderland Dress”. The Groom was decked out in velvet pants and a velvet cloak his co-worker had made for him.

Sibling #4, on the other hand, happily planned a wedding party for herself. Interesting, really, that all of the dark haired siblings have thrown parties for themselves at some point. The First Born, the Golden Child, the Whirling Dervish of Trouble. The lighter haired, more sane siblings shy away from the attention such events create. A psychoanalyst would have a field day with this little tidbit of information.

When the day of Sibling #4’s big wedding happened, some sort of major sewer crisis occurred at the building Father owned. Whether he knows how to fix the problem or not, Father fixes everything himself. A sewer problem on the day of his daughter’s wedding was no exception. Naturally, digging down to the sewer line delayed him quite a bit. We all had to express pretend outrage at his not being there on time for his daughter’s wedding, but really, we would have been shocked had the sewer not taken precedence. We were, perhaps, even secretly envious that he wasn’t there. It was a long drive out to the far northwest suburbs in the middle of the winter at lunch time when we all could have been doing other things aside from getting all dressed up. (One of the nephews recently happened upon a photo of his mother and one of his aunts from this wedding and asked, in all seriousness, “Who are the drag queens?”) Looking back, the sewer problem seems almost prophetic now, as this particular marriage ended up in the tank.

This past August, the parents had their 50th wedding anniversary. I won’t say they celebrated it, as I’m not sure they even made mention of the occasion when the date rolled around. Dark-haired Sibling #4, however, decided the event was momentous enough to throw a party. She gave us lots of advanced warning, and we would periodically call each other up and say, “Is she still planning on having the party?” Then we’d sigh and wonder about the madness of it all. Like all things, acceptance eventually won out.

And it really was a proper party. We had organized group gifts, home-cooked food, and all the siblings managed to be in attendance without so much as a quibble between us. There was even a beautiful bouquet of flowers thoughtfully sent by the seemingly more normal California branch of the family. Of course, being a party thrown by lunatics, there was just one small hitch. The guests of honor were not in attendance.

We waited, hungrily eyeballing the food, and waited some more. Then, we debated how we would go about finding them, if the need arrived. They carry no cell phone, and their chosen route can be very unpredictable, particularly as Father’s sense of direction is, well, let’s just say it’s limited. So really, they could have been lost and broken down anywhere within about a hundred mile radius of their home. Fortunately, in the midst of our discussion, the van bounced its way to the curb in front of Sibling #4’s house. And I do mean bounced.

Apparently, the van lost a shock absorber about fifteen miles earlier. Despite a horrific thump every time the axel turned, the passengers arrived safely. Dick, occupying the front passenger seat he now views as his rightful place, was the only one of the group that looked completely nonplussed by the horrific ride with the blown shock. He jumped out of the car and happily ran off to frolic with his dog cousin.

I was surprised to see the California Uncle emerging from the back of the van along with Mother and Sibling #6. He had very kindly flown in for the event and apparently he had been unable to rent a car so he had to share the bench seat with his sister-in-law and niece on the long trek to the party. As I already said, Dick the dog had dibs on the front seat. Mind you, the California Uncle is a physician that is highly respected in his chosen specialty. He has written various medical tomes and will soon be officially honored by the government of Vietnam for his assistance in advancing the state of medicine in that country. I’m guessing, though, that he’ll remember the van journey to the party, stuffed between homeless looking family members as the vehicle literally bounced down the highway, a lot longer than the official honors bestowed on him in Vietnam.

Upon exiting the vehicle, Sibling #6, perhaps far wiser than she frequently lets on to be, proceeded to soothe her frazzled nerves with a few glasses of wine. Father and Mother, while jostled, took the journey in stride. This was not the first time they encountered car trouble while out on the road. And, as Father refuses to drive anything newer, it likely won’t be the last time. I can’t help but to wonder how life would be different if the protesters at the ’68 Democratic Convention hadn’t completely destroyed his brand new car. Perhaps, if he had not left his police hat sitting in plain view on the front seat of the car (the police were wearing their riot helmets), the car would have been spared. Maybe, just maybe, he would have arrived to his 50th anniversary party in a brand new Caddy. Right, probably not. That would be like saying Sibling #4’s now ex-Husband would have actually converted to Christianity if only Mother had secretly sprinkled him with a greater quantity of holy water.

Anyway, the guests of honor had a great time. And the van eventually got them home. It took a while as they had to take streets instead of the highway due to the broken shock. Oh, and the flat tire they got a few blocks from home. And of course, the police detained them for a while. Yes, that’s right. They were detained by the police. As they bounced their way through one of the western suburbs, the police pulled them over. Not because the van was an obvious road hazard, but because the police mistakenly got it into their heads that the parents with Sibling #6 and Dick in tow (the Uncle had wisely opted to take the train back to his hotel) had been hanging around a cemetery and the police wanted to know why. After separately and repeatedly quizzing each occupant of the van, except for Dick who fortunately did not maul any of the astute officers, as to why they were in the cemetery, the van was allowed to continue on its interminable journey eastward. We may not be a party people, but it’s always an adventure.