Maddy and Hannah are taking some time off from the farm they were working on in Carnation, and they are traveling around the Seattle area, checking things out.  A hero of theirs — Dan Savage  — writes and works in Seattle; they are visiting museums, eating, taking in the city.   And my mother’s family lives in the area — Anacortes — so Maddy made contact the other day by telephone, and made arrangements to go up for a visit on Sunday.  The subject of sleeping accommodations on Sunday night naturally came up when Maddy and I were discussing the upcoming visit.  Where would the girls sleep?

Well, I have an aunt and an uncle in Anacortes, so I assumed it would be no trouble for one of them to put up two girls for the night.  But as I write this, this is still unresolved — after emails and multiple phone calls, it turns out that I may be wrong.  My mother’s people are stand-offish, and not particularly anxious to extend overnight hospitality.  My aunt and her kids have not returned my phone calls about the matter, and my uncle — after his wife already told me that it would be alright, since they have a bedroom in their basement — just wrote to say, “they weren’t expecting an overnight visit, and they will help make arrangements that will fit our needs.”  What in the hell does THAT mean?

And suddenly, this whole part of my family comes into sharp focus.

I live alone, and like it that way.  My sister lives in the neighboring state.  We see each other occasionally, and speak in big flurries of communication with long periods of rest in between.  Despite this distance, there is an implicit understanding that no matter what, we will be present for one other, and we would certainly take each other in.

Having said that, I know my own reticence about taking in distant relations, or friends of friends.  I would hesitate if asked.

But now I know what that reticence looks like from the other side, because even though I KNOW that this is not personal, I can’t help but take it personally.  I am flabbergasted that my own mother’s people would hesitate or deny my daughter shelter for one goddamned night.

When I am in my 70s and 80s, I pray that I remember this moment, because I know the older I get, the more set in my ways that I am.  Good Lord, may I never become this inflexible and closed up.  May I never deny anyone who asks — and especially my own flesh and blood — a bed for the night.

Now I see why the family in Washington never sees or speaks to one another.  My aunt and uncle have not spoken to one another in several years.  One cousin doesn’t speak to her father or any of her siblings.   Another cousin hid from my sister when she stopped in to his store to visit; his employees told her that he was not there.  No wonder my mother put that small town and its people far behind her.

But even our own mother…our mom turned Vicki and her husband away once.  Vicki reminded me today that mama apologized for that incident as she lived out her last days from her hospital bed.  But I can’t help but  believe that was my father’s strong influence over my mother — I find it impossible to think that my mother would, on her own, turn aside her daughter.  And when Vicki went up to see the family in Anacortes, she had to ask for a glass of water.  The convivial sitting around a table with a bottle of wine or a pot of coffee just don’t happen easily.  Those familial, communal moments do not just unfold naturally in Anacortes any more.

Yet Vicki assures me, (and I somehow know this is true) — that if our grandmother Helen were alive — this would never happen.  She was a warm and welcoming woman.  She may not have had anything, but she would never have turned anyone away.  My strongest grandma memory is being in her big soft bed with her, awake past bedtime,  partners in crime, eating snacks and peeping out the window at the kids:  my mother, her brothers and sisters, and all the spouses.  My mom and the aunts and uncles seemed so grown up, connected, and fun that night.  (Drunk — in the funny, happy way.)  The doors were off when Helen was alive.  Everyone was everywhere.  But she’s been gone for more than 40 years now, and the connective tissue that held our family together has deteriorated badly.  The connections are brittle and broken. For my daughter to have to experience this for herself is making me feel sad; I see now that this family reunion idea floated by my cousin Randy is nothing but an empty dream, a fantasy born of some ideal that does not exist between us.  We are not the reunion type.  We are the disconnected type, the unanswered telephone call type, the cryptic email type, the unresponsive type, the “make other arrangements that suit our needs” type.

I miss Hank and Lou.  But even Hank and Lou, if they were alive today…who knows?  I believe that if they were healthy, they would take Maddy in, even if they were 100 years old they would, and Uncle Hank would show her the berry bushes that the deer sneak into the yard to eat from.

My sister, my friends and I know a better way to live that is natural, open and emotionally nourishing.  We gather around tables, we share food and drink and talk.  And I want to cry out, Darling daughter, run!  Run the other way!  Don’t let this weird juju touch you.  Visit for an hour, and drive far away.  It looks like we moved to the other end of the coast for a reason.

Happy Birthday, John Lennon.  I send out a wish for peace to the entire world, in your name.

You don’t need somebody to tell you who you are or what you are, you are who you are.

Instant karma’s gonna get you…may we all shine on.

———————

Addendum:  How it all turned out:  they opened their home, and everyone had a nice visit.