Family Matters

A preface: don't be deceived by the title, I'm not here to write about Jaleel White.

It's Saturday night, and I'm back in Marin County. I arrived on Thursday for a long Father's Day weekend, and have passed the time reading, eating well, and thinking of things to write on this blog. I wrote about the reading already - we'll get to good food in just a moment.

My mom and I went into Lucas Valley today for some catching up and a brief hike up the Big Rock trail. The trail winds along the hillside for maybe half an hour before coming up behind Skywalker Ranch, the site of George Lucas' movie-making-mega-mill. It's huge. Really, it's huge. It's basically a resort - restaurant, swimming pool, vineyards, rooms, theater, etc. - that pays for itself (and then some). Here's the pic I snapped from the top.

(click for a not-much-bigger version)

We had to turn around at the top because my sister's band was going to Fresno to play a show and she needed to bum a ride somewhere. Anyway, I read a bit more from Three Cups of Tea and snoozed a bit. Later that evening a bunch of family came over for dinner, which leads me to the point of this post.

I've endured, almost piteously, my fair share of dinner parties. Between reunions with family friends and the marathon holiday feasts, I'd become not only tired of the banter of drunken adults, but also convinced that I would need a hearty share of the wine being passed around to ever enjoy myself alongside them. But time passes and, I suppose, things change. I did have a few glasses of wine, but I found myself enjoying the evening for different reasons. The occasion for tonight's gathering was that one of my uncles was in town…except, well, this uncle isn’t actually my uncle; his name is Gian-Luca, and he's from Italy.

Gian-Luca's father was the cousin of my father's father. I met him only once before: on a small roof terrace perched high above the streets of Rome, it's railings ringed with slender vines and petite summer flowers. We had lunch with his wife and daughter. My family had been traveling through Italy during the intensely hot summer of 2003; we fought the infamous heat wave, one which claimed thousands of lives across Europe, by mediating our tourist footslog with copious amounts of Italian gelato. I don't remember much of our brief lunch with Gian-Luca, besides the immediate surroundings and the glass of sparkling, fruity wine I was given. When he first arrived at my parents’ house in Marin tonight, I had forgotten our first meeting on that terrace in Rome. He remembered just fine, giving me a hearty clap on the back and congratulating me on my improved manliness. The benefits of unkempt facial hair are not to be underestimated.

After working through the topics that often accompany a long meal, the conversation drifted from the future to the past. Blinking my way out of a full-stomached stupor, I heard my father recounting the times he spent with our most distant relatives in an era lost to browning photo albums and hand written letters. They all began talking about a common history: how long ago they met, old friends and good meals shared. I can’t remember all of these stories, but their conversation began to assume, in my mind, the distinctive sepia hues of an old home video. I listened.

My uncle Jim, a stern and experienced man whose health is yielding to age, boasted about his experiences making wine and vinegar in Alameda. The gnats that crowded the front lawn as the vapors seeped out from the basement window. The rigors of winemaking with limited expertise and meager supplies, and the community of amateurs who shared their hard-earned lessons and cherished product. How, upon receiving a crate of wine from a friend, an older relative of his elected herself to taste each one for quality, declaring them unsavory and re-corking them... until, about halfway through, she put down a bottle after a long taste and said, " You know, Jim, it's not half bad!"

As the conversation wore on into the night, I wasn't benefiting from a discourse on the trials of winemaking. I was enjoying a rare and precious glimpse into the past – my own past, the history of my family. My grandparents died when I was young, and I've often thought about how much I would value a conversation with them today. I wonder what it means to have grown up lacking a strong connection to their experiences. I know I’m not the only one, and I wonder what it means for my generation as a whole. My grandparents witnessed the world’s events unfolding on a broader arc than I can imagine. History is too often a broken record, and now that I've begun to sketch my own understanding of that arc, I have questions for them that will surely lay unanswered. When my grandparents passed away, what other wise and winking treasures did I lose?

They also carried life's simpler lessons in their pockets. My grandpa would have taught me how to fix an engine or tie knots on a sailboat, and my grandma could help me figure out what girls are thinking, or even just show me how to cook something properly. If I’m living irresponsibly, I think about all of the sacrifices they made for my parents. Whenever I worry about my future, I imagine what reassuring words they’d have for me. I may have only known them for a few years of my childhood, but I miss them.

Don’t forget about your family. They are your lighthouse in a storm and your dowsing rod in times of drought. In them, look for your own pride and shame, your own avarice and virtue, your fragility and strength. They are your teachers and your friends. From them, learn to love, both others and your self. Most importantly, bring them with you, wherever you may go, in any way you can. Odd and varied as they may be, your bond with them is natural and strong. It shapes and guides you. It is powerful and pure. Don’t forget!