Family

I saw a check-in on Facebook on a Tuesday night. This by itself is not noteworthy, but the fact it was my cousin, a decade-dweller of Waikiki, a stranger from my life since my days in college, and he was attending a Cubs game on a chilly Tuesday night with his now serious girlfriend made it grab my interest more than, say, checking in at another hot yoga class. After a short exchange and some mild planning, a few days later my brother and I jumped in my car and drove up to Glenview to meet said cousin for some much needed catch-up time. Calling it catch-up time is misleading, though, I guess, because it’s hard to catch up on eight years over a few beers. Hell, he had been married, and divorced, since the last time either of us had seen him.

There’s not much you can do after an eight year hiatus besides act like no time has passed. A year, or even two, is reasonable. You can recap some of the major events in your life with relative detail, filling in the gaps with stories and jokes, and the person you’re describing this to will be able to keep up, follow along, and maybe even recognize the names in your truncated biography. But after eight years, aside from basic setting details, all you can do is pick the best or funniest or most engaging stories from your recent history and spit them out like you just saw this guy last month. They won’t be a true depiction of your life, and they won’t bridge the chasm of time you helped create, but how can you caulk a canyon?

My Lazzerini (and Polydoris) cousins and I were never that close. Not like my brother and I. Outside of family gatherings, we rarely if ever saw each other. But those family gatherings were something special.

Every Thanksgiving was at my grandparents’ house. The day would start downstairs, milling about the suddenly more spacious family room, picking candied peanuts from the crystal bowls, watching the Lions or the Cowboys with the kind of interest one can only have before the invention of Fantasy Football, which is to say not much, at least not for a pipsqueak like me. I was the middle cousin, if that makes sense. My brother and three older cousins range between 4.5 and 8 years older than me, and I am more than 4 years older than any other cousin. Normally this would leave me a little out of place, but I was thankful and lucky to have an older cousin with the heart and mind of a child that would entertain me with buckets of G.I. Joes, using my grandpa’s old television as a camp base, using their stairs and railing as the most dangerous terrain on the planet. You’d think that my reminiscing about Thanksgiving would elicit paragraphs about the food, but aside from the candied sweet potatoes, that was the last thing on my mind. Before holidays turned into drinking holidays for us, Thanksgiving was about being a kid, aside from the notorious Thanksgiving of ’98 when I got my hands on my grandpa’s book of inappropriate jokes and gave all the adults a good chuckle.

Every Christmas was at my aunt and uncles house. The day would start at home, opening presents and the like. The biggest decision was to figure out what toy or game or article of clothing I needed to show off. When you walked into their beautiful Wilmette home, the holidays almost knocked you over. The roasting ham, the scented candles, the classical music, the lights, decorations, everything. It wouldn’t take more than a swift second to know that it was Christmas Day. As it turns out, my role in the family parties didn’t change much, again usually holed up in my cousins room, in awe of the amount of cool stuff he had. I distinctly remember building a pretty badass fort in his room. As I grew up a little I’d wander into his brother’s room where the highlight, of course, were the nun chucks. Thank heavens he had padded ones I could whip around. As I grew older still, I tried to keep up with the big kids. I remember asking a cousin to make me my first real drink. I had started my drinking on the easily-cover-up-able vodka and choked down a few sub-par beers, but in my head had never been drinking adult drinks. So what did my 18-year-old mind think was adult? How about a rum and coke. I hated it. And to this day prefer whiskey to rum. I guess he ruined it for me.

We always had a big group at holidays. I’m thankful for that, especially now as the times have changed so much, as they usually do. The oldest and aforementioned cousin played saxophone on a cruise ship for a while before settling in Hawaii. The next spent some time doing God knows what at Club Med before setting in San Diego, at least for now. My holiday counterpart stuck around and it’s been a joy catching up with him more frequently, hanging out on a few holidays, and seeing his little boy start to grow up. Both of their parents have moved to Arizona, along with their other sister. The last uncle and the four younger cousins are relatively close, but might not be for much longer. Family parties these days consist of my brother and I heading home and hanging out with my parents. Occasionally some friends will adopt us and there will be more than four people, but for the most part, we’re okay with what we have.

My brother and I share a relationship that most can’t comprehend. Even though at times we grew apart, mostly due to a four year age gap and the accompanying interest disparities, we’ve been insanely close from a young age. Whether it was rolling monster trucks down a hallway, listening to the new Live CD in his bedroom, playing Joe Montana Football ’94 in the fourth bedroom, or standing in line outside Rolling Stone records to meet Slipknot, it’s kind of always been me and him against the world. For a long time, his social life made up the majority of mine as I often struggled with a strong group of friends of my own. In recent years the tides have turned. I don’t think either of us worried about it. It always felt natural. I’ve had my share of close friends, but no one has ever come close to the connection we have.

As the three of us shared some top notch beers and tried our best to catch each other up, the easy feeling of conversation and laughter was memorable. We won’t remember all the stories or the details of our lives, I still can’t tell you my cousin’s girlfriend’s name (sorry!), but I can tell you that the feeling of family is and will always be there. We were all fortunate enough to be around each other, see each other, talk to each other, appreciate each other, and establish relationships that might fade but will never evaporate. I don’t know if I’ll book a trip to Waikiki soon, despite my desire, but that doesn’t change who we are or what we mean to each other. Same goes for the rest of the bunch. What I can tell you is no matter the blood line or last name, when you have that kind of connection, it’s the best there is. I used it as my status when I checked us in, and I’ll finish with it here.

Family. Above everything else, family.