Disclaimer: While ‘Travels with Edith’ usually addresses my adventures in local Connecticut travel, this week’s episode covers my introspective emotional adventures in far-off states, like Pennsylvania.
What’s a family reunion without someone’s dad reprimanding a youngster for wearing pants that are “too hip hop?” Furthermore, what’s a family reunion without that same dad mishearing my 5-year-old cousin’s happy exclamation, “I bought six kitties! I spent forty dollars on six!” and crying out—incredulous and alarmed—“You spent forty dollars on SEX?!” After which some satellite conversations draws to an awkward halt and I explain to my father what Eric meant.
“Oh, he only spent SIX dollars on sex?”
The Zimmerman family reunion takes place at Skytop Lodge in the Poconos, just a stone’s throw from Lancaster, Penn., where Zimmermans past, present and future have sowed their oats and reaped their harvests. My dad is the only one to not raise his family there, so we’re the stunted branch of the family tree that people see only at weddings and funerals. We’re also the least nuclear family—my dad has three ex-wives, daughters from two of them, and two teenage granddaughters from the daughter that’s not me. Everyone else at the ZFR has a superficially perfect family unit, which must be a testament to the power of social pressure. Maybe that’s why none of the 60 family members are openly gay, divorced or ugly.
My Aunt Edie, who I’m named after and whom I resemble strikingly, organized this whole thing. She planned three days of reuniting, starting with a group photo and a family nature hike. From then on, we’re free to reunite as we see fit. (My particular brand of reunion involves doing the crossword with my dad and not calling anyone by name: “Heeeeeey! It’s so great to see you!”)
After the group nature hike, my dad and I skip the family hayride to take a walk around the lake. What started out as a name-reviewing session turned into an unexpected heart-to-heart. We end up talking about, among other things, our respective failed relationships—something I generally make a rule of not discussing with anyone, particularly my father.
I always secretly believed (and hoped) that if and when I ever had a serious boyfriend, my dad would just unhinge his jaw and eat him, then spit out the bones. And then make fun of the bones, saying they’re sissy bones, and make me see that yeah, they are sissy bones. Needless to say, my high school “boyfriends” never spent much time with Dr. Z.
So how was I to know that during this whole protection phase my dad thought I was gay and/or asexual? Poor Papa. Although he was reassured that I have, in fact, felt emotion (something both my parents have questioned), my silly “relationships” are nothing for him to get excited about. No offense to the boys I have dated.
He’s kind of going through the same thing right now with some old art-collecting lady down the street from him in Brookline. They have lunch a couple times a week. She wants commitment; he wants space. They’re both…old. My dad’s marital batting average is not spectacular (0 for 3, strikeout, groundout, fielder’s choice) so he’s not looking to go there again. But apparently this woman has more money than God, so I tell him, “Hey, never say never.”
So there we are, just passing the fly-fishing area, and I’m telling my dad about the one who got away (did I actually just use that phrase?), my Altima’s mileage and how my large-cap Fidelity stock is doing. He’s talking about cancer treatments, Incan civilization, and the “Jewess” he’s been seeing who’s fun to be around but wants more. “I don’t think we say ‘Jewess’ anymore, Daddy.” “Oh. Well what do we say then?” “Jewish woman.” “I’ll remember that.”
Anyway, at that point I realize my father and I now see one another as adults, and our relationship no longer has anything to do with bag lunches, rides to school, or what punishment I should get for not making my bed. It’s kind of a touching moment, and I’m thankful that we understand each other like this.
But the reunion isn’t supposed to be about reconnecting with your parents. It’s supposed to be about finally mastering the names of your cousins and their children, who are, interestingly, all named John, Simon, Martha, or Edith. Clearly we aren’t the trendiest family. What makes recognition more difficult—not that I’m complaining about this—is that we all look alike. Specifically, we all have the same nose. It’s so incredibly dominant, I challenge anyone to have children with me in order to facilitate a genetic duel. So long as you’re handsome, ambitious and rich.
Although I don’t sit at the kids’ table anymore, I’m not quite comfortable asking my grownup cousins, “So, what is it that you do?” and expecting them to take me seriously, when the last time they saw me I was farting in Nanny’s swimming pool. Instead, I stick to the topic of myself when talking to relatives. By the third day, however, I’ve repeated the words “Wesleyan,” “English major,” and “Not sure, probably travel” so many times that I feel like a self-absorbed robot. I know very little about the professions of my relatives, but they sure know a lot about the courses I’m taking, the ethnicity of my housemates and the brand of corduroys I prefer.
The best thing about family, though, is their incredible capacity for forgiveness. At the end of the day, we’re all still related, and regardless of how inappropriate it was for me to leave dinner and check the Sox game, I’m still their cousin/aunt/niece/daughter/sister. Besides, when I got there, Uncles John and Simon were watching it too.
This family reunion—while really nice in an uneventful way—has an unexpected perk. I realize that my relationship with my dad has finally entered into a Golden Age, despite his increasing years and my inability to forgive him for that time he forgot my name, my birthday, and where I live, and told me I was fat all in one dinner. My dad is just my dad, and I love him.
And I know it must have been a success, because friends and strangers are already asking to borrow the Zimmerman Family Reunion t-shirt.
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