It was a long time coming, as the old saying goes.
Literally.
This celebrating of my parents’ marriage of sixty years, a true rarity in contemporary culture, was as timeless as it was beautiful.
Like all well-executed events, it required significant precursor work like date setting, menu planning and schedule coordinating. Six children that until very recently have sported addresses in as many states can make that a little tricky, but we did it.
Boy, was I excited.
My children were all but scaling the walls and removing the roof, in anticipation
Cousin time is always a special treat and they invariably pack as many memories in as they can.
On Tuesday, June 25, Hilda and Margaret, the two oldest sisters, flew in first from opposite ends of the country. California and New Hampshire to be precise and pronto set to work. That was possible because Margaret and my other sister, Katrina, had done the painstaking work of planning menus for this just-under-fifty-hungry-mouths-to-feed weekend, so there were recipes written out and taken times two or three or four or whatever multiple was needed to stretch it to the needed amounts, creating an inherent grocery list.
Off the fearless sisters marched into the Great Grocerian in Hutchinson, Kansas and proceeded to turn a food oasis into an emerging desert by pillaging various and sundry shelves. Well, not pillaging exactly. They didn’t take prisoners, destroy any existing structures and they did pay for what they took but this was serious stuff. It was about to go down.
Our family arrived on Thursday, June 27, just before lunch. Well, part of us. The second installment arrived on Saturday. Working for a living tends to put a damper on young adult spontaneity. Anyway, enroute with our three youngest sported its usual animated self, their excitement essentially reaching fever pitch by the time we crossed that glorious, familiar, “Reno County Line” sign. Oh, and we always sing the state line song when we cross over. Always. It’s a tradition.
Ah, but the grand finale was yet to come.
At the corner, one-half mile north of my parents’ home, all legality exited the windows. Quite literally because Emily opened hers, Nicholas opened his and both found the majority of their upper torsos mysteriously emerge as they waved frantically at some of the cousins they could see standing in the middle of that gravel road eagerly waiting their arrival. Things escalated from there. Steve added his two bits by laying on the horn approximately every five or so seconds so that our incoming status could not possibly be in question. We pull up to screaming and smiling and confetti showering. Oh, and there was a welcome sign on the garage, too, bearing the message, “Welcome to This Nice Garage.”
Short and to the adjectival point.
Gotta love it.
Then, we found out there was a little snafu in Mudville. Where was their beloved cousin, Jessica? It turns out that the evening before she was trying to separate two unhappy dogs and her right index finger took the brunt of a nasty bite that required surgery to save the tip of that finger. First stop for treatment was in Wichita but ended up in Kansas City. She came home sporting a mighty cast and let me tell you. She’s one brave sixteen-year-old because while she rested as needed, she kept up remarkably well. She’s healing well at the moment. Boredom isn’t in her dictionary.
It was time for lunch so we sat down to my parents’ extended dining room table and noshed on soup and garlic bread and homemade cookies and mostly just basked in the joy of being with family again.
After lunch, Hilda and I got to work. With all these appetites we knew we had to keep three steps ahead so we mixed up and baked raisin oatmeal, chocolate chip and butterscotch chip cookies. We had extra “help” when they were baked and “needed” to be sampled. As one of my children put it,
“I’m like the king’s cupbearer. I’m making sure no one gets poisoned.”
Long live the king, kid.
Long live the king.
When all my siblings and I get together, It’s beyond special, raising the roof is inevitable and it’s amazing to me to see my kids just pick up with their cousins. It’s like no time has passed and they pronto disappear to wherever. Because my brother, Eldo, lives just across the driveway, they quickly scattered over those acres in triplicate from the basement to the trampoline to the merry-go-round to the cool tree house. They stacked up memories faster than I drink coffee.
Well, almost fifty people meant that my mama’s kitchen just isn’t big enough for the family anymore so my parents had wisely reserved Cedar Crest Amish Mennonite’s facilities to give us a little more elbow room.
What a lifesaving idea. We could use the industrial-sized refrigerator to store ALL those groceries, use the ovens upstairs and down and just have fun making edibles together.
Dinner the first night was a spectacular, juicy array of grilled chicken and ribs, thanks to the skills of my brothers-in-law Thorne and Michael and my husband, Steve. Now THERE’S a trio that takes pride in making sure stuff comes off the fire done to perfection.
Since we scattered to separate locations at night, we decided that breakfast would be come-and-go whenever people showed up. Friday morning, I went down early because I was under assignment to produce a family favorite – cinnamon rolls. Apparently, my siblings have fond memories of my potato rolls with caramel icing but I have to tell you. I can’t take credit for either recipe. As I brought pan after pan out of the oven, the resentment was growing because, well, these particulars were reserved for Sunday morning, so I was The Ogre/Evil Queen of Glucose Deprivation. I relented with one of the smaller pans and I’m telling you. The shelf life was under ten minutes and it was swiped clean. My title was temporarily upgraded to Miss Partially Redeemed. Tiara not included. Oh, well.
Friday was a busy, busy day in the kitchen. We whipped up cakes and icing for the Sunday afternoon open house, we kept the coffee coming and all the while we were laughing and singing and trying not to trip over each other and the memories just kept piling up higher and higher.
Enter the memorable hoverboard where we separate the coordinated sheep from the not-so-coordinated goats. Think a skateboard that requires you to possess an innate sense of balance just trying to board. Some can. Some ain’t. That’s all there is to it. I knew without trying that I was outside the camp so I opted for Dutch Blitz. That’s more my speed anyway.
Then, while I’m out hunting down a house key for the home where we stayed, Katrina arrives from Wisconsin, three more cousins in tow and a forty-pound block of Colby Jack cheese. That is one big hunk, in case you were wondering, and part of the menu plan for the Sunday afternoon festivities.
Then, my niece, Victoria, her husband, Steve and their three children arrive. I was so excited because I got to meet their youngest, Melissa, for the first time. Wow, what a beautiful little charmer she is. She’s not the random hugger, though. Her just older brother, Lyndon, is. That sweet boy will come up to you out of nowhere, give you a hug and tell you with his lisp (one of his front teeth is missing, you see): “I wuv you, Gweat Aunt Mawia.” Can you even? Me either.
Oh, and before each meal, we’d sing a verse of song before a prayer because our family loves music. The grandkids got their assignments, too. They were divided into four teams and responsible for particular jobs after each meal to get things back to clean and neat and they were told to come up with team names.
They did. MINC and MEJD represented the first letter of names, Garlic Bread’s origins are unclear and I don’t remember what team quatro came up with. It doesn’t matter. They worked together well, laughed a lot, and would do it again in a heartbeat.
And then it was Saturday and the last two travelers came and everyone that was going to be there was. We were only short three grandsons. Pretty impressive, if I do say so myself.
I’m not sure what we would have done without Walmart this particular weekend because no matter how carefully we thought we planned, we kept running out to grab various and sundries to keep both dehydration and emaciation at bay. Then, on Saturday evening, we got the grand tour of my brother, Eric’s new Kansas home. Such fun. So many memories we anticipate to be made there too. I’m so glad God brought them back to his old stomping grounds, to this wonderful, warm, welcoming community and so eager to see his kiddos joining the student body at Pilgrim Christian School this fall. They’re in good, good hands.
After we got back from that, my nephew, Jason, showed us pictures of his time working at a refugee camp in Greece, earlier this year. We are so blessed in such abundance here. He’s making plans to return and I applaud him for it.
Sunday morning. 8 a.m. Family photo time. My cousin, Evan, did the honors of getting everyone set up and smiling and capturing this historic moment on film. I eagerly await the results. I truly do have a beautiful growing family.
Then, we marched into my mom’s kitchen for the promised cinnamon rolls, they were pronounced both good and edible and off we went to church at Cedar Crest. There’s never enough time to catch up on visiting old friends, you know? It doesn’t mean I don’t try my best, though.
2 p.m.. Time for the open house we’d set up for, including a table display of family photo albums, scrapbooks from the fortieth and fiftieth celebrations and what’s been completed in the sixtieth. Guess who didn’t quite get her pages submitted yet?
This Fall.
I promise.
I WILL deliver by September.
Our summer in Texas has been a wee bit crazy this summer and I’m going to leave it at that.
People came and they came and they came and they came until I felt very much like Eeyore: ” A long line of everybody.”
It was wonderful. So many smiles and hugs and friends I hadn’t seen in years. So much to be thankful for including hearing people, over and over again, welcoming my brother, Eric, back to the community. Multiple people commenting how much I look and sound like my Mama. That’s a compliment, right there.
Then, at the end, the Paul Miller clan sang several numbers they had rehearsed under the direction of my nephew, Evan. Not just any songs, though. These are compositions by my parents. I hope they blessed our audience as much as we enjoyed singing them. The highlight was my brothers, Eldo and Eric, singing Dan Fogelberg’s “Leader of the Band” to honor my father, particularly. Not a dry eye to be found on me, I’m telling you. Steve said he had to make himself scarce because it got to him, too.
As we were cleaning up one of my kids had this to say:
“You probably knew everybody that came through the line, didn’t you?” Well, or at least how they were connected.
The day wasn’t over. There was a Levi Miller (my dad’s side) informal gathering at Center Amish Mennonite Church, where my dad’s sister, Emma and her husband, Ollie Troyer, had held an open house for their sixtieth wedding anniversary, hosted by their children and, yes, more of my cousins. Again, too much food and not enough time to catch up with everyone. A good problem, indeed.
Monday morning, July 1- Forty-four years to the day when our family moved stateside and time to say goodbye and head south. Two last finales were Steve’s now long-standing tradition of his rather colorful rendition of “Love You Forever,” a book that follows the relationship of a mother and son. Steve’s experience in therapy inevitably leads to his off-the-cuff commentary of concern that some of this mother’s behavior is meritorious of a psychiatric intervention, which ups the laughter factor already well-established when he invents his own tune each time he sings the “I love you forever” italicized ditty found throughout this profound and deeply moving saga.
Then, my dad, read us Milne, the Heffalump story, to be exact. All the voices he does so well, just like I remember them. I always forget the simple humor of Milne until he brings it to life again. We laughed again, long and loud and hard.
Oh, and then we grabbed the last quart of real maple syrup my brother-in-law, Addison, had for sale. That stuff is liquid gold and I’m doling it out carefully. Best stuff ever.
As we left, my Katrina felt it necessary to open the sunroof of our car so she could properly wave goodbye. No one wanted to leave but the inevitable was upon us. As we were riding down the road, I asked what my kiddos liked best about the weekend?
“Everything.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I will remember this weekend as a time when we reconnected on so many good levels, truly endeavored to honor my parents, and were all reminded again what a truly priceless gift family is.
May we never forget.
May we always love each other.
And may our children, by God’s grace, also rise up to call us blessed.
Soli Deo Gloria.
