Recently I took the family to the Willamette Valley part of Oregon for a family reunion. Normally family reunions give me a case of the heebee jeebees. I have never liked them up front; it always takes me at least two beers to loosen up and start talking. At three beers I turn into Johnny Vegas, master of the funny quip and singer of lost ballads on karaoke. Four beers and I do a 30-minute set of Sinatra, five beers and I go to sleep wherever I may be at the time. As long as there is a mattress, lawn or the pickup bed of my fifth cousins’ truck, I am good to go.
Our reunions have a life of their own. They are alive with laughter and tears of days gone by, sadness at those who have gone before us and joy and hope of the next generation.
The babies cry and laugh get smothered with love by grandmothers and aunts.
Pictures get taken of people stuffing potato salad in their mouths followed by barbecued ribs, chicken, burgers and hotdogs. If the picture is of me, all of these things are happening at the same time. The conversations run from political to pop, to “where I could get a job” to “I am going to quit next week if that jerk doesn’t recognize me.”
Emotions run high at these things. At the end of the evening, people could still be heard crying over the laughter, crying that someone couldn’t make it, or someone didn’t want to attend. The tears would eventually subside; the laughs and funny stories drown them out in a wash of tears.
Eventually, more karaoke is needed. It is hard to feel pain when singing “Margaritaville.” I come out and do an encore of “Respect” by Aretha Franklin. I have a high voice for a guy, but not as high as the Queen. After my rendition, I receive a lot of feedback for my song. Mainly it consists of never, ever, sing that song again in public. Even singing in the shower is up for debate.
As the night wears on, I feel my liquid-courage level drop to unacceptable levels. As we were set to leave I yelled for my daughter Lindsay to get in the car. I saw here outside talking to my cousin Renee. As I turned the corner to go outside, I slipped (that’s my story and I sticking to it) and cracked my head on an end table before going down hard. I scared the bejesus out of everyone, bleeding from a half-inch gash on my melon. A paper towel was brought to stem the bleeding issue, and we left.
The next morning I found myself with a lump the size of a golf ball on the back of my head, with a corresponding headache that felt like someone hit me with a Louisville slugger. My wife asked me if I was OK to drive back to Kent. I drove all the way home with a gash in my head and a smile on my face you couldn’t remove with a jackhammer.
Next year, I do 45 minutes of Sinatra.
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