Why is it family reunions are so exhausting when all you do is sit around and eat and talk? I swear to god all I've done is put my snout in the trough in between talking to my dad, his three sisters, my fifteen cousins, and their mass of children plus assorted spouses, and I feel as wrecked as if I'd been on a three day bender. It was fun, though. My extended family's really nice, and we don't actually spend much time together outside of these reunions.
The reunion took place in Portland, Oregon, where my dad grew up and most of our relatives still live. The group in charge of the festivities did an outstanding job of collecting family photos and reproducing them along with a family history in a big binder for every attendee. The whole clan had a great time looking through the photos trying to figure out who everyone was. I'm here to tell you the prominent family ears and nose go back several generations. My dad is the spitting image of old Jefferson Huntzinger (1813-1869) albeit without the outlandish Victorian beard. My sister is grateful she inherited Mom's looks.
I'm always fascinated by stories and photos of my dad's childhood. We're Westerners, we Huntzingers, Oregonians by way of Wyoming and Colorado. There are wonderful pictures of my grandfather Royal sitting on a horse or a wooden wagon with his knotted bandana and his hat at a jaunty angle. It was a hard life on the cattle ranch, and there wasn't much money even after they sold up and moved to the lush Pacific Northwest. The recollections of my dad and his sisters are better than a history book with their tales of nickel street car rides, mixing yellow coloring into the Oleo to make it look like butter, Grandma coming home one day with her waist-length hair cut off into a stylish Marcel waved bob to Grandpa's fury, the kids being allowed to play outside in the cool of the early morning but having to come in when the sun warmed up the rattlesnakes. It's all so different from the privileged life we enjoyed. I love hearing those stories.
I even heard two new stories about myself. Dad popped out with them while driving John and me back to their place after Friday's dinner in Oak Park. I'll tell one, but only because it illuminates my personality. As with most kids I was under strict instructions on where and how far I could ride my bike. I came home one evening and burst into tears at the dinner table. I might have been in third grade or so, maybe about 8 years old. No one could work out why I was sobbing, but eventually the story came tumbling out. I'd disobeyed and ridden my bike well outside the limit to visit the big store about a mile away.
"But why?" my dad asked, concerned because I'd had to cross a busy road to get there and annoyed that I'd done it.
"Be...be...because I wanted to see what was on sale!" I wailed.
What can I say? I still have a very active conscience, and window shopping is still one of my favorite pastimes.
John and I cut out from the Huntzinger activities on Saturday to visit his only aunt and her husband in Tualatin. I've been following John's forays into genealogy with interest so I enjoyed listening to their conversation about ancestors and relatives. Ginny is obviously the card of her family; at one point she showed us a typically sentimental family portrait from the 20's and said, "I look like such a simp in that photo!" which cracked me up. She and Norman served us pie and coffee, and John gleaned a few pieces of information to fill in some of the background he's been researching, so it was a happy visit.
Sunday was spent about four blocks from my friend Chris French's house in Beaverton, but he wasn't home so I didn't get to see him. Cousin Bob Harrington had everyone over for brunch and a round of family photo opportunities. I ate my own body weight in raspberries for breakfast, and tried to drink coffee but I kept having to put the cup down to take photos or have a powwow or give someone my business card. The torch of the reunion organization has been passed on to the northern California cousins which includes me, and the next reunion will take place in three years up at Lake Tahoe.
I love Portland in the summer. Next time I visit will be this November for Orycon, and boy will it remind me of why I don't live in the Pacific Northwest any more: cold, damp, mackerel grey skies, and rain every day for months at a time. But in the summer, man, nothing can beat it. I'm proud of my mossback heritage.
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