Family Quartet

A set of relations, living together or not. So reads the traditional definition of 'family.' With apologies, I believe Mr. Webster erred. Perhaps he meant relations in the broadest of terms without regard to bloodlines or marriages. For me, family means those people whose lives truly matter to you, whose joys and sorrows you share without considering geography or time intervals between personal encounters. I celebrate families of all varieties and consider myself among the very luckiest of mortals because my own family is so sizable.

What better way to celebrate Thanksgiving than with family? Last week, our table radiated with harvest colors. Six chairs are occupied, spanning three generations. On this special day, diets are forsaken and overeating, however slight, is embraced. The meal continues in the house immediately to the north.



We're sharing dessert with 14 other people. Included in the group are the four residents of the home, 6 Washington state residents connected to a house across the street and 4 local friends. A lively group, sated from supper, but eager to sample the sugary wares on the buffet table. My contributions are the super easy to make Pecan Pie and a Pumpkin Cheesecake, cooked in a springform pan. Though this is my inaugural attempt, the cheesecake brings accolades. If nothing else, it is pretty.



Within the expanded group are six little girls and one lone boy. He stays near his mom. I'd do the same if I were outnumbered 6 to 1. Three black and white kitties can't hide. Girls are everywhere, chasing them, crawling under beds, insisting on kitty cuddles. No scratches are reported. No kids' fights. Grandma Carol has thoughtfully provided a large box of caramel apples for the younger set. Studded with nuts or M and Ms or chocolate chips, the adults are sure there's nutrition to be found. First you have to eat your way through the saccharine coating to the fruit.

There must be pictures. Girls bunch in the kitchen, apples in hands. Hanna climbs onto the granite counter top and drapes her small body across the space. The remaining five can't be still. Neither can they smile simultaneously or look at the camera. I know. I'll trick them. I call out the magic words that cause every little girl from about 3 to 13 to squeal. JUSTIN BEIBER!! The room erupts. Are these nascent hormones responding? I casually remark that the girls should pretend they're seeing the ubiquitous JB himself. It works. They smile gloriously and bounce around, hollering just a bit. I almost wish I could produce that 16 year-old phenomenon and truly send them into pure ecstasy. I settle for numerous poses and later determine that at least a few are fine.



Keith and Alisa have brought their girls to the desert from San Francisco. They're seeking the sun and serenity of this special place. Even more enticing for their daughters is the promise of unlimited play time with our soon-to-be-six-year-old neighbors. Through twice yearly visits, the relationship between these two sets of sisters continues to develop.



Friday morning we agree to meet at the Westin Mission Hills hotel for winter swimming. The main pool's a busy place filled primarily by youngsters enjoying the warm water. Dozens of lounges are occupied by smiling, sunning older guests. Shorts vie with bikinis as appropriate attire and toes peek from sandals. Bodies are basically pale because their owners reside in cold places where parkas proliferate this time of year.

The northern California sisters are dripping as they emerge from the hot tub. They welcome the twins to their watery world. The local blonde Kindergarteners have spent at least five months waterlogged in their backyard pool. Swimming is commonplace for them. Besides, it's cold. Maybe not for visitors, but residents know that 60 degrees is not swim weather. Shivering is common and double towels are necessary to restore an appropriate body temperature.



I'm wearing jeans, two shirts and a light jacket. Henry's happy with his leather coat. Does he look amusing amidst all this exposed skin? He doesn't even notice.



Drew, the most senior of the foursome, is audacious as she climbs the steps to the water slide. Again and again, she swishes into the bottom of the pool with her boogie board. The other girls can't be tempted to join her. Maybe next year. Maybe never.

Parents hover around their children smoothing feelings, praising strokes, and warming little bodies with giant hugs. It is a beautiful day in the desert.



This session is finished. Suits are abandoned for the comfort of tops, leggings, and hoodies. We're going home for a while.



By evening, there's additional girl craving and shared meals are a must. Pasta with pesto, pine nuts and Parmesan is popular. Ever the individual, Brooke chooses her own farfalle pasta, liberally doused with butter. Energy is required to decorate the Christmas tree. For this special occasion, Gilly, our peerless neighbor, has bought matching fancy dresses. It's a tradition she started several visits ago.





Shawn solves the conundrum created when each girl rather demands that she be the one to place the star atop the tree. He simply gets out the ladder and allows one girl after the other the honor of securing the star in its niche. Clever dad, marvelous neighbor.



To end this girl perfect day, there's sugar-free cocoa and butterless popcorn for all as a movie plays on the huge screen in Shawn's 'man cave.' What more fitting use for this space? Giggles abound as bonding continues.

Saturday is reserved for a family hike in the Indian canyons south of town. The natural beauty of this unique locale impresses everyone. These moments will be remembered long into the future.

There's something to celebrate. Jessy's lost her first tooth. An important rite of passage, properly acknowledged by all.



A closing meal together preceeds yet another showing of 'How to Train Your Dragon.' I drift by the bedroom where many giggles are overheard. I pause and listen. One small voice says to the others, 'This is where they kiss.' Disney? Such a different world these small people inhabit. They're already pre-teens in thought and interest though their maximum years total merely seven. Lady Gaga and Katy Perry are clear favorites after the awesome young Mr. Beiber. Lyrics are learned, sung with abandon. Do they understand the meaning of the words? Unlikely.

Snacks provide a diversion and I offer Pirate's Booty, Gogurt, chocolate-covered marsmallows, fresh veggies with dip. Always ravenous, they'll have some of each. Revived, we play a game of 'Simon Says.' Two of the girls are proficient at responding to the commands. The two others can't seem to get it.

I instruct them, Simon says: Hug your sister. They all obey. Next, I simply direct, Hit your sister. Oops. Two do just that. Not a good choice for me to make. The 'hits' are gentle, but I feel badly.

The doorbell rings and the neighbor girls are retreived by their parents. The nieces are sad but know there'll probably be another visit or two next year.




Thanksgiving has lasted several days. A flight from LAX must be taken home. School and work await. We hug farewell to this special family. Looking to the right, we smile. Living in that house are four people who've been our relatives (an expanded Webster definition) since 2006. No blood required. They're family, too.