You Had To Be There

The small bowl of nuts looks promising but is forlorn, ignored. One of us is a nut person but not the salted kind. Orange juice is refreshed automatically. Seats are so commodious that I could use a pillow or a stool in order for my feet to touch the floor. Twenty people share a bathroom. We are special, at least for the length of the trip. A gentle lady inquires, "May I hang your coat for you?" I am startled, unaccustomed to such attention. I decline but consider the moment. She calls us by our surname and pronounces it correctly. It's nearly quiet in this space except for keyboard clicks and a few restrained conversations whose content probably includes conquests and successes. The demographic is skewed older, whiter, maler. Those around us seem business normal and I consider that we are probably the interlopers. Points persons. No company paid our way, no income tax savings accompany this journey. Is the difference between us and them totally discernable when I can't figure out how to utilize my tray table?

We're off with Zach tucked safely in the quilted giraffe bag. His unveiling will be in a few days. So far, this is perfect.

Cancelled flights are not fun. Luggage is not retrievable, reservations are nixed. We're stuck in Dallas with a carry-on suitcase, the camera bag and miles yet to go. Through the deep darkness, we travel tiredly eastward by car. The GPS is our guide as unexpected downtown Dallas appears in the foreground. We struggle into Shreveport, find the hotel and gratefully tuck into an IHOP for sustenance. We can't see ahead. There are clouds and lightning, and very recently, torrential rain and hail. As we finally lie in our unintended bed, we're almost sure that this will make a great story. Just not right now.

Henry hands me the cell phone and I hear the breathy sweet voice. "Where are ya'll? We're looking at the river." It's Jeanelle, newly arrived from Richmond. Getting her early river fix. We gather in the hotel lobby and plot the next few days.

Streets are so familiar, even with former favorites long absent from the buildings. Mims' Jewelers remains and Mr. Mims himself, a sprightly ninety, comes to work every day. He still enjoys engraving and the people who populate his small store. We must buy something. Pewter boxes are attractive and perfect as Mother's Day remembrances. Could we get them monogrammed? Today? The answer is yes. We choose specific sizes and shapes, decide to inscribe the given name initial and then leave for a cousins' lunch rendezvous. As we're eating, I notice the salesperson from the jewelry store. She's headed for our table. More options have been found and she wants us to view them. How thoughtful to seek us out but we're content with the original selections.

There's a first cousin who greets nearly everyone with a snarl. Despite the rejection, my generation continues to court him as do his own nieces and nephews. Three determined ladies descend upon this man as he relaxes at a favorite haunt. We gently implore him to join us for a family gathering. He growls, protests, is mildly abrasive. We're undaunted and are just sure that he really wants to attend but his persona won't let him. The next day I find him in the same space, alone. He deserves another chance. I'll do it for his mom, a beloved aunt. Some of the conversation is bordering on pleasant. I remain calm. He's probably fooling with me. When I request a photo of the two of us, he begrudgingly obliges. Later, other cousins are stunned by the shot. It is probably the only one I'll ever get. Honestly, I really didn't tickle him to elicit that shy smile.


Dinner with cousin David includes Italian favorites and family stories. I recount how he generously offered to come home from his last college semester and escort me to my senior prom. I didn't accept but I've never forgotten that gesture.

I'm eating my way through a typical Southern cookbook. The calories don't count when you're in anxiety mode, right? I simply can't resist a catfish poboy, gallons of the very best unsweetened (must ask for it) iced tea, gumbo, jambalaya, sinful fried chicken, carrot souffle, caramel pie, a Pecan Praline Parfait, fried shrimp, hush puppies and many other regional delicacies that I should have skipped.

Caitlin excitedly reports a live armadillo sighting. Her first. Not the usual happenstance for someone who lives in a big city in the northwest. Too bad she didn't have her camera handy. She's just as thrilled by the gourmet breakfast served at 'The Elms,' her temporary residence. The hotcakes are particularly lauded.

I misunderstand the protocol for the reunion and think that each person is responsible for his/her lunch. It seems that actually this meal is considered a potluck. Oops. I bought four sandwiches and kept them in the hotel room frig. In my eagerness to forestall any spoilage, I set the temperature a bit inaccurately. When we open our sandwich containers, we discover that the contents are frozen. Solid. The turkey could hurt somebody. Tines of my fork won't penetrate the chicken salad. No lunch for us. Our belated reward is a post-reunion visit to the Malt Shop for too large shakes and one lime freeze.


With the Natchez stay nearly complete, real life intrudes. Laundry must be done. The hotel has self-serve machines. Carol and Henry go off to the local casino for a brief time, just to get the vibe. I'm fine with this task until I can't get one of the dryers to work. A helpful maintenance man, working the night shift, comes to my aid. He can't fix the machine either.

The solution is to admit us into the hotel commercial laundry. Huge machines, super hot. We'll be done quickly. Well, if we can master the intricate instructions. He stays nearby and declares that we are entertaining. Perhaps it's because we can't find our packet of dryer sheets, extra laundry soap, and stain remover. Where could it be? We scour the area.

Perplexed, we continue the drying process. At one point, Carol is searching the dryer bin and finding parts of the missing packet. Lots of parts, interlaced with the nearly dry laundry. I am talking to her and she blithefully responds, "I can't hear you. I have my head stuck in a dryer." For some reason, this statement sends us over the edge and we laugh so much that both of us develop stomach aches.

With almost instant drying, we're soon folding underwear, socks, shirts and pants. Carol, ever the clever one, says, "We even have fun doing laundry." More laughing. Anthony, the hotel employee, must think we are crazy or drunk or both. When we have everything neatly sorted into our respective piles, there's an extra item. It is an apron which belongs to neither of us. How did we acquire it? We can't solve this mystery and decide to leave it with the front desk. Enough excitement for one evening.

I'm stoked with boundless joy. My dream has been realized. Although I have often thought that the ideal world is one in which all the people whom I love live on my street, I've decided that having so many of my dear family members in one place for a few days is as near to nirvana as I need to get. They were there for me.