Staying On The Funny Side – Of Grudges
Staying On The Funny Side – Of Grudges
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Kelly_Swanson]Kelly Swanson
Aunt Edna meant well when she announced somewhere between Amen and Please pass the potatoes, that she was starting a new Thanksgiving tradition, while the rest of us broke out into a unified sweat remembering the last family tradition that had started with a candle and a song, and had ended with a flaming wig, a hairless cat, two empty rolls of duct tape, and a chain of prayer that covered two counties.
Her tradition was beautifully stated, no doubt lifted right out of the body of the chain letter email she received that promised everything short of a monogrammed recliner in heaven if she followed it and forwarded it to seventy-five friends in twenty-four hours. It went something like this: In the midst of your Thanksgiving celebrations take the time to leave one seat open at the table – a seat that each of you will lovingly fill with your most cherished dearly departed relative who has gone on before you and can only attend in spirit. And as you share your thoughts and reflections on the people that each of you have designated for that empty seat, may you find your table filled with memories and blessings and the peace of those who have gone before you. Yeah, I gagged too the first time I heard it. Had the writer known our family, he would have thought twice about sending that email.
We were asked to bring back lost relatives. Not lost as in missing, like Uncle Skeeter who disappeared after buying lottery tickets and all that remains is his picture on the milk cartons in the Gas ‘n Go. Not lost as in those of the unsaved nature (note: always whisper the word unsaved) who are the primary concern of Aunt Jean’s prayer meetings, unless there happens to be something more pressing worth mentioning, like Mildred’s husband running off with that overly-painted up hussy with implants who’d come traveling through town with the carnival – bless her heart. But lost, as in those no longer with us – those who have gone on to claim their winnings in that great lottery in the sky. And so that’s how we found ourselves sitting around a table conjuring up dead folks.
Grandpa Jake was brought back and we remembered riding in the back of his pickup truck. Somebody brought back Old Widow Jenkins and her chocolate chip cookies that could be smelled for weeks. Somebody else brought back Elvis, which sparked a healthy discussion over whether he was really dead or not, and Aunt Bitsy had a moment of silence for whoever invented spandex taking her from a size 18 to a size 6. Had our family been a little smaller, or less inclined to drink, things would probably have continued to move at a relatively harmonious and harmless pace. But our family is not small and those who partook in the hooch outnumbered those who didn’t, and things started to take an ugly turn.
Gertie brought back her husband Clyde to ask him where the remote control had gone off to, as he was the last person seen with it. Buster brought back an old army buddy and cussed him out for never paying him that fifty dollars he owed him from that poker game and my cousin Rainbow brought back her guidance counselor to let him know she was not in fact destined for a life of hanging on a Most Wanted poster, but was a respected lounge singer on the Holiday Inn circuit, thank you very much. Maybelle’s daughter brought back her first-grade teacher to ask her was it true that her oversized bosom hid more than pencils and erasers, but an occasional unruly child and is that what really happened to her Betsy-Wetsy?
Vyrnetta brought back Billie P. Jenkins who dumped her in the tenth grade in exchange for a freckled red-head from Des Moines who couldn’t even twirl a baton for heaven sakes and Vyrnetta just wanted to let Billie know that she was so over him. Wynona brought back her dear beloved poodle, Phoebe, who apparently didn’t appreciate having been stuffed and placed by the Christmas tree every year, according to Buster who claimed to have psychic canine powers. Ernestine brought back whoever wrote that song Feelings, and said they should be shot for that one – if they weren’t shot already – that it was the worst song she’d ever heard and every time she walked out of an elevator it took her three days to get that blasted tune out of her head, and, darn it, now it was back in her head again. Loretta was muttering to the empty chair about the casserole dish that was never returned, and somebody asked Old Hank why he wasn’t bringing back his beloved wife Cheryl, to which he replied that he finally got himself some peace and quiet, why in the world would he want to bring that woman back? Star’s boyfriend Hershel said he wanted to bring back Moses, which might have been admirable, but Hershel was about as pious as a sewer rat and was only trying to impress us, which set off Aunt Edna who claimed that he’d turned our tradition into a blasphemy asking to bring back Moses and that not a one of us had set aside a seat for Jesus and we were all going to hell.
I’m not sure who threw the first biscuit or at what point the serving spoon became a weapon to launch Vyrnetta’s hash casserole across the room where it landed with a thud on the oil painting of some distant great aunt whose scowl grew even larger when she tasted it. Or exactly when Edsel lost his dentures and Bitsy fell rear end into the punch bowl and Uncle Buford lost his hearing aid in the congealed salad and swore he could hear the fruit cocktail screaming in their gelatin coffins. At some point Aunt Edna’s well-meaning new tradition had turned into a food fight of divine proportions that ended only when we had run out of food and dead people to bring back. What had started as a simple gesture ended with a whole new set of grudges, a chain of prayer that covered three counties, and an empty seat that sat under a harsh threat of physical violence from Aunt Edna herself should anyone even think about bringing some poor soul back to be around this crazy family, implying that the long lost relatives were in fact the lucky ones. She’s probably right. Maybe next time she’ll think twice about sharing those emails.
Kelly Swanson
It’s all fun and games ’til the hair gets messed up http://www.kellyswanson.net
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