The dimly lit gymnasium/bingo hall of St. Mary’s Catholic School squeaked with shuffled strides and rubber wheels as the members of the Heidelberg/Smolinske family gathered for their annual Christmas reunion.
Great Aunt Mabel had died in August, fifteen years after her husband, nearly to the day (wasn’t that always how it was?), and the rest of the family had quietly assumed the reunions would cease, because if Mabel didn’t make it happen, it didn’t happen.
But, bless her heart, little Abigail had taken up the task with Mabeline resolve.
“Just put the casserole over there, Betty,” Little Abbie, now somewhere past 40, repeated, her smile already wearing thin.
“I tried something new this time, and I’m sure it didn’t turn out. I meant to make my other casserole, the one everyone likes, but I didn’t have time to run to the store yesterday. Oliver had his appointment, you know, and with this weather, I do hate driving.”
At a corner table, Oliver counted ceiling tiles, a personality quirk that had gotten him in trouble even 70 years ago, when he attended this same school.
Thomas and Russell’s voices rose from the other end of the room, each clutching his cane tightly as he listened to the other speak utter nonsense about politics.
“Maybe you could say hi,” Little Abbie said to her daughter, Sarah, who had come mostly because her fiance was working today. “They both like you.”
By half past starting time, everyone had arrived. Cheryl got everyone’s attention with that voice of hers that had made her neighbors aware of every marital spat and motherly rebuke. Little Abbie looked over her extended family. They stared back, some blankly, others peering through too-large frames, others with the frank disinterest of those who had lived long enough to no longer care what others thought.
“Thank you all for coming,” Little Abbie said. “It’s nice that we can all gather together to celebrate this time of year.” Great Aunt Mabel always had a speech ready. Looking at their faces, Little Abbie decided to refrain. “Let’s eat.”
Sarah returned as the line formed. “Crisis averted,” she said. “Only took me explaining, again, what a software analyst does.”
“Well, if your boy would just learn himself to change a spark plug, he’d be fine,” Little Abbie joked.
Bridget, her bouffant shadowing the mashed potatoes, grumbled in her smoke-soaked voice. “Where’s the music? Mabel always had music by this time.”
Soon after, something Lawrence Welkian hummed over the speakers. The tables, too, hummed with conversation as food reacquainted second-cousins and half-relations.
“….when he went back to the doctor, he took that kidney stone with him. It was full of spikes and this big. The doc couldn’t believe it.”
“Patsy in Florida called and told me she can’t keep the birds off her lawn. Tried everything. She’s frustrated and chases them off three or four times a day, she says.”
“…remember how scared Keith was?. He was only 9 and there was that garter snake on the porch. He screamed and Mary Francis came out, saw it, grabbed a hoe, and chopped it in two. She was always like that.”
Little Abbie sat and listened. Her forced smile changed, little by little. “What is it?” Sarah asked.
“There’s just something about this. Tradition and memories. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
Great Uncle Vernon settled down beside Sarah. “Remember me? You’ve grown up much since I saw you last. I think it was at Martha’s funeral last year.”
A gnarled voice rang out from the next table. “It wasn’t my funeral. I’m still here. It was Henrietta’s.”
“No, Henrietta died three years ago,” said another. “I know because my husband died two months before.”
“Then it must have been Donna’s. Was it Donna’s?”
Great Uncle Vernon shook his head. “I don’t remember. But I remember you. She’s a pretty girl, Little Abbie. It’s nice to see a young face around here.”
“She’s getting married next summer!” Martha yelled from the next table.
“Oh. That’s very nice.” He leaned in. “Between you and me, I prefer those to the funerals.”
After Vernon left, Sarah turned to her mother. “Why would they even come?” she muttered. “They don’t even know me.”
“Memories, Sarah. That’s most of what’s left for them. The least you can do is give them one more bright one.”
Roberta waddled up to Little Abbie. “Who made the brownies? Do you know?”
“Sarah here did.”
“Well, Sarah, you better learn to bake better than that if you want to keep a husband. Do you know, by the time I was sixteen….”
Sarah listened patiently, glancing at her mom from time to time, and smiling ever so slightly.
Originally published in the 4County Mall, November 25, 2016.