Tuesday Scribblings*

The September 19th* edition of thoughts & commentary on seemingly random things

Back story: a couple weeks ago, I started Tuesday Scribblings: thoughts & commentary on the personal, regional, and global events and stories that are rattling around in my brain. Paid subscribers get access to more personal stories at the end of the post.

I started writing this week’s post at nearly midnight on Tuesday. Wednesday’s travel schedule and today’s re-entry into daily living left writing at the bottom of my list.

The past week has been full of fellowship, revelations, vulnerability, laughter, and love. On Saturday, as I sat around a table with extended family, sharing stories and eating fried walleye and sweet potato fries, I found myself thinking, “this is my family” and a feeling of peace washed over me—the peace that comes with knowing I’m accepted and loved just as I am.

When I was a child, spending time with Momcat’s family often made me feel anxious. My maternal grandfather was a gruff, introverted man who could be kind and compassionate but also big on teasing and haranguing family members—if he liked you, he gave you a hard time, the story goes. I didn’t know my maternal grandmother, as she died from breast cancer in 1955, when Momcat was a month shy of 13 years old. My grandfather’s second wife was kind, but in a teacher type of way; she was strict and authoritative, and not one for cozy cuddles.

In hindsight, I think I picked up on all the tension between the adults: parents and children, stepmother and stepchildren, husbands and wives. As previous generations passed away, old arguments were forgotten, sins were forgiven, or a bit of both. In a family where tragic events and major illnesses affected multiple generations, we’ve repeatedly learned the importance of coming together to provide support and comfort.

Fresh walleye fried in a beer batter, along with sweet potato fries and onion rings, all made by my cousin.

This is the third year I’ve visited Aunt Leigh* and Uncle Jack*, and their home has become so familiar to me. I know where to find the hair dryer Leigh offers to house guests who need one; how to put the hand towels on the loose rod in the bathroom so that it doesn’t clatter to the floor; where Jack writes the WiFi password for visitors. The neighborhood is semi-rural and quiet, except for the occasional shotgun blasts to deal with woodchucks. A horse stable is located across the county road, its residents grazing at their leisure. The gardens around the house are awash in vibrant reds, pinks, and purples, and the tomato plants offer up plenty of tiny ripe sweetness.

Occasionally I wonder what it would be like to move closer to my family. Does absence make the heart grow fonder? Or do I feel more attached because when I’m here, I am closer to the town where Momcat grew up and where she is buried?

I am still figuring that out.