I was in town a few weeks back for a family reunion.
The Benton clan settled in the woods midway between Saint James, Cuba, and Salem. Old towns that don’t exist anymore, like Westco, Sligo, and Cook Station, were a hub of activity for us and families like us. Benton Creek is named after my ancestors, so if you know where they are (Benton Creek or “Little” Benton Creek), you are adjacent to the farms where the first Bentons settled.
During the 20th Century most of the Bentons migrated to one of the neighboring towns. My aunts and uncles and cousins all live in Rolla, Saint James, Steelville, Cuba, and the rural reaches in between. Some have spread out a bit further to places like Springfield or Pacific. The more adventurous among us have scattered all over. One lives in Nashville and travels with musicians, running their sound boards and lighting systems. And I live in Katy, Texas along with another cousin — although in our sprawling suburb she is just as far away as my Pacific cousins are from their Cuba counterparts.
It is always good to be at our family reunion. I haven’t made it back in several years. We met at Meramec Springs this year. A distant cousin used to basically run the park. He doesn’t work there anymore. And he’s not the only person missing. The older generation — my grandpa and grandma, my great uncle and great aunt — have all passed on. The next generation — my dad, his cousins, his siblings — have started passing away, too. Only he and two of his siblings remain. He is the youngest. So it felt a little different. Uncle Carl wasn’t there to slap used chewing tobacco on my wasp sting like he did when I was a boy. My mom’s dump cake wasn’t there, although a cousin brought some that — sorry, mom — was just as delicious. My sister made pasta salad instead of my Aunt Nancy, an acceptable substitution.
The elder statesman in the group was my Uncle Rhuel. He’s exactly forty years older than me, to the day. That makes him 79. His daughter was there. She used to pin me down on the ground at the family reunion and let spit trickle from her mouth until I thought it would drop in my eye. At the last second she’d slurp it all back in. She’d also bend my fingers backward until I squealed in pain.
She’s in her mid 40s now and I’m pushing my life’s midway point. We were much more civilized this go around. It wasn’t as fun for her, but it was less traumatic for me.
My family is a cross section of American life. There was camouflage and drawl, cigarettes hanging off lips and kids dirty from play. There were simple farmers and moms and dads and there was more than one master’s degree present. There were Trump voters and never-Trumpers. There was fussing and quarreling, mostly for sport.
There were also a lot of hugs and plenty of catching up and lots of genuine concern. A dog played fetch with whoever would throw the stick, tirelessly. Groups splintered off and walked around the park, feeding the fish and taking in the perfect early fall weather.
The fried chicken was mostly store bought, which would’ve been jeered two decades ago, but has been gradually accepted. I hauled in a 50-piece from Lee’s in Rolla, but there were many other collections. It was about got eaten, along with bratwursts and burgers and pork steak. Beans and cornbread were the talk of nearly every picnic table. And there was plenty of coffee to drink after dinner while my uncles talked about cars and my cousins talked about my aunts and uncles.
Family is a funny thing. We take them for granted, until one day there’s no one there to ask “What’s your rush?” You’re trying to leave and you’ve been there for hours, but they still ask it just the same. The gray whiskers of our grandfathers have mysteriously appeared on our dad’s faces — and someday they’ll show up on mine, too. In the midst of mourning what we’ve lost, the best we can do is pass it all down.
The stories.
The love.
The presence.
And, of course, don’t forget to pass the fried chicken.
