I
enjoyed myself there, it’s true, but my cranial nerves don’t have the stamina
for this kind of festivity. I tried to
make small talk, but I don’t do well when four people are talking into each
other’s faces all at once and changing topics by the second.
Trying
to bend the subject away from why Aunt Domenica’s biscotti was too soft,
I remarked I had noticed something in the chorus line of 5-year-old boys
strumming toy guitars back at the
graduation. Three out of 11 were left
handed, but I wasn’t able to
correlate that fact with how their hair was parted because they all had brushcuts. Well, that brought a momentary halt to the biscotti conversation,
I can tell you.
Taking
a seat out on the deck, I looked around feeling a bit like Temple Grandin in the book , “An Anthropologist on
Mars.” My son, who likes to play the
anthropologist sometimes, also appeared uncomfortable. I explained to him Italian family life, even
at rest, is sort of like a party where someone has put
speed in the punch. I knew, because I
had grown up in an Italian neighborhood.
He gave me the now-familiar look that
says, “Why do you still feel the need to explain things to me when I’m
forty years old?” Well, because I’m
Irish, I guess. I suspect he believes there is Nytol in our family’s punch.
My
son-in-law…..who turned out to be more
than a father-in-law could ask for….is
neither noisy nor loud. And he is the
best papa I’ve ever met. Far better than
I was, I think. Watching him calmly grill the hot dogs while
keeping an eye on his little girls, I drifted off into a peaceful state until
Aunt Domenica came over to me and asked why I didn’t like her biscotti. Not enough red sauce, I said. That ended that conversation, I can tell you.
David Griffin copyright 2007
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