In the Valley of the Cumberland, winter comes in fronts of ice, driving Christians and Pagans alike inside where bubble lights and teapots defend against the chill. In Grandma Bec’s house, the food smells mixed with tobacco smoke before the days when second hand referred to something other than furniture. Nighttime comes early there, and I spent many evenings waiting for the grown-ups to FINISH TALKING so we could get in the car and listen to WZEZ on the way home. The ride would end with my being carried into the house and put to bed, whether I was truly asleep or not.
It’s these nights that I remember when I think about family gatherings that I would like to re-live. We used to spend a significant portion of time looking for the tape recorder Grandma Beck had hidden so that we could turn it off. I would trade every entry I have in Tuesday’s iPod drawing to hear just one of those tapes today. At the time, I had no idea what all the talking was about.
These days, there is a lot of stored up talking I have to do with some people. Not on any subject in particular, but on any subject that Ace, Elvis, my Sweet Lady, or a number of other folks would like to jabber on about. The point being that, despite all the ways that now exist to communicate, it seems we never talk enough. I’m saying face-to-face, dinner’s still going on, Papa how many stories are you going to make us sit through kind of talk. There is always a chore to be done, road driven, or post to be, um, posted.
Except this afternoon when the McCain’s neighbors (including Grandma Bec’s niece) made a surprise visit to the great temple. I had already decided that my internal whinalogue about a necessarily scaled back Thanksgiving had exhausted its utility. It was my resolve to enjoy the time given to our little wigwam of farang rather than bemoan not being with more of the clan. I had succeeded well enough to have Tallulah in a giggle-fest by the end of pancakes this morning. At my Sweet Lady’s suggestion, the McNeighbors joined us for a lunch which passed without one of us looking at his or her watch and with plenty more to talk about before it had ended. It likely would have continued had Tallulah not protested that we had talked long enough. If only Grandma Bec had her tape recorder going.