family
Sirens raging, horns blowing and the sound of cars and trucks racing by welcome the second morning in South Florida. Just across the street lies the touted tranquil shore that has yet to be visited. The weather is stellar this day with a refreshing tropical breeze blowing from the eastern realm. Calm now from the onslaught of the earlier frenzy of emergency vehicles and the attendant annoyance occupies now a place of thankfulness. Memories of time spent together with family last evening and the promise of more to come fill the cauldron of gratitude this day. Anticipation of time with my son and his family today adds more flavor to the feast of gratitude being consumed. Somewhat limiting physical symptoms seem to fall from their place of significance as appreciation for time with loved ones supersedes. Gratitude is the spice that gives life’s bountiful stew its flavor!
Gently crackling in the heat of the olive oil the freshly chopped onions and celery took on their respective translucent and pale green color. The diced leftovers from the previous week along with beef and chicken stock renderings were waiting to be added. A few special spices and additives had taken their place early in the preparation. Now the “Baffi soup” would soon be ready for consumption. With the smell and taste came fond memories, both distant and near. Distant were the days as the kids were growing up when we enjoyed our almost weekly weekend soup medley during a warm family dinner. Near were the memories of the past week when each meal was lovingly constructed as an artist applying his color to the once blank canvass. Absent in all those memories were the moments of challenge with stiffness or tremor. This mirror of the week and years gone by reflects more delight than dismay. Though challenged more than once, the victory over them is the blanket of memories of which they are only a minor part. I am grateful for the opportunity to construct the “Baffi soup” of life and savor its new flavor from things past.
As I climbed the rickety stairs to the quaint old banquet room I was full of anticipation. A reunion of family members from my paternal grandmother’s family was about to begin. A plethora of strange faces confirmed the distance in time and genetics that had invaded over the years. The accuracy of my destination was soon confirmed by a few familiar faces, even some seen just the past week. As conversations engaged about family connections from one person to another, I caught a strangely familiar face out of the corner of my eye as the woman glanced my way. She was chatting with another familiar cousin who had engineered the reunion unfolding. I made my way over to see who she was and discovered a distant cousin I had not seen in fifty years. Her father had given me my first pony and my first bicycle. I still possess the latter, tucked away in the storage shed adjacent to the farm house. The pony is long gone, but the fond memories of my uncle flooded the present as we talked about my family and hers. She is my father’s first cousin and although older than I, seemed very much a part of my childhood generation. She remembered me as the pesky little kid always hanging around. As I sat beside another cousin visiting from Japan and across the table from my renewed acquaintance, I marveled at the wonder of new connections with old memories brought into today’s domain. I looked at their faces and other familiar ones around and was flooded with a plethora of emotions. Pleasant memories surfaced as I realized that even though I may never see these precious people again (by virtue of sheer distance and time), I was filled with gratefulness for the moment at hand. On the leisurely drive home, a storehouse of those memories that were shelved behind busy schedules and seemingly urgent agendas began to be unpacked. On that day I discovered another thread in the tapestry that I am experiencing as life and am so thankful to the Master Weaver.