At the very beginning of our 5 weeks vacationing out of our present home state of Texas, we had a family reunion.  I am sure my family reunion is just like everyone else family reunion:

• There was the cousin recovering from cancer.  (He had no hair, but his smile was still familiar.)
• There was the token cousin from each family of cousins who graduated from college.  (Some families maybe have a higher concentration here.  In our family, the farmers and assorted other blue collar workers outnumber the graduates.  And, if you throw in Bachelor+ degrees, the numbers dwindle even more.)
• There was the beloved family who lost an adult son a few years ago.  You know they hurt even still.  There smiles, however, don’t give them away.
• The kids of cousins (are those second cousins?) who are way taller than they were when I saw them 5 years ago.
• The young cousin/2nd-cousin with a health condition.  His health condition gives us a more accepting attitude of his behavior.
• A large sheet cake is brought out in celebration of a birthday, anniversary, or some other milestone of significance.
• The mix of German and other ethnic food for the potluck.  Many of the dishes brought currently are usually much better for you, much more colorful, and capable of generating extending conversations about how it was made or what potluck it was taken to last OR how it resembles something that used to be a potluck staple.
• The cousin who runs his mouth without thinking hoping he doesn’t completely inhale his foot and develop a full gag reflex. (Me.)

After doing a little “visiting” with old friends at the church I grew up in, my family arrived late at the converted parsonage where the reunion was taking place.  (It used to be for the pastor and family to live, but now it is just a place with LOTS of first floor rooms and a kitchen.  It must be rent-able pretty inexpensively.)  One of the first people I encountered was a cousin a couple of years older than me.  We reminisced briefly.  Did a little update, and got in line for “firsts” before the earlier diners got seconds.

I continued to wander from groups to individuals for the rest of the afternoon – attempting to avoid the least favorite (or attempting to have an excuse built in before the conversation started to virtually guarantee its brevity.) and orchestrating the conversations with others so I could enjoy their wit or possibly their sage-wisdom for the last time.  I visited my father’s grave at the church cemetery and refrained from planking on his tombstone.

As the pictures (my branch of the family one for most in attendance) wound down and the farmers needed to get back for “milking”, the cars cleared from the parking lot.  As I went into the house to gather our cooler and potluck item (Since we flew in, I think our dish may have been more like a “bag or two”.), I bumped into the cousin I chatted with earlier.  This conversation went something like this….

Me:  Everybody is leaving and we really didn’t get to talk that much.

Cousin:  We did get to talk when you first came in.

Me:  You talk so slow, we really didn’t get to say much.

Cousins wife:  (Gives me dirty look.)

My wife:  (Says some random thing to change the subject)

Me: Well, some things never change.  My mouth is still trying to lead my brain.

Although there was nearly five weeks of traveling that followed this reunion, the next couple of days I was feeling the guilt.  This cousin is so laid back, while I am the type of person who often finishes sentences for people and talks over them.  I am barely house trained let alone capable of navigating the many pitfalls that occur every time I open my mouth.  When the apple fell from the tree, I must have been crawling underneath it while a whole bushel fell on top of me.

So, if you were the cousin in this conversation (or one of the other cousins or friends or coworkers or people I entered into a discussion with while at an amusement park or while checking out at a grocery store), please accept my sincere apology.

(Guest blogger – written by our new neighbor that just moved in a little over a month ago.)

It is great to have our own place again after living in an apartment waiting for the right house to come along.  After we found the right house, the 4 months to get the financing lined up was a little excessive.  Despite that, we are in the house now and it is great!

My mother finally has the room she needs.  There is a covered back patio and a covered area to the left of the front door.  It is a perfect area for her to smoke.  Since they are covered, I don’t feel as badly making her smoke outside.  I realize we have one neighbor to our north who may have smoke blow into their yard and patio.  With the fence between us, at most it is 5th or 6th hand smoke.  And, they haven’t complained, so it must not be bothering them.

It is also great to have the pool out back.  It has not been warm enough to use the hot tub.  This is unfortunate.  We still like to be outside whenever we can.  The neighbor to the north is pretty quiet, so we consider it our responsibility to bring a little life to this end of the street.  Since I work out of the house and my mother is there with me, we enjoy being in the back yard and talking loudly and freely.  We can talk about guns in our purses and the impact of age on our bodies as if we are in a confessional–no one but those on our side of the fence to worry about.

My mom’s dog is a little deaf, but his nose still works fine. The walking path that runs behind the house keeps his sniffer working pretty hard–as long as it is not raining.  As he has gotten older, he seems to like other dogs even less.  He barks at nearly every dog and owner walking along the path.  Usually, my dog joins in and gets every dog within a 100 yards excited as well.  The neighbors to the north are usually so quiet.  I don’t even think they are around to hear all of the noise we have added to this corner of the subdivision.

Overall, the new place is working out.  It was worth the wait.  I am afraid to ask the next door neighbor if we are louder than the previous owner of the house.  They wave nicely and seem to be fine.  But, if I ask the  question, I don’t know them well enough to know how honest they might be.  We do like to talk, and we prefer loudly.  So, I will probably just continue with the wave and pleasant “Hellos”.  Anything more than that, and I might get more than I bargained for.  At least I don’t have a neighbor on the other side.  I am only at risk of raising the decibel level for one immediate neighbor.  I bought the house, so a family has to live!

Since it was a nice Sunday afternoon, my daughter was seeking out someone to play catch with.  As the most experienced and energetic (not much enthusiasm for throwing a ball at our house) candidate, it did not take the long for me to equate “catch” time as father/daughter time.  She gathered my softball glove, got me a glass of water, and ushered me out the door.

As we started loosening up, I remembered why my control wasn’t what it used to be.  When we still lived in Ohio, our long driveway was covered by WAY to much snow.  Our very nice neighbor offered his snow blower.  While I often refused, I chose to listen to my wife’s nudges and children’s loathing of forced labor in a Siberian climate.  As I went into the neighbor’s garage to start the snow blower, I will admit to having a bit more energy than before he made his offer.  I was relieved to realize my fingers and toes would not have to go numb an excessive number of times before the driveway was cleared for safe passage.  The snow blower had a starter rope just like a lawn mover.  So, I jumped in and pulled a few times.  I thought maybe I had flooded it or in someway damaged this savior of the numb fingers.  With a bit of adrenalin, I gave one last good pull.  The blower did not start, but I felt an odd pull/pain in my right arm/wrist.  Not wanting to make my neighbor in any way feel bad, I played off the pain.  He took a look at the blower and quickly realized the gas line had been turned off.  My gentlest tug could have now started it.  My wrist was not up to shoveling, so it was good I had the use of the motorized snow launcher!

Since that day, whenever I try and throw a softball or baseball to hard, I seem to release at the wrong point.  The ball goes off in some less than controlled direction.  So, I am mostly a lobber now with limited control.  Fortunately, my daughter was completely happy with this.  I did change my throwing a bit to try and give her a chance to catch something besides lobs or parabolic throws.  With her being left handed, I worked to spot my throw to try and strengthen her ability in her weak spots.  Whenever a throw went the wrong direction, my first line of defense was, “You have to be ready for those.” rather than, “Sorry, your old man is not the throwing phenomenon he used to be.”  She was understanding…even if she did have to visit the ditch/creek more than she would have liked.  (Throwing a wet ball is good practice!)

Although she does have pretty good control, I did have to field a few grounders.  These grounders were mostly happy little balls that found my glove with barely an invitation.  Not all of the balls were happy.  A couple balls, one specifically, were very vindictive.  It refused my gloves embrace and launched itself at my exposed shin. Not wanting to make my daughter feel bad, I uttered a brave, “It’s okay.” and we played on.

It was early the next day when I felt the aching right arm.  Amazingly, my mind tried to go through a list of other possible deliverers of pain before remembering the neon green ball from the previous day.  Likely, since it had been close to a year since I had thrown a ball and I was throwing it differently to compensate for my snow blower injury, my pain was only reminiscent of the usual pain.  When the pain left in a couple of days, the source was confirmed.

The shin injury has been a different matter.  It seemed to take a little longer for the pain to more fully ripen.  What started as a dull ache is now 6 inches of very sensitive leg starting below my knee.  I have researched shin splints and entertained ideas of impending amputations.  (I am reading a book with an amputee in it right now.)  Despite my pessimistic optimism, the winner seems to be a bone bruise-the most painful shin bruise in recent memory, but just a bruise.

However, with my history of a couple of blood clots, my ultra-pessimism, “I don’t want my kids to be orphans” thinking kicked in.  After a week of the non-diminishing leg pain, my wife hauled me to one of the “quickie” emergency room places.  (It was my insistence that got us there.  She was laughing and teasing me up until the point where the doctor mentioned how swollen and how much it probably hurt.)  The doctor checked all of my pulses to remove any clotting concerns. While I was relieved, my wife took the opportunity to get a couple more paranoid jabs in.  We were home in about an hour.  We paid no bill while there.  The cost for my peace of mind would be coming in the mail….

So, as I walk, stand or get dressed, I just smile.  I assume the pain is temporary. (It was….this was nearly a month ago.)  What is not temporary is the quality time I had with my daughter!  To see her non-complaining run after one of my bad throws (well, she may have missed a couple of good throws) or to hear, “I am sorry.” after one of her bad throws, are times to cherish.  I don’t remember really talking about anything.  And, it is those moments with your daughters that mean everything.