A Box of Chocolates

Blue Ridge, GA

November 9, 2020

Thursday, for the first time since March, our younger son set foot in his school. Since spring, as in many counties in most states, all his classes have been held online. In Cobb County, the Fall semester resumed remotely, and has retained that exclusive mode since August.

Slowly, like a mountain under a garden house, resistance has begun to erode. Elementary schools began offering an in-person option a month ago, Junior High a couple weeks ago, and High School a few days ago. With a typical teenage (and normal human) urge for personal interaction, David chose to return. Had he not, I would’ve encouraged him to.

Despite what he described as regimented flows thru the hallways, exaggerated seat separation in the classrooms, and dehumanizing masks on all the faces, David was happy to see friends, sit with his teachers, and to be back in school. We hope it lasts.

David was not the only one this week to make a return trip. Yesterday, he, Rita, and I took a similar journey, and I am pleased we did.

During our childhood, my brother and I spent occasional weekends with our paternal grandparents. By them we were given three uncles and six aunts. One of them – the first child – died as an infant, decades before we were born.

Brett and I knew the rest…some better than others, all to some degree, and several very well. Unfortunately, three additional siblings have since died. As has our father…or, to be more precise, our biological parent.

Our real dad is still very much alive, and doing quite well. He grew up in Buffalo, lives in Tampa, and for thirty-seven years has been married to our mother. Since he came into our lives four decades ago, no man has meant more to me than Jerry Miller.

When we were kids, seeing our natural father often seemed like an obligation and frequently a chore…but rarely a delight. It sometimes felt that way to Brett and me too!

With Jerry, things have never been like that, in either direction. Being with Jerry has always been a pleasure – an immensely beneficial one. For better or bitter, compliment or calumny, I would not be who I am were he not who he is.

But our father was not without redeeming qualities. Among his fine ones was that of being born into a fun family. As boys, we always loved spending time with his brothers and sisters. To the younger ones, we were like kid brothers. Our father has some wonderful siblings, whom we’d not seen in years. Rita, David, and I rectified that on Sunday afternoon, with a brief visit to the North (not south) Georgia mountains.

Our paternal grandfather died when Brett and I were young. I remember him, tho’ not well. But we were close to our grandmother. She was terrific, a woman many described as saintly…if only for trying to feed and silence those ten mouths. My wife met her a couple times, and was at her funeral. “Angelic” was Rita’s word, and it fits.

After bearing ten children, she doubtless viewed her rambunctious brood much as Forrest Gump analogized an unpredictable life.

My Breen aunts and uncles came in assorted sizes and disparate flavors…many potent or eclectic, others elusive and reserved. The mixture was filled with nuts, could occasionally be sweet, and often left an aftertaste. But none of it was bland. It’s a unique collection comprising a singular set, each piece leaving a distinct impression on the most indiscriminate palate.

Yesterday, Rita, David, and I opened the box, and were pleased to find three samples very much to our taste. We met them at a house they’d rented on the edge of a stream, in a mountain vale near Blue Ridge, Georgia. The setting sparkled in the effervescence of resplendent autumn leaves. It was beautiful.

We pulled up with some snacks and a few bottles of wine. Our aunt, Moira, met us at the door, and was soon joined by her husband, David. They had arrived the prior day, having driven from their home in Iowa, bearing an enticing selection of imported wines, to which we added our modest contribution and our considerable interest. Tho’ I’d not seen Moira in twenty years, I immediately recalled how much I liked her…and realized how quickly I’d grown to admire her husband.

Inside were two of Moira’s sisters…my aunts, Kathy and Isabel. As with Moira, we’d not seen them for the better part of two decades. But, with Tampa Bay Buccaneers logos adorning their respective shirts, they retained a comforting resemblance to the many times we’d gathered before.

Kathy had come up from Tampa, where she’s lived most of her life, and all of mine. Isabel cleared the path we’d just taken, having driven from Atlanta, where she’d recently moved. With her was her son, Conor, who had flown in from Portland, and her daughter, Isabel, who drove her mother from their home, within ten miles of ours.

This is the first I’d seen of either of our re-discovered cousins since they were children. Isabel is now in her mid-thirties and Conor his late twenties. Both are a delight and, as with my aunts, I regret I’d not connected with them sooner.

That we were seeing any of these long lost relatives was a bit of a quirk. A couple months ago, while discussing the disturbing trends of this terrible year, I told my sons they should read Orwell’s 1984. I knew I had a copy, and soon retrieved it. When I opened it, the signature on the front page was that of Moira Breen, from whom…years ago…I’d apparently received it.

Like Virgil to Dante, Ariadne to Theseus, or Tiresias to Odysseus, this book was the guide that led me to Moira. 

As was the Internet. Through it (and by a welcome detour past her daughter Anna) I found Moira, who connected me to Isabel, who invited us for this afternoon. The intent of the reunion was to combine an early Thanksgiving with a premature Christmas. And to celebrate each other, and toast our ancestors.

Glasses were also lifted in my mother’s direction. I mentioned that it was her birthday, and each of my aunts offered their best while recollecting how much they liked my mom. One of them even acknowledged a debt of gratitude. 

Isabel recalled an occasion when my mother sat her down, and forced her to grow up. It was a turning point at an impressionable stage in young woman’s life.

For years, apparently, Isabel could not decide how to make her way in the world. My mother, as she would be for so many of us at the crucial moments, was there to guide this wayward soul at a perilous fork.

At some point, she told Isabel, you need to become an adult. You can no longer be wishy-washy. You must get off the fence, and make a decision. This choice will not go away. It will, in fact, become more frequent, more urgent. So you need to pick…make a commitment. And you must do it now. 

Tell me, my mother insisted. You must select a go-to drink. What’ll it be? Scotch…or bourbon?

Under the hot lights of that brutal inquisition, the choice was scotch. But on this day, we stuck to wine, which was the perfect complement to the sumptuous “roast beast” that Isabel had prepared.

As in old times, around my grandmother’s table, it was great. Good conversation, welcome reacquaintance, wine in glasses, food on tables, football on TV, and laughter all around. It was a wonderful afternoon, and a refreshing dose of normalcy in a particularly depressing time. 

As the sun set, we prepared to leave. We exchanged hugs, and all promised to meet again soon. 

David and Moira invited us to Iowa, promising a cellar of wine to anesthetize what they called “the dullness”. They better be careful. They may not yet know that the medicine they prescribe is plenty incentive for me to welcome the disease. 

Kathy asked us to let her know when we are next in Tampa, and we will certainly make a point to do so. With any luck, that will be soon. 

We plan to see Isabel and Isabel before long. Since we are all in Atlanta, and live close by, dinner can be easily arranged. As can wine…or scotch. 

I could not be happier that, after all these years, we once again sampled this familial treat. It was uplifting, refreshing, and fun. And sweet.

Bittersweet.

We learned that for the last few years, Isabel has battled cancer…but with more grace and dignity than I do a common cold. The illness is at a late stage, but her mood was good and her spirits high. As always, she was an unobtrusive center of attention, a bundle of good humor, and a barrel of laughs. To me, she was the Isabel I’d always known and loved. She was a marvelous hostess, made a delectable feast, and welcomed us as if we’d been at her table every Sunday the last twenty years.

We’ve already made dinner plans in Roswell, so we’ll see her and her daughter again soon. This sample of a bygone treat was bittersweet not because of what may happen, but because of what we’ve already missed.

JD