The Iceberg Effect

Sometime after midnight in Gillette, Wyoming at the active Mandarich house -- home to the most generous of host couples -- after the hubbub had died down, and the Burnese Mountain pup of ten months and 100 pounds had commandeered the lion's share of attention from Cousin Jody, and a part-time sullen teenage boy was hilariously manipulated into thinking he was fed from the maternal fountain of nourishment until age 6 (you had to be there), I attempted to lull myself into sleep.  No mean feat at times.

With the ear-mounted reading light gifted to me by my husband one Christmas in the forever search for the perfect nightime accompaniament to a good book, each page of "Cooked" -- a story about an ex-con drug dealer who found his callling as a Las Vegas chef upon release . . . research for my non-fiction work-in- progress -- revealed itself to my tired eyes.  Said Burnese Mountain pup paced restlessly from the top floor to the front door landing, unable to situate himself properly into repose, until he finally decided upon THE spot.  I heard him drop.  Soon, sounds begin to emanate from his barrel of a chest, akin to the gentle exhalations of the blanket-covered figure next to me on the foldout couch bed with the trick leg.

Compared to the already sultry nights and days of Middle Tennessee in these late days of Spring, the temperatures here in the mountains are much cooler.  Duh.  I knew that coming in but still arrived not as prepared as was prudent.  Never has a borrowed oversized Denver Broncos hooded sweatshirt been a more welcome wardrobe component. It would fit just so in the lightly packed top corner of my otherwise densely filled suitcase . . . oh, Da-a-ve?!

My belly is comfortably swollen with Aunt Virginia's homemade spicy tamales, hand-rolled tortillas laden with locally canned peach preserves, hot-from-the-oven chicken enchiladas smothered in red chili (using yesterday's leftover home-fried chicken served at the graduation party), a cup of coffee lightly laced with Bailey's Irish Creme, a coupla few glasses of sparkling Brut rose wine, a small piece of cherry cheesecake split with Jimmy, AND a micro-mini S'mores treat with a few extra toasted marshmallows.  Yes, I did say comfortably.  Which would cause one to wonder what, pray tell, did I consume the previous day to cause my belly to feel UNCOMFORTABLY swollen?  Try to put that out of your mind.  I have.

Two days and three night have passed by with startling speed as do all good things.  Day by day, pieces of the family iceberg break off and float away.  As with all good-byes, which I acknowledge only as "See you laters!" it's imperative to witness the people-packed vehicle drive off into the horizon.  These gatherings are fewer and far between as the years separating the 'good old days' and the 'present daze' seemingly multiply like oversized rabbits.  My hide has toughened so that any outbursts or verbally-realized but mentally-undersized opinions generally roll off the psyche and collect as humorous memories at my feet. 

We are all quirky with individuality.  For some, that means a few drinks will lead to rear-slapping, sloppy kisses, and fascinating in-depth armchair debates over the new Broncos line-up.  For others, its intense conversations in hushed tones about problems close to home and those playing out in the lives of others.  If you're a kid, you are either of the age to finagle toys from Wal-Mart's vast selection via Aunt Olivia and Jimmy, or you travel in small packs along the edges of the festivities, observing the elders and promising you'll never be anything like them though you'd love to see Cousin Jody down another bottle of vino tonight!  Meal preparation is a favorite topic of discussion, arguement, and activity, usually starting within 15 minutes of the last meal.  (Have I mentioned my stomach?)   Though the concern seems to be that someone will go hungry and there will not be enough food for all, I've never ever EVER-R-R witnessed a single relative languish in hunger, and leftovers are continually being reconfigured, packaged and sent with the ice floe families, or consumed in frenzied post-midnight feedings by the hangers-on.

Very soon, I will nod off.  Morning will come earlier than normal as I awaken before 5AM to the sounds of our host ensuring that yet another family is up and ready to splinter off.  He'll receive an affectionate high five as he heads out the door for his return to the grind after this long Memorial Day weekend.  The sounds of a mom, dad, son, and drowsy daughter prepping for the road will seep into my semi-conscious state.  Bittersweet.  Of course, I'll spring from bed for another round of hugs, the camera will emerge much to the chagrin of the teenager,  the stairs will almost trip me up as I race to grab a last-minute cup of coffee for my cousin, and the waving shall commence as I track their rental SUV until it disappers around the corner.  

A perfect time to break out the Dell as sleep will not revisit my morning.  Breakfast can't be far behind.  Did I mention that some of us are fabulous cooks?