By Minx McCloud Special Writer
I didn’t tell you about Easter Sunday with my family. That’s because I am still recovering.
I love my family, but it was horrible. It actually drove me to drink several glasses of homemade dandelion wine, so you KNOW I was desperate to disconnect from reality.
Easter Sunday is supposed to be about the joy of the Resurrection, and if you are not Christian, I am not going to try to convert you. I respect your beliefs. However, I want to make it clear that we were supposed to be celebrating a joyous Christian holiday.
I may have mentioned that my father is completely daft. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. He’s my dad. I love him. But he’s balmier than a day in Hawaii. Remember the character of Sophia on “Golden Girls”? She had suffered a stroke and said whatever tactless thing came to mind. That’s my dad, minus the stroke.
We always gather at Betty and Marie’s house for holidays, which are filled with bustling good cheer and lots of delicious food that Marie has slaved over for days. Betty is Dad’s cousin, the matriarch of the family. She is about 98 now and spends her days in her reclining chair or her wheelchair, pretty much dead to the world. Marie, her daughter and caregiver, says she rarely speaks anymore or even knows who Marie is. Still, we dutifully greet her and kiss her hello when we arrive.
Dad, who arrives after us, drapes his jacket over her, as if she is a human coat rack. “Dad,” I protest. “What are you doing?”
”She may be cold,” he blusters. “Your mother was always cold when she was like this.”
OK.
”What smells?” he asks Marie back in the kitchen. I roll my eyes. “Did you bring the raisin sauce?” he demands to know, turning to me. Back to Marie, “I told Minx to bring raisin sauce so the ham wouldn’t taste dried out.” Doh!
Marie, however, grew up with my dad and is used to his tactlessness, which is, in part, caused by a brain injury he suffered in a sledding accident in 1930, when brain surgery was fraught with peril. (I still have the original hospital bill for “treatment for a fractured skull, surgery, 10 days in hospital, $130.)
Marie just smiles and says, “Don’t worry, Jimmy, I’ll try not to overcook the ham, just for you. Besides, we all love Minx’s raisin sauce.” Wonderful lady, bless her. (We’ve only been there 15 minutes and I want to throttle Dad.)
He has always loved little children, so he has presents for the two youngest cousins, ages 2 and 5. “Did you bring something for Tiana?” I hiss at him. She is 12, a wallflower who is very shy.
”Oh hell,” my father says, a bit too loudly. “I forgot about her.” Luckily, Tiana is in another room and is spared the bullet. She is used to the little ones being favored, and I inwardly groan at my father’s faux pas, even though she may not even notice it.
During the course of dinner, I am treated to more of my father’s nonsensical banter.
Betty married an Italian, and the kids are of Italian descent. Betty’s husband’s old friend Peter, and his wife Maria, share all the holidays with us. I hear my father’s voice booming, “Well, you understand, Peter .. . after all, you’re an Italian.”
Except he doesn’t use the word “Italian” he uses what I prefer to call “the W word,” because this is a family newspaper.
Peter does not take offense as I do; Peter is an old-world gentleman who likes and respects my father, and I have no idea why, since my father is always bugging him about being Italian. “What do they call this in Italian, Peter?” “What do they call that?” “Do you eat a lot of pizza?” And on and on, ad finitum.
My father classifies everyone by nationality, from the “Bohunks” (he himself is Hungarian) to the “Limeys,” and everything in between. He is not trying to be mean; it’s just his ignorant way. I think that his family and friends understand that, and it’s the reason he hasn’t ever been punched out by anyone.
So, we’re sitting there eating and I ask Raymond to please pass the wine. By now, I need it, because stupid statements are fairly pouring out of Dad, even though he has not had a drop to drink.
The dandelion wine is terrible, but blessedly strong. Raymond makes it himself and believe me, it runs a close second to the moonshine in Granny’s still, or the stuff in prison that they call “Red Dog,” a murderous concoction made from catsup and yeast left to ferment. (I have no idea where I picked up that juicy bit of trivia .. . “Jeopardy,” perhaps? My three years in a college sorority?)
Anyway, the next thing I hear is Dad saying to Raymond, “Yeah, you have to keep the firewater away from the Indians or they go on the warpath.”
I blink in disbelief. When did we go from the Resurrection of Christ to a John Wayne movie? I try to protest, but my tongue seems to be numb. I can only listen helplessly as Dad goes on to explain that when he was living in Tacoma, Wash., he had to buy a permit to buy liquor and it was rationed.
When he asked the liquor store owner for an explanation, the guy explained that they had to keep control of the liquor so the local Indian tribes didn’t get too much of it. However, I suspect that they were actually trying to keep the guys from the local Army base from “going on the warpath,” not the Indians.
So there I was, not really reacting anymore; not really giving a toot what he said. And when dessert came and I began to enter sugar shock, I was downright mellow. Naturally, Jim had to drive me back to Dad’s house, where I promptly fell asleep listening Dad extol the virtues of ham with raisin sauce. And slicing meat against the grain, and picking out mangoes, and other food related nonsense.
It was quite traumatic, but as usual, laughter is the best medicine.
I only wish the cure for a dandelion wine-induced hangover was as easy.
Minx McCloud is a freelance writer who writes about life in New Jersey. She can be reached at [email protected]
