Family Reunion

One of my most fundamental memories of growing up was weekends at my grandpa’s. We’d rush into the car after school on Friday and hit the road to get over the pass before dark. My grandpa would always be sitting on his front porch and as soon as we pulled up, he’d be half way down the sidewalk to give his hugs and then he’d rush into the apartment to call my uncles and aunt to let them know that we had arrived and then his hat was on and he was bustling to the store. My brother and I happy to be out of the car, jogged along with him. He’d insist on buying us candy and stuff dollar bills in each of our hands despite our protests. It was our childhood dance with our grandpa.

When we got back to the apartment relatives would already be arriving. By the time supper was on the table, the tiny living room/dining room would be wall to wall people, laughing, telling stories in a mix of English and Spanish, gobbling up my Grandpa’s thickly cut fried potatoes. Even though those occasions were mini-family reunions, the real reunions were even bigger, with all my father’s siblings and their families converging in the mountains of the San Luis Valley for a weekend of swimming, baseball, food, campfire, laughter and memories. The summer reunions always ended with photos. Each family would gather in a spot, then there would be picture of us all together.

When my Grandpa died, I was fifteen. I remember my mom saying, “It’s not going to be the same anymore.” I ddn’t understand that at all. I couldn’t understand why we would quit going to Antonito; I still had aunts and uncles there and many cousins. I wasn’t ready for my weekend visits to end. It turned out that my mom was only kind of right. We didn’t visit the Valley as often, but the reunions didn’t end. They just stopped being in the mountains. We had a couple at the family land in San Luis; we had one at Mineral Palace Park in Pueblo; we had one in Alamosa at a cousin’s house. At some point, my Aunt Marvene stepped up and we began a tradition of gathering in her backyard in Colorado Springs. She wasn’t the oldest sibling, but she became the matriarch and even though the backyard wasn’t the mountains, it was still a great time of gathering together with food and laughter. My favorite part was seeing the little ones of the next generation running around making friends with their cousins they hadn’t met yet. It always made me remember when I was one of the little kids darting among the adults playing some crazy game one of my cousins thought up.

One of the last Colorado Springs reunions was in 2015. My parents had just been killed and I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to go. I will never forget walking into the backyard and seeing my dad’s two brothers sitting side by side. The ghost of my father’s image was there for a minute, stopping me in my footsteps. I remember catching my breath and then my uncles were there again, not Dad, just Joe and Bobby, the two other men that I have always loved like extra dads. My family surrounded me at that time, giving me the strength to get through the loss.

Many more losses have come to our family in the last decade. After the loss of my aunt, the reunions faded away. I had wanted to host, but something always got in the way, finally I decided it was now or never and with the help of my cousins, I said, “Let’s do this.

I didn’t really know what I was signing up for. I have spent the last month being a world traveler and the house and yard were very much neglected. Looking over the weeds, the dust, and the broken back door, I had a week to get everything in order. I started regretting my decision to host. The RSVP’s kept rolling in and as always my hometown tribe showed up for me. Friends brought over coolers and tables and tents. My school teammate and her husband came out in the hot sun to plant flowers and shape up the yard. My brother and his wife arrived from the Philippines to arrange the tents and help with last minute details before the big day. I thought about staying up all night and painting the downstairs bathroom, but I realized I was overthinking as usual. No one would care about the bathroom being blue or white or pink zebra striped. It was my family.

Four generations of Taylors showed up to my little backyard. We had an abundance of food, laughter, and reconnections. I was so surprised at all the millennials that showed up. Their kids were the ones racing through the adults playing with cousins they hadn’t met before. At one point, I went out to the front porch and the two youngest of the Taylor descendants were on the porch swing. Lucas, 4 was riding the swing arm like a horse. Olivia, 2, was sitting so pretty with her big eyes struggling to stay awake through the gentle sway. I realized I was witnessing a first meeting of another generation of cousins. I don’t know if they are old enough to remember the memory, but maybe a small seed of the event will remain with them. Because those times of coming together with my family in the mountains as a child built my foundation. I might not see my cousins everyday, or share my day to day moments with them, but they are my core, my center, and gathering with them is like drinking from a well of strength.

I was completely exhausted when everyone left and putting everything away and returning all the borrowed items was overwhelming to the point of tears, but my brothers came to help. For the first time since my parents died, there was peace between all of us, there was no mention of sadness or anger. I didn’t know that bringing all my family together would offer peace and healing, but the power of coming together has always been transformative, so I am not surprised, just grateful.

I don’t know if I will host another reunion, but I am sure there will be more. The legacy my grandpa started has cast its net far and wide and I hope will continue to touch many more generations to come.