The Smell of the Greasepaint, the Roar of the Family
by the Cybershopaholic
When I first shared a holiday meal with my husband's family, I thought there was going to be a fistfight before the soup course. The intensity is similar to a table full of WWF heavy weights issuing threats, but the actual dialog is along the lines of: "How are you?" or "Crazy weather we're having", or "Please pass the potatoes". These niceties are exchanged with much vehemence and wild gesturing. It's more than enough to give a person raised in a quiet Midwest home indigestion. My family usually saved such displays of emotion for 911 calls, not polite dinner conversation.
We were an impressive group this year: ten adults, four kids, one Doberman, two parrots, an iguana and a snake. It felt festive, but in no way did it seem noisy or wild. Maybe I'm getting used to the chaos. The more likely explanation is that the folks I affectionately refer to as "the loud crazy people", i.e., my husband's parents, were absent.
Usually, the presence of clan elders tends to add an air of dignity and calm to a family gathering. By the time most people reach their sixth decade of life they have settled comfortably into the role of sage counselor, or take pride in leading by example. This family's esteemed elders attended Clown College earlier this month and spent Thanksgiving Day in full clown makeup and costume, marching in the Macy's Parade. I have no idea where this particular example will lead us. I only know it is somewhere I fear to tread.
My Mother-in-law, Bubbe, has a gentle soul, but is one of the loudest people I know. If she had been born a Native American, they would have drummed her out of the tribe for scaring game three mountain ranges away. She even walks loud. She is by no means a large person, but most people hearing her footfalls expect them to be accompanied by cries of Fee Fi Foe Fum.
Bubbe's volume is second only to that of her mate of 40 years, Poppa Paul. Poppa could drive not only cattle, but also nails with the shear force of his vocalizations. Once, in an attempt to amuse my toddling son, his first grandchild, he began playing a very aggressive game of peek-a-boo with no warning whatsoever. Most adults play peek-a-boo by gently getting the child's attention and then covering their face with their hands for a moment, then smiling, uncovering their faces and playfully saying, "peek-a-boo". The kid laughs and it's all good fun. Poppa's version was closer to a guerrilla ambush. He leapt from a darkened doorway and landed hard on both feet right in front of my son, while emitting a war whoop that would have made Chief Crazy Horse proud. My son froze in terror for a moment and then let loose with his own war cry. I was grateful he was wearing a diaper because that wasn't all that let loose.
Poppa's significant voice comes with it's own interesting sound effects. It isn't really his fault, after all no one chooses to be afflicted by a sinus condition. To his credit, he refuses to let it bother him. He has turned what most people would consider a liability, into an asset. Over the years he has honed it to a unique form of self-expression, sort of a sinusitis performance-art thing.
Sniffles, snuffles and sneezes issue forth with great regularity accompanied by throat clearing and random coughing. So frequent are Poppa's recitations that his son's visiting parrot learned to imitate at least 18 different sinus noises during his stay. People who have heard the parrot perform his nasal repertoire have asked my brother-in-law why on Earth they taught their bird to reproduce elk and caribou mating calls. We can't take Poppa to the zoo anymore because he excites the animals and the zoologists all want to study him.
We don't yet know whether the aroma of roasting turkey will win out over the smell of greasepaint for my in-laws next Thanksgiving. Then again, the circus is scheduled to visit their town well before next November. Anything is possible.
Posted by mayor at March 27, 2005 11:35 PM
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