Bonafide Bane

I’ve written a lot of things about my family circle, so this post will not be out of the ordinary in that regard.  As you may have gathered from reading posts like A Legacy of Love or Angels in Hay Season, I was surrounded by a ton of cousins through my growing-up years.  I had thirty-eight cousins to be exact, and times with them are the source of countless memories.
 

Our family tries to get together two or three times each year.  One Saturday every spring for lunch, one Saturday every summer for a full day of food, games, and activities (my mom is the activities director…surprised?), and of course Thanksgiving.  We used to get together for Christmas too, but finally gave that up when an extensive number of in-laws began crossing their arms and tapping their toes while glaring at us, demanding equal opportunity. 

We usually try to find a quiet private place for our gatherings…you know, just so we don’t offend innocent bystanders.  A few of our Spring Fling jaunts have been held at a rental property in the arboretum, our summertime “down on the farm” days are way out in the boondocks, and every Thanksgiving the Bane family ventures back to their roots to gather in Greens Fork’s Community Center. 

Regardless of where we meet or why, it’s lovely mayhem.
There’s tons of food:
  
Tons of people:

And a loud table or two, generally made up of these folks:

And these folks:

And these folks:

Whom I don’t know.  Because I think they just saw food and came in off the street.  Or else they are in-laws.  Which would explain a lot.

Anyway, this spring the brothers and sisters (heretofore referred to as “the adults”…and I use the term loosely) decided to do something a little different and meet at Farmers Family Restaurant, a country buffet.  It was our first time to meet in this particular restaurant, and we were there for hours.  At least two meals worth of hours. Many many memories worth of hours. And true to form, one table (of course) was exceptionally loud.  (Those people up there again.)

Me, my sister Nikki, and my cousins Dee Dee, Sharon and Claudia did not sit with those people.  We have learned that you get stares when you sit at their table.  Even people who KNOW them stare at them and their table.  At one point the loud table got so loud that while we were staring at them, Dee Dee asked what we all thought it might be like if alcohol was permitted at our family gatherings.  We decided that was too scary to think about. 

Who is Dee Dee?  Bless your hearts…I’m so glad you asked!  Dee Dee is one of my 38 cousins, and without a doubt, a large portion of my childhood memories revolve around her.  Seven years my senior, she was my closest neighbor growing up.  You must understand that closest does not necessarily mean close when you live in the boondocks like we did.  Her house may have been closest, but it was still about a half mile away.  Our families resided in two of the whopping three houses on our old gravel road. 
The youngest child of my mother’s  older sister Rose, I’m told Dee Dee was thrilled when I was born a girl because she wanted a younger sister.  She certainly treated me like one.  (This ------>  is Dee Dee; I’m in her doll high chair).  I went everywhere and did everything with her.  I couldn’t imagine that she liked any friend more than she liked me, and that made me feel pretty darn cool.

I remember Dee Dee’s dad frequently driving up to our house to see if anyone wanted to go for a drive.  Since that was before seat belt and occupancy laws, all eight or nine of us would pile in his car and take off to who-knows-where.  There was rarely a destination in mind, and even if we found the same place twice, it was never using the same roads to get there (or back!).

Throughout my childhood, our families spent countless weekends together at a place we dubbed “The Lakes” in Celina / St. Mary’s, Ohio, where members of my dad’s side of the family owned two lakeside cabins.  Those dear folks graciously put up with hosted us anytime we felt like journeying their way, and we journeyed often.  The Lakes were magical.  (When you grow up landlocked in the boondocks, any place other than home is magical…especially if it has sand and water!).  We would swim, fish, boat, sit on the dock, dive off of a board tied on a huge inner tube, dig up clams and watch them open in the sun…and if we were lucky enough to spend the night at the local hotel, we would walk to the putt putt golf place down the road in the evening. 

That is, AFTER my mom finished jumping on the  hotel beds…true story…see?  I have proof.  She did it EVERY TIME! 

Our times together were full of silliness and laughter, but generally at some point throughout the visit I would be relegated to tears at least once.  Yes, you read that correctly…relegated to tears.  And, you know me…I have proof:

That’s me in the yellow crying.  Dee Dee is next to me on my left.  And as you can see, I’m trying NOT to look at her! 

Anyway, another such time in which an abundance of tears were shed was when (at my best estimate) I was 2 or 3 years old.  I asked my mom to confirm this, and she can’t say for sure, but she agreed I was very little.  This particular incident involved a helium balloon, and as young as I was, it  is an event that I distinctly remember very well. 

Our families had taken a day trip to The Lakes to enjoy the community’s annual Lake Festival.  As with any good festival, there was a large number of street vendors, and we decided to take a look around.  While we were perusing the various booths, I was given a red balloon.  I was thrilled!  Mom told me it would float away if I didn’t hold it tightly, so I held on with all my might.  There would be no chance of that balloon getting away from me...no sir!  

The afternoon began to fade, and we piled back in the car for the trip home via Fort Wayne (why Fort Wayne?  Who knows…ask Dee Dee’s dad).  As we drove down the highway, I stood on the back seat, enjoying my red balloon.  Dee Dee was on my left, my momma was on my right.  I remember these details distinctly because what transpired next is an event so tragic, the depths of the memory so deep, that the picture of those surroundings is forever etched into my brain:  Dee Dee, cranking the car window down, sticking her head out to feel the breeze in her hair, and then…that unbelievably shocking moment when my red balloon was SUCKED OUT OF THE WINDOW!  Stunned beyond all rationale, it took only a millisecond to realize what had happened, and when it dawned on me that my red balloon was gone forever, I buried my head in my mom’s lap and cried for MILES!  My little girl brain processed all of this as being completely Dee Dee’s fault; she did it on purpose I thought, and I’m certain at that moment I vowed never to look at her again, let alone speak to her.  (I did look at her and speak to her again, of course.)

Dee Dee was always up to some silly shenanigan.  You just never knew what she would do next, and trooper that I was, I plodded along right behind her like a shadow.  Come what may, we’re in it together, my little brain determined, then the sound of aunt Rose yelling “DEE DEE!” would strike the fear of God in me and I’d go running toward the house like a whipped puppy.  (For the record, it didn’t strike anything but the funny bone in Dee Dee.)  The tone and volume of that “DEE DEE!” yell still rings in my ears, perfectly as if I just heard it yesterday.  Of course that COULD be due to the fact that Aunt Rose STILL says it that way (even though Dee Dee is a grandmother now), and it is very possible that I heard it again at Farmer’s Family Restaurant when we were reminiscing about silly things like lost red balloons, and making jokes about Michael Jackson.  But back to Dee Dee stories…

One summer day Dee Dee and I decided to lay out and tan in the sun.  We parked on a blanket in the grass for about 10 minutes, assessed the situation, discussed the best avenue for soaking up the most rays, and settled on the fact that the shed roof would be the perfect choice.  It was the optimum place, she contended, because we would be closer to the sun, AND the metal on the roof creates an awesome reflection.  I can’t remember for sure if I chickened out before I got to the ladder, or if my mom intervened and wouldn’t let me do it, but Dee Dee certainly went up, laughing at the echoes of Aunt Rose’s “DEE DEE!” wafting on the breeze.  She stayed there a large part of the day and looked like a lobster when she came down.  Ah well, live and learn!  (My learning wasn’t nearly as painful as hers on that particular day…maybe it was pay-back for the red balloon.)

Of course, if the sunburn was a pay-back, then the story of the day she got her driver’s license would be double pay-back for sure.  The plan was for Dee Dee to drive her dad’s car up to our house to get me and my mom for a day of adventure.  I call it a PLAN because in reality, she ended up walking half of the distance.  I was sitting on the front porch swing waiting for her when I saw her shuffling up our long driveway. “What in the devil is she doing WALKING?” I thought to myself.  When she finally got up to the house, she was in tears, “Aunt Nita, can you call my dad?”  She’d had a wreck.  This, I will never ever understand in all of my born days.  It was a full HALF MILE of STRAIGHT road, for crying out loud…no turns, no hills, no surprises...but Dee Dee was the driver, and well, if it was going to happen, it would happen to Dee Dee!

We spent several snow days together through our long country winters.  I remember one time in particular when the snow was dumping and quickly deepening around our house.  It was clear we were going to be snowed in pretty tight.  I was playing in my bedroom and looked out through my south window.  I yelled for Mom to come quick, “There are crazy people walking toward our house!”  There, coming through the field from the south, was Dee Dee and her older siblings, tromping through the snow to be snowed in with us.  We sat by candle light playing cards late into the night listening to the battery-powered radio, raising the volume and cheering every time the DJ announced our school among the list of the next day’s closings. 

Dee Dee can be credited with more than just her humorous ways; she was also the master of some pretty cool tricks.  Do you know she could fit an ENTIRE Pringles can lid in her mouth?!  And her musical abilities included, but were not limited to, belching the Star Spangled Banner?!  She was likely able to play that same tune with another musical bodily function as well, but I never stuck around long enough to know for sure.  Her attempts at that unique talent usually found me running from the room holding my nose (POO-EY!)  Yes, she was quite talented indeed…and I always wanted to be JUST like her.  (I praise God daily for the resounding “NO” He gave me on THAT particular prayer!)

As crazy as she was, is, and always will be, she used her clowning around for good too.  I remember one time when I was probably five or six, I was with Dee Dee at her house.  We were alone, sitting on her scratchy sofa playing a game, when a flicker outside the window grabbed her attention.  She looked out and groaned.  Her school mate, Debbie Mean Girl, had ridden up on her bicycle.  I knew this chick and didn’t like her at all.  Even though we weren’t thrilled to see her, Dee Dee let her come inside, and it wasn’t long before she started spewing her mean-spirited comments my way.  Dee Dee stood up, announced that she had something to do outside and said she would be right back.  I sat silently glaring at Mean Girl, willing her to go away.  Mean Girl sat smirking at me, enjoying the moment with me in her clutches.  When Dee Dee came back in, she told Mean Girl that the two of us had some pretty important stuff to do, so she should probably go home.  Mean Girl shrugged and walked out the door.  Dee Dee quickly ushered me to a window whispering “Watch!”  I watched as Mean Girl stood with hands on hips, looking left and right…left and right.  “She was being mean to you, so I hid her bike!”  I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle as Mean Girl circled around the old shed, then out back, and around again to the front of the house.  She returned to the back yard, still searching, scratching her head.  We continued to watch as she peeked into the old shed.  Shooting looks that could kill toward the window where we stood laughing, Mean Girl dragged her bicycle out of the shed and left the premises, cycling her way toward home. That was when I came to the conclusion that regardless of her merciless teasing of me, Dee Dee at least loved me enough to protect me.   

But I have 37 other cousins to write about!  Oh my golly, with the memories that are flooding my brain today, this post could easily become a novel.  I have so much to tell you!  Like, for instance, the time we went boating with Uncle Kenny and Aunt Pat and their kids David and Beth.  My sister was just a baby.  While we were waiting in the parking lot for our turn at the ramp, we kids jumped in the boat.  Mom handed the baby up to me just before Kenny started backing up to the ramp.  David fired the boat up, put it in reverse, and we TOOK OFF!  Uncle Kenny stood on the ramp screaming “DAA-VID!” and my mother looked panicked as her baby, in the arms of an eight year old, went scooting across the water in a boat with a young unruly fourteen year old at the wheel! 

And who could possibly forget all of the times at Grandma and  Grandpa’s house.  Poor grandma.  Every Sunday afternoon, cars filled her yard, kids ran hither and yon, and balls smacked into the side of her house (because little kids like me could NOT get the ball over the roof no matter how hard we tried…it always took a big kid on your team to “ANNIE OVER!”).  We would climb her big maple tree, and the adults (ahem…loosely, remember) would yell up at us about getting in B-I-G trouble if we fell on them while they sat at the picnic table under the tree (never mind the possible broken neck we might get).  Grandpa would cut up  watermelon, and we’d spit seeds everywhere.  Every now and then he’d get his banjo out and play for us, and we’d take turns tap dancing on the plywood that covered the old well (how dumb was THAT?!).  Once in a while, Grandpa would dig out the movie projector and show us old movies.  We’d all cram into their tiny little living room and laugh like crazy people when Grandpa made Uncle Mark walk backwards with the cow. When that fun stuff wasn’t happening, either Melissa and Beth and I would play Charlie’s Angels (somehow I always always always had to be Kate...Kate was the boring whiney one); or Kyle and Kory and I would play Dukes of Hazard on Grandpa’s old car out behind the barn.  That game stopped the day Luke Duke (aka Kory) ran a little too hard, jumped, slid across the roof of the car, and landed into the plate glass window that was propped up against the back of the barn.  He still has a scar that I’m sure he’d show you if you asked. 

Ahh…memories!  

It’s humbling to look at these pictures and think about these things and realize just how greatly I have been blessed!  One thing is certainly clear:  no matter how my childhood memories unfold, or who they involve, they are always ALWAYS a source of comfort.  The joys and laughter I have shared with my big wonderful family far outweigh any amount of sadness I’ve experienced in life.  If only everyone were so blessed, this world would be a much happier place.  I have a quote framed on my wall that I think is so true:  “Families are like quilts…lives pieced together, stitched with smiles and tears, faded with memories, and bound by love.” 

In closing, I want to return to our recent Farmer’s Family Restaurant day, because you see, while Aunt Rose was spilling her drink, and Aunt Marjorie was asking Aunt Kathy why she felt the need to “sit at the kids’ table,” and Mom was teaching the song “We Built This City on Rock and Roll” to Uncle Kenny, and Artist Monte was drawing a portrait of my mom, and Melissa was talking about Jordan’s tattoo, and Holly was discussing the refinishing project that made her high as a kite, and Sharon was listing her day’s exhausting agenda, and Dad was asking when we could eat again, and Claude was turning up his nose at the pecan dessert, and Mary was sharing stories of her plethora of farm animal babies, and I was standing on a chair to turn off the ceiling fan…the crew at Farmer’s Family Restaurant must have been planning their getaway, because a few days after our big event, I opened the paper to find this:

Farmers Family Closes
The buffet-style restaurant closed its doors for good Friday night, less than eight months after opening.
Key words to note:  Closed; For good.  I have to wonder…when we finally departed, did they lock the doors and run away screaming? 

That’s when the term “Bonafide Bane” came to mind.  And just because I’m helpful, and don’t want you scrounging around for your dictionary, I’ll give you Encarta’s World English definitions here:

bo·na fide (adjective) 1. authentic and genuine in nature
2. sincere and honest: without any intention to deceive

bane (noun) 1. something that continually causes problems or misery 2. something that causes ruin 3. deadly: a fatal poison 4. somebody or something that is a constant source of trouble or annoyance

Yep, guess we won’t be going back to THAT particular restaurant!