Cleaning

I'm back from the family reunion in Maine and, to be honest, it went much better than I ever expected. There were no homicides and only a few minor flesh wounds that required just a few stitches to close up. We didn't even need to call the local police.

To be fair, we did set some ground rules before setting off on this epic adventure. No talk of politics so as not to inflame the passions of my highly conservative brother-in-law who was surrounded by a group of bleeding heart, no-nothing, East Coast liberals. No talk of "family" business so as not to upset my mother, for whom this gathering was organized. And, well, no talk of anything that was more controversial than what we wanted for that night's dinner. It turned out to be a sound plan and one I fully endorse should you be as psychotic as us and attempt to organize your own family gathering.

Of course, not everything went to plan. We rented a huge house on Wilson Pond in Wayne, Maine (look it up if you dare), and the facilities were more than acceptable except for one thing: bedbugs. Turns out, the house was infested and the little blood-sucking critters had taken up residence in the Master Bedroom where my mother had decamped. Hilarity failed to ensue. What did take place was a pain-in-the-ass cleaning job that required stripping all the beds, washing all the linens and clothes, and vacating the house for a day while Orkin came in and tried their best to fumigate the vicious little critters into obscurity.

Upon my return to NY, my clothing once again went into the wash for another cleaning. Just to make sure.

Speaking of cleaning and being in NY (nice transition, huh?), I spent a better part of the morning helping my mother sort through the detritus of her kitchen. Turns out Mom decided to redo the galley in her home and, now that the majority of the work is done, she's going through the motions of putting everything back into the cabinets where the majority of pots, pans and other junk will go unused until the next time she decides to remodel. And what junk there is; pots and pans that haven't seen a stove top since the Nixon administration, cookbooks extolling the virtues of that new food sensation Fondue, and Cuisinarts so old they're hamster powered.

Why she has all this stuff doesn't surprise me; Mom's a pack rat. Why she won't throw it away, on the other hand, is baffling. That Food & Wine from 1979? There's a recipe Mom still hasn't gotten around to trying. The address book from 1990? Who knows when you'll need to call your long-lost third cousin twice removed? The cocoa powder in the rusting tin? It doesn't ever really go bad, right?

My job in all this is to help rummage through the mess and to impart some tough love on my mother. "Are you really going to use this Jell-O mold in the shape of a sea otter? No? Then chuck it."

It's funny really. I haven't seen the majority of my family for the better part of two years and yet, when we get back together in the same place, we fall into all the old familiar patterns that have shaped and defined our lives. We tell the same bad jokes. We argue over the same old issues, and we reminisce over past stories and incidents that hold importance in our very different lives. For my mother, the things packed into all of those boxes cluttering up her kitchen carry the same kind of importance. There's the old ceramic ashtray my sister made in grade school or the 30-year old waffle iron that she never uses, but reminds her of my father and Sunday morning family breakfasts. Sure, these things may never see the light of day, but that doesn't matter because just knowing they're around is important. Just like family.