Thankful

I was born in Texas, the fifth child 11 years after my closest sibling. They were all born about a year apart and when my Catholic mom was pregnant with the fourth, my grandfather said to her, “JoAnn, this is getting a little embarrassing.” She must have taken it to heart, hence the 11-year hiatus between them and the big surprise that was me.

My childhood was an absolute ball. Not only were my parents loving, happy people, I had constant entertainment observing four teenagers and being taken everywhere on their shoulders, in their arms, and holding their hands. There was never a dull, lonely moment.

I grew up absorbing their interactions; their media; their generation. Until I turned 11. My parents informed us that they decided to move to California. By that time, my brothers and sisters were either in college, working, or getting married. Their lives were even fuller than ever, and my dad had decided to retire early from his job as a petroleum engineer.

My parents and I drove away from Texas, headed for the Golden State. My mom relished every moment of the adventure, and for a kid who hadn’t been many places outside of Dallas suburbia, I was pretty blown away by the big world out there. In fact, as wonderful as most of my memories before California are, they are fairly dim and spotty. From the moment we got in that car, I can recall nearly everything that has elapsed. It’s like my brain awakened and expanded from then on.

For the next seven years, I lived life as an only child. It wasn’t sad; it was completely new and welcomed. We all visited each other on special occasions, and life remained happy.

But as the years went by, I started realizing that I’d never get my siblings back. What I had with them in Dallas was it. They had all married and begun raising children, and I would never get them all to myself again.

Fast-forward to 2019. My oldest brother was about to turn 60, and we all decided to surprise him by flying into New Orleans while he was visiting there with his wife. My brothers and sisters were all born there after my parents met on Bourbon Street and married in St. Louis Cathedral. (Bourbon Street was a lot different then.) 

It was amazing. I had never been, and the rest of my family had moved to Dallas when the kids were little, so it was eye-opening for all of us. More importantly, it was the first time I had gotten to be with just my brothers and sisters since our young lives in Dallas. It was even the first time I had ever been away from my husband and kids. It was an absolute blast – something I had needed inside for a very long time.

Before dispersing on all of our different flights home, we decided to make it a tradition to get together for every sibling’s 60th birthday. That meant that for the next three years, we’d be guaranteed some time with just each other for a week.

A year later, COVID shut everything down. Plans that everyone all over the world had were cancelled. Some of you had much more crushing cancellations than I.

It’s been almost a year and nine months since then. When there was talk of the vaccine being available for kids this past September, I booked a Thanksgiving trip for us to visit my family in Texas for the first time in way too long, hoping it might all work out.

My heart is so full. I’m spilling over with excitement. Though over 20 months of quiet non-gathering have taught us to have persistent patience and more-than-delayed gratification, I’m ready to be bursting at the seams with joy, sharing air and laughter and hugging and close contact with my people – mostly vaccinated with three rebels in the mix.

I’m starting to get excited about not caring about masking and non-vaccinators. My immediate clan is vaccinated as much as we can be at the moment, and will be even more so in the coming month. I’ve been safe. I haven’t gathered. No group of humans aside from our nuclear four has met in our little house together for around 630 days as we’ve waited for our youngest member to get the shot. While I wouldn’t do it any differently, I’m not interested in continuing in this removed kind of lifestyle for much longer. It is downright inhumane. I don’t say that to blame any mandates or people making them, by the way. I have agreed 100% with masking and vaccinating. But I’m sick of being isolated.

Okay. That’s the tough guy in me talking. I’m not going to be haphazard about it, but I am eventually going to need you all in my life again. Other parts of me are dying as I keep trying so wisely to live.

I can’t tell you how thankful I am this season to know that my extended family will be gathering (the infamous “g” word) in several days, catching up on years worth of life, watching movies together, laughing in the kitchen, eating around big tables, and having multi-air-mattress sleepovers in my sister’s living room.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not trying to start a stupid movement in which gobs of people start gathering without doing it wisely, keeping hospitals filled. I still have my head on straight. I’m not happy with anti-vaxxers who rebel for the sake of rebellion. I understand there are those who are hesitant to vaccinate for certain reasons. But I also need for us islanders to start gathering again – gradually, safely, and wisely – so that we can eventually get back to the real Orcas Island.

I’m thrilled that there will be an upcoming Library Tea and Children’s Christmas Market. Though I will be masked, I will be the one there who can barely contain herself with joy because I get to be around all of you again, doing celebratory kinds of things. May our calendars slowly fill with festivities like they used to.

May you, too, get the chance to safely fill your aching heart this season.

I do not speak on behalf of nor do I mean to offend anyone connected with The Orcasonian or any other entity. I simply speak my own mind, hoping not to lose it during these quiet times.

You can also find this on the November 21st Sun Days column on The Orcasonian.