Aging Traditions

By John Gilstrap
I have just hours ago returned from my extended family's nearly annual weeklong trip to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. My father-in-law, Randy, realized a long time ago that as children become adults, and their attitudes and priorities change, often the only thing that keeps them from evolving away completely is the pressure of a family tradition. Thus, he rented a huge house right on the beach and invited his four kids and their families to a glorious week of sun, fun and a little bit of family angst. When the tradition first started, the youngest cousin wasn't yet born. This year, she'll turn eighteen. I guess that means we've been doing it for twenty years. God bless Randy and his largesse.

As we all know, families are dynamic things, wrought with disagreements and squabbles that seem so important at the time, but in the end mean nothing. For one reason or another, it's possible for siblings to go weeks or months without meaningful communication--not because they're bent out of shape at one another, but simply because ife gets in the way. Once a year, though, there's a certain forced familiarity at the beach that smooths the rough spots and forces communication. Throw a little alcohol into the mix, along with a game or four of Pictionary, and lo and behold, it turns out that the family really does love each other.
As an in-law, I learned early that marrying the youngest daughter grants only a kind of grudging probation that is continually evaluated. Siring the only male child among the grandchildren gave me a little more stability, but ultimately, it turns out that loving said baby daughter for going on thirty years now has granted me permanent status in the family. As both of my own parents moved on from this ife to the next, those inlaws turned out to be a pretty damned supportive group.

My sojourns to Nag's Head began when I was in my early thirties, and keeping up with sugar-high little kids was barely a challenge. Back then, I could run up Jockey's Ridge to keep up. Now, I wager that even a brisk walk might require a stop or two along the way. Back then, the go-carts and putt-putt golf were thrilling because I could see the thril through my son's eyes. They were special times.

This year, Chris couldn't even join the vacation until late in the week because of job responsibilities. I missed him when he wasn't there. A lot. I missed the conversations in the car going to and from. I miss the way things used to be.

Now, as Randy's health deteriorates at a disturbing rate, I find myself facing some unpleasant realities, and asking questions that seemed unaskable back in the day: Is this tradition about to end? Is it maybe time for the tradition to end, so that we can all live with the polished perfection that defines pleasant memories?

I don't have any answers, but I know that on at least a few occasions, various members of the family came on these trips merely because Randy called, and when Randy calls, people listen. It turns out that this father knew best. When the day comes that Randy follows my own parents into whatever lays beyond, those of us who are left behind will have some big shoes to fill.

Here's my fantasy: Five, ten, fifteen years from now, when Chris is married and has kids of his own, I want to rent a house on the beach, knowing full well that when I call, the family will be there. I'll buy the ice cream and the taffy, and in the cool of the evening, as the breeze tastes like salt, Joy and I will be the old folks on the ground watching their kid run up Jockey's Ridge again.