We Smiths are a family-oriented, painstakingly civil bunch. We’re pleasant and polite to each other, get together for birthdays and holidays, avoid conflicts, rarely feud. We’ve been that way my whole life.
That being so, I was truly bummed when I overheard a conversation recently between two women who, to hear them tell it, come from families where civility is not the norm.
Even worse, I overheard them at the peak of the holiday season, when family means most.
Shortly before Christmas, I was on my way home from shopping, and I stopped at a used book store, looking for a title that was eluding me.
The only other occupants of the store were two women working at the front desk, one in her 20s, the other in her 50s. They said hello, and I disappeared down the aisles, headed for General Fiction.
As I browsed, the two ladies began chatting. In the quiet, I could hear every word. Their conversation immediately grabbed my attention.
“I couldn’t believe it!” the younger woman said. “The entire family — the entire family — went to Atlanta Airport to meet the plane! I mean, parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins — there musta been 40 of us there!”
“All of ’em were family except you?” the older woman asked.
“No, a few friends and girlfriends were there. When Steve’s brother came around the corner and saw us all, he was floored! People were cryin’ and huggin’.”
This was getting good. I casually edged closer to the front of the store so I wouldn’t miss anything.
“He was in Afghanistan?”
“Yeah. He’s discharged now. Lookin’ for work. Steve is tryin’ to help him. But the thing is, the whole family turned out to go to the airport!”
“Must have been a sight.”
“I’m not used to that, you know? My family would never, ever do that! We quit doin’ Thanksgiving and Christmas together ’cause all everybody did was fight!”
“My family’s the same way. When I was growin’ up, my dad and my brother would fight at every meal. When we got grown, they’d both drink too much, and — well, I don’t see either one of ’em much anymore. I just stay away.”
“Same with me. I don’t go see my mom and dad hardly at all. Or my brother. Nobody’s complainin’ about it, either.”
“Well, Steve’s family sounds like a good bunch. Stickin’ with him might be a good thing.”
“Yeah, I know. Steve’s great, and they’re all so nice. They’re really good to me.”
The conversation ended when a mother with two exuberant kids entered the store. Moments later, a young couple holding hands came in. They wore matching camo coveralls.
The book I wanted wasn’t on the shelves, and the eavesdropping was over, so I headed for the door.
As I walked out, I heard a male voice behind me say, “Hey, look! They got Duck Dynasty books! Duck Commander for President, man!”
Years ago, a friend leveled with me about his opinion of the Smith family dynamic. He observed that although the members of my family stay on good terms, we don’t really speak our minds, don’t air our grievances. He said we stop short of communicating honestly. He didn’t think it was healthy for us in the long run.
Maybe, to some degree, that’s true. Maybe we could open up more. Nothing wrong with being candid, if you learn to do it right.
On the other hand, my friend’s family had an acrimonious streak and a habit of boiling over at regular intervals. I’m not sure he was one to be giving advice.
The truth is, we Smiths seem to have found our groove. It means we don’t have to avoid each other — which is a seriously anti-family thing to do.
As for the young lady at the bookstore: my advice is to stick with Steve, girl.
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