Family

My family gathered Christmas Eve, our own secular tradition. The family consists of cousins mainly, flying in from Michigan, Utah, Alaska, San Diego. Ours is a disperse family, though most of us were raised among orange fields, blue hills and golden light of this small town in Southern California.

Our restless individualism and a classic American search for self drove us away looking for meaning beyond the sweet sun-filled days of our home. This movement was also motivated by the sleepy pace of Ojai, spiraling increase in cost of living and competition for space in this fruitful region, long idealized by advertisements.

Many of these cousins I haven’t seen in a few years, and they came with packages and kids a few feet higher than the last time. I’ve slowly grown to love my family again, much to my surprise. It’s as if I suddenly stopped to examine my own bony feet and slowly realized that they were strong, well-formed, and filled with character.

In particular, I like my cousin Dorthey's family. Dorthey married a gregarious, academic, and adventurous New Englander. I fit neatly between their generations, my cousins in their 40s, with kids now in their late teens. In my teens and twenties I’d baby-sit, tossing Ian over my shoulder in fits if laughter. Now both kids have too-hip-for-product hair, and are sweetly awkward. How surprising really, to find within the ranks of my family people I would choose as friends. They are warm, knowledgeable, caring, cultured people. They grow orchids and make great pie. Their choices in life I can understand, the years in Japan and Malaysia, with the eventual return to the comfort of California. They live in a small open house designed by a sister, above their constantly traveling grandmother. They cook well and share funny stories. Mostly, they’ve made a life here in the valley that I can admire.