By John Rezell
When we moved to Brookfield way, way back in the day, family and friends coming to our house on Memorial Day for a picnic became a tradition.
Typically the day began with the Indy 500 blaring on a transistor radio sitting on the front steps — listening to Al and Bobby Unser, AJ Foyt and Mario Andretti scream around the Brickyard. We washed the cars on the front lawn, as long as it wasn't a rainy day.
We'd scoot down to Elm Grove to catch the parade with my older siblings' kids; I was an uncle by 6th grade!
Typically my brother-in-law Dennis would take center stage as the games began, Dennis always hungry for competition. We'd play football, volleyball and badminton in the front yard while Mom grilled brats, hamburgers and hot dogs. We'd drink Wins soda by the gallon while beers flowed for adults.
At some point we'd relax and talk about the true meaning of the day as the flag flew on the breeze, thankful that we had no family members who earned the day's respect by giving their lives during their service. Typical of so many veterans of World Wars, Grandpa and Dad never told stories. But you could catch their minds drift off for a moment or two with private memories and tributes.
More than anything, it was a just a day of fun hanging with family and friends, the kind of times you imagine lasting forever when you're a kid taking for granted the aura of closeness an intimacy that blankets a home.
Life moves on, and we moved on. Some family moved and eventually came back — Texas, Nevada, Colorado and even Belgium. We left for California, Colorado, Texas, Tennessee and Oregon — not making it back on a regular basis.
The Memorial Day picnics continued without us, though we'd typically call and talk to everyone. Eventually in 2003 we managed to get the entire extended family together, sans my Dad, who passed away in 2000.
That was the last time my nephew from California and my family were together. Until last week.
We all returned to pay tribute to Dennis. His Memorial was set for Sunday, but we all gathered at the house on Friday for a reunion. My brother Tom now lives there, my Mom having passed away in 2013.
The family's next generation is even more spread out — California, New York, Oregon, Washington and soon Pennsylvania. My daughters and I met my California nephew's kids for the first time. Cousins now have boyfriends and girlfriends, who somehow fit in just perfectly, just like Dennis did. Everyone just melted together like cheddar on a burger.
I watched in awe how seamlessly familiarity and comfort set in with more than 20 people packed inside thanks to rain.
I was reminded of a story my brother told when Mom passed away and he met with a lawyer about the will and estate. With five kids, the lawyer wanted to know up front who would be the problem child? Who's the bad apple who will cause troubles? Every family has one.
Tom told her we didn't have one.
He was right. Our apples haven't fallen far from the tree, either. It's one, big family to be proud of — the biggest branch on hand coming from Barb and Dennis's limb — three daughters, four grandkids and their partners.
Just as we began to say our good-byes, my California nephew shouted out: GROUP HUG.
The mass huddled and squished together in the center of the living room, the feeling of connection — of family — nearly overwhelming.
