Beachwalk Reunion

 "But I would walk five hundred miles / And I would walk five hundred more / Just to be the man who walked a thousand / Miles to fall down at your door."

- "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" Lyrics and music by The Proclaimers

Twenty-four members of the Clavadetscher/Dravenstott family descended via air and land on Michigan City, Indiana, last week. My brother, John, and his wife, Carol, generously facilitated three airport pickups and the loan of their cars so that relatives from LA, Denver, San Francisco and Montana could make it to the Beachwalk community on the shores of Lake Michigan. 

The Chicago Clavs have made repeated trips to Michigan City and surrounds but none of the rest of us had ever heard of it and were frequently confused about our destination state, occasionally convinced it was Michigan, Illinois or Indiana. To confuse matters further, Beachwalk was in the Central Time Zone (highly relevant for Teams meetings) but only ten minutes away from the Eastern Time Zone. We had to leave at 4:00 to get to a 5:30 dinner only a short jaunt away.

Despite our geographic confusion, it's safe to say that Beachwalk has now assumed a permanent position in family lore. My mom, my siblings and I and our assorted spouses, along with fourteen grandchildren (ranging in age from 18 months to 22 years) all assembled in two brightly painted houses. The green house, containing all children under the age of 14 plus a few of the older cousins, was the noisy house. Our family plus my mom and my sister were generously provided with the the turquoise, or quiet, house.

The Beachwalk community uses small one-way roads and most visitors travel by golf cart from house to pool, beach or coffee/sandwich/ice cream shop. A small, man-made lake allows for paddle boards, kayaks and fishing. Young children roam free in every quadrant via scooter, bike, golf cart or wagon, as parents convey loads of beach gear to the boardwalk on Lake Michigan, just a half mile away. Protected from the main roads and replete with good-natured vacationers, Beachwalk was safe for the youngsters to roam independently.

Our clan gathered each afternoon and evening at the larger house, watching Olympic finals, prepping meals for twenty-four, imbibing gluten-free seltzers, and tossing bean bags for corn hole tournaments. The feet of the youngsters turned black and sand invaded the floors.  Suntan lotion and bug spray perfumed the air and pool time served for showers. Screened-in porches kept evening mosquitos at bay and the grill filled with chicken, burgers, brats, even salmon.

Through each activity - dancing in the small park to our family theme song by the Proclaimers (heroically attempted by a local without thorough knowledge of the lyrics), corn hole tournments, girls' night out at a nearby winery, ping pong in front of the coffee shop, playing in the waves at Lake Michigan - ran a bright ribbon of exultant laughter.  I don't laugh enough in "real life," I decided, since my ribs hurt so much from night after night of guffaws with my family, unused to so much merriment.

Some highlights: cupcakes to celebrate two birthdays and an anniversary. My 17-year-old niece driving us home from dinner at the winery, stoically focused on her driving as we belted Pink songs at the top of our lungs and shook the minivan with our seated dance moves. Omnipresent danger of peeing our pants with laughter when that same niece transposed our group family photo from the lighthouse to a nearby power pant (coal-fired, we discovered, not nuclear). Molly and Julia harmonizing a song from Rent, cousins from Massachusetts bonded with same-age equals from California and the baby running around playing ball with boys three times his size.

Real life routines are a hard sell after the festivities of last week. Despite the comfort of home and space (and quiet), I miss the laughter and the time spent with my family. Same time next year? I'll try to get my laughing muscles in shape beforehand, but nothing brings on the joy and laughter like our reunions.

Music and Dance on Cape Cod

"Oh no, she didn't!"
"And she's up, she's down, it's the robot, it's the twist . . . score is 28.9!"

My daughter danced off the 'stage' beaming from ear to ear as if the Olympic judges had just awarded her the gold medal. My younger brothers, James and Michael, sat on the couch in our rental house watching all of the cousins dance their way through our Ipod mix, awarding ever-increasing scores and commentating on the wild and crazy variety of dance moves. James was somewhat abashed at the end of the contest when I questioned his judging capabilities; he started judging on a scale of 1 to 10 and wound up at a 29.5. "I just couldn't bear to give anyone a lower score," he said.

That was the tone of our family reunion week on Cape Cod, uncritical music and dancing and childlike exuberance. By the numbers: eighteen of us shared two rental houses, which covered seven grandchildren from the ages of 15 months to almost 10, two grandparents, five siblings and four significant others (spouses and fiancee included). We ate over 100 hamburgers, drank several hundred cans and bottles of beer (but who's counting?), swam and built sandcastles at four cool beaches, flew six kites which promptly broke, celebrated one birthday and one engagement.

Of course, numbers utterly fail to tell the story. With all of the shared memories and highlights it's hard to focus one on thread of the week, though music does it best for me. Other than the dance contests, we all had the same CD playing at various times in our rental cars - a mix made by my parents and sister which was loaded with family favorites, many played at three previous family weddings and some undoubtedly on the playlist for the fourth wedding planned for next summer. The children now know classics like "On the Road Again" (Willie Nelson) and "Wild Montana Skies" (John Denver and Emmylou Harris) by heart. We sang a raucous grace each night before dinner, holding hands in an unwieldy looping circle and raising the rafters with "The Lord is Good to Me," or "Amen." One night, someone got caught in the circle of grace and decided to dance wildly inside as accompaniment. I'm sure God appreciated our thanksgiving.

On our final night we held a third dance party, but my most touching musical memory was of my fifteen-month-old nephew singing "Happy Birthday" to his uncle, my husband. Little Mac was great at the last line "to youuuuu" and with clapping vigorously at the end of the song. His smile of joy and lit-up blue eyes were a present unto themselves. (He also sings a mean version of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," cheering for the Red Sox, of course). I believe we confused Mac a bit when we switched up and sang "Happy Engagement" to the same tune, but he handled it well. If I had to judge, I would give it a 29.5.

Love to all, and God Bless. Thank you for so many amazing memories. I miss you already.

In a Robin's Eye

A fine mist filtered down through our shade awnings as I sat in my lawnchair reading my book. I could see the gray particles of rain falling on my arms and on the pages, a cooling haze whose gentleness was offset by the rumbles of thunder in the distance and the shouts and screams of the children as they protested and fought against an invisible enemy. United for once against a common (though imaginary) foe, their cries had a different timbre than the normal bickering whine or arguing crow. This made it easier for me to sit silently by, as I was completely unnecessary in their play.

My son yelled "8.3 earthquake . . .run!" and they thundered past on their scooters, rumbling across the deck and then across the newly mown yard to the sandbox. That move caught my attention, and the awareness of our robin family. The parents flew madly - one from the nest in our window down to the pine tree to observe our chaos - and one from the fencepost to the nest to feed the growing brood. I paused in my reading to watch the little birdie necks and beaks crane toward their mom or dad. Their chirping reached me even through the thunder and the roars of the children. I felt sympathy for the busy parents.

We've had a great deal of fun watching the robin family over the past few weeks. Now that the babies are hatched and eating well, the parents are forever flying into the nest with food. Every night as we go to read bedtime stories in our room, the kids and I stop by the window to see if the mom or dad is still there. The dad (we think) is the bigger bird, whose puffed-up feathers and aggressive stance warn us to stay away. The gleam in his eye gives definition to the word 'baleful.' We are often glad that the flimsy screen protects us from his wrath; I have seen him chase and attack a squirrel all the way around the yard when the squirrel came too close to the nest.

It was a perfect fifteen minutes in a summer's day. Soon after my blissful moments of peace followed a round of fighting and arguments over a bucket of spilled golf balls, which apparently impeded play beyond all remedy. Moments of perfection are few, but I hold them in my memory against all comers. I have high hopes that the robin parents will triumph along with Rob and myself as we celebrate the crazy - rarely lazy - days of summer.

Motivation

A mentally challenged robin built its nest in the open window of my bedroom several weeks ago. Needless to say, we cannot bear to shut the window and consign the nest to bitter ruin, so the window has remained open - day and night - for the duration of the eggs' incubation and hatching. Last night the temperature dropped to 45 degrees and our room was a bit blustery, yet the nest stayed intact. My husband reassured me that the incubation-to-flight period would last only 14 or so days, and then we could have our window (and our room temperature) back. Amused that he had gone to the trouble to research the robin's nesting habits, I started to ponder the different emotions and reasons that motivate our behavior.

The robin, who may be a few eggs short of a carton (both figuratively and literally) was motivated by biology, as well as our window's height, apparent steadiness, and shelter under the roof. My husband and I are motivated by our concern for the baby robins and for the regard of our children, who would undoubtedly be shocked and dismayed if we let the nest come to any harm. The children themselves are motivated by a sense of caring for small, helpless animals like the birds and the tiny bunnies that overrun our lawn, cutely devouring every item in our garden. This sense of caring does not extend, of course, to a sibling who might happen to be smaller or helpless at any given moment.

Other motivations are harder to pin down. What motivates my daughter to sign up for Ninja Camp and to agree to carpool with kind people that she does not really know in order to get to the final Ninja session in the mountains? Her desire to go up one belt in karate is pulling her two brothers and several friends into Sensei's orbit this summer. I don't quite understand her motivation, but I do know that it is intrinsic, completely unrelated to anything that I would have picked for her. And that makes it good, because it is her choice and her passion. I don't need to understand it, only support it.

My boys' passions change and swirl like the Icee machine at Target, everchanging, uncertain, out of order from time to time. I hope that their passions begin to gel as they grow, as their sister's interests seem to be solidifying. Just as I (sometimes impatiently) stand guard over the nest in my window, so I feel protective and cautious of my kids' motivations and passions. Summer is a great time to branch out, try new things, and practice uncertain skills. Rob and I may have a lot longer than two weeks before our babies fly away, but someday, somehow they will.