My husband grew up in a small town in Tasmania where
almost everyone was related by blood or marriage. As a transplant from another
country, he wasn't related to anyone, but was soon accepted into this big,
messy, close-knit family of a town that he would later name our son after. (To
clarify, we named our son Scott, not Scottsdale. With a surname of twelve
letters, the poor kid didn't need a first name with ten more.)
Although I, too, come from a big extended family, I
couldn't imagine one that encompassed an entire town. It sounded wonderful. In
my mind they were always cheerful and happy to be together, watching each
other's children, bringing each other casseroles, and never having to plan
family reunions because they lived in one.
Apparently, it wasn't like that. They were just regular
people with regular problems who had their share of illness, addiction, sad
stories, and squabbles. I was so disappointed to hear it. Surely, there was
something special about this inter-related town? It turns out there was. When
anyone had a problem, word quickly spread through the family grapevine. If you
fell, someone would pick you up, if you were hungry, they would feed you, and
if you were feeling down, they would sit with you. Ah, that's more like it! If
only we could all live in a town like that.
In my first year as a lawyer, we hired a law clerk named
Mindy who was engaged to be married. When Mindy's future mother-in-law Sondra
asked who she worked with Mindy mentioned my name. Sondra said she had attended
my wedding. After Mindy picked her jaw up off the floor she learned that Sondra
was my mother's second cousin, that their grandfathers had been brothers. The
next day, Mindy brought her fiancé to work so she could introduce me to my
third cousin, a new lawyer himself who looked like he could be my brother--if I
had a brother. It was surreal. Now, whenever I have an immigration question I
call him up and say "Hey Cuz, got a minute?" He and Mindy broke up
but he will always be my cousin.
My mother loved to host huge Thanksgiving dinners at our
home in Florida and invite all the relatives. One year, my great-uncle Al, a
widower in his 70's who had just remarried, brought his new wife Diana to
dinner. As he was introducing her, he said, "Diana, I want you to meet someone
from Connecticut." She replied, "I only know one person from
Connecticut--Harry Sugarman." To which my other great-uncle replied,
"I'm Harry Sugarman!" It turned out that Diana and Harry had dated
fifty years ago. In other words, my grandmother's brother married a woman who
had dated my grandfather's brother and they reunited by chance in a different
state half a century later. The odds of that happening seemed astronomical, but
were they really? If we reached out to strangers and asked enough questions,
wouldn't we ultimately find a connection?
After my father died, his cousin provided some family
history that we were unaware of. He told us that when my great-grandfather
immigrated to the United States in 1885, his brother went to Africa and they
never saw each other again. So, I may have family in Africa too.
In the end, we are all like the baby bird in that Dr.
Seuss book who goes around asking everyone: "Are you my mother?' But
instead we should be asking: "Are you my brother?" The answer to that
question is yes.
