I Have a Story to Tell You

"Like all the best families,
we have our share of eccentricities,
of impetuous and wayward youngsters
and of family disagreements."


~Queen Elizabeth II ~

It is Sunday March 6, 2011 and I am at a cafe table in the middle of a mall.  I know, not my "uje", but I thought the shops opened at ten not eleven, so here I am waiting for one of the great sins of our time - the modern shopping mega mall - to lurch to life.

My throat is sore, and I'm congested. Opting for the lesser of the evils I'm having some sort of unsweetened iced drink to try and keep my throat from drying up and dying.  Surprisingly, there is a starling in here, hopping from table to table. Not quite like the cafes of St. Germain, but the bird helps create at least a quirky, if not convincing atmosphere.

It reminds me of the afternoon I spent a few years ago channelling Hemingway at Les Deux Maggots. Ahh, April in Paris! I remember surfacing from the tangled beauty of the Paris metro into a postcard of red geraniums standing at attention in wrought iron window boxes. 

There in the cafe, across from the church, I found a little table under the canopy and began to write. As the afternoon wore on, I managed to make my way through lunch, completely backwards. I began with a cafe americano, followed by an espresso with chocolate cake, followed by chicken, salad, and finally, a lovely glass of french wine.  Actually it was more than one glass of wine, but when you're with Hemingway in spirit, who's counting? 

That was one of the most perfect afternoons of my life, and I'm sure, if you were here beside me sipping a cup of tea and munching on some homemade treaties, the story would take much longer to tell. I would fill in the gaps of the story; like how it was the first time I ever saw geraniums and liked them, that the energy and people in the cafe were amazing, that the waiter was a grey-haired, balding sweetheart whose patience allowed us to converse despite my merciless butchering of his exquisite mother tongue, and why I felt compelled to travel to Paris in the first place.

But this isn't the story I want to tell you. I want to tell you a story that you already know.  After all, what are we but manufactured characters of our own stories?

We go back. Despite our absorption into the individual self, the entertaining tales of our shenanigans in friendship and love are second to the narrative soil of the genes in which we are rooted.  Our mind reaches back in time as tree roots burrow deeper into the rich earth.

Despite our dysfunction, the skeletons tap on the closet doors of our mind and threaten to tumble out along with our heirloom scars.  Despite this delicate balance, we long to know we came from love.  Greater than the shallow love of skin on skin, greater than the dutiful love of being fed and clothed, we long to know we are from a love that binds eternity and purpose.

This morning, enjoying a breakfast of cheese, figs and pastry, a collection of long lost family photos stared back at me from my laptop.  Seven of us, in perfect two-or-three-year-gapped chronological order smiled back at me from my past.  Not one of us was older than 18.  We knew our place in that order, and we held each other up like each thread holds together a tattered blanket.

We knew our stories; That Peter fell asleep under a box on the porch when he was a toddler. Unable to find him, a panicked mom warranted a full search by our local police constable until rolly little Peter stretched and yawned after his nap and inquired as to what the fuss was all about.

And there was quiet Melanie, with her Holly Hobby infatuation and collection of Tetley tea figurines lined up on her bedroom window sill. 

Tim, eldest, quiet, and gentle. Its' funny how the most tender of souls are damaged and lost in the teenaged jungle of feel good temptation.  I looked up to Tim, and I loved him because he was good.

Paula. The second oldest of the crew. Athlete, blond beauty and fashionista. Her dream was to live in the city one day.

Donald. He was my age, but an old soul. Many have said I have an old soul, but if I have an old soul, Donald's was ancient. Even in kindergarten he was repentant. He hummed constantly with the stress of religious guilt.  The other five of us would rib him, but God save you if you weren't blood and wanted to take a swing.  We stuck together.

The baby was Matthew.  He will forever be the image of the curly blond baby holding up the end of the family helix as the seven of us paraded in front of the video camera and up the staircase one Christmas eve.

The group of seven. Sharing stories only the seven of us will know, along with all of the plot twists, treachery and jubilation that all families experience.  But these are our stories; before the drugs, the alcohol, the pill, marriage, divorce, breakdowns, and birthing another generation.

This morning as I ate my breakfast, those seven children looked back at me.  We were smiling. We were innocent. We did come from love. Despite the individuals we are now, and giving the world another generation, we go back, weaving this new blood into the family story.