Mainers

My relatives from Maine are a strange assembly of people. I could do a really long, detailed post about it and analyze exactly how growing up with this bunch of characters affected my father and how that, in turn, affected me. Not gonna do it though. I just want to give you a brief rundown of my family right now:

Conrad: My father. Average-sized man. Full head of hair. White goatee. Tells bad jokes. Drinks coffee with three creams and three sugars. Quotes a lot of Bible verses. Doesn't understand almost any pop culture references, even a little bit.

Tammy: My father's sister. Redneck Ellen DeGeneres.

Roland: Second son. Construction worker. Kills deer, and moose, sometimes. He fell off a roof last February and his left eye still looks smaller to me, like the swelling never went down. Gruff.

Rick: Born Ricky. Legally changed to Jonah. Hairdresser turned banker. Loves his iPhone more than any person should. Flamboyant. Lives in two bedroom apartment with one ex-boyfriend, one fat chihuaha and...well I don't really know what else.

Steve: Unemployed. Divorcing. Beet-red face, from being outside all the time. Beer and cigarettes. Misses his kids. Loves my little white dog. Lives with my Nanna now. Crier.

These are my father and his siblings. They all grew up with an alcoholic lobsterman father and a mother who was probably too young. Now, they are all so very very different from each other. They all live in Maine, except my father, who got religion and went to Gordon College in Massachusetts, became a youth pastor and married the assistant youth leader.

Seeing them all in the same room together is very odd. They get along well enough. My dad is just talkative; he will talk to anybody. Uncle Rick is that gay man we all know: hysterical, probably should use a filter more often. Aunt Tammy makes everyone laugh. Uncle Roland never cracks a smile: he's got that deadpan sense of humor that's kind of scary till you're used to it. Uncle Steve teases everyone, like a child, maybe because he doesn't know how to be a grown up, maybe because it's easier not to take anything seriously. My Nanna bustles around trying to feed everyone and treats them as if they were still little kids, saying things in her backwoods Maine grammar, like, "You gettin' into trouble Connie?" to my father, or "If you wasn't so busy watching that foolish television, maybe your food would still be hot, Steven." They all laugh and joke and fool. To mask the pain, to mask how hard it is, for them all to get together and put aside their issues and their memories and their huge, gaping differences and get along.

I wish I had a conclusion to draw, or even one measly thought to offer up on all I've just written. I don't really. It's just, interesting that's all.