Sometimes, it's the little things that can keep you apart. You're not sure exactly what happened, or even when, but one day you realize the family has splintered with members going their separate ways.
I figured if little things could tear a family apart, they could just as easily pull a family together.
"Just a little gathering," I told everybody. "No, I'm not sure who else is coming. It's going to be a barbecue though."
I knew that a barbecue would hook them, would get them past needling me for details on who else might come. As far back as I could remember, the barbecue had been the primary family tradition.
Memorial Day. Fourth of July. Summer birthdays. Labor Day. These, more than Thanksgiving or Christmas, had been the pleasurable gatherings, the clan more comfortable when not trapped together indoors. Being outside made it possible to fly kites, chase balls, play hide-and-seek. And those were the adult games. The children waded in pools or dodged water balloons.
Grandparents sat in the shade and talked, talked, talked.
The food came off the grill all day long. You ate when you were hungry, when seats were available. Watermelon was always sliced for the grabbing and various salads hid undisturbed beneath bug screens. Depending on the occasion, the dessert of choice was either homemade ice cream or s'mores.
Why, one might wonder, had the family allowed the planning of these special times to falter and then stop all together? Little things. Little things that came between us.
As everyone started to arrive, I broke the ice by breaking the ice. Questions of why those people had been invited were soon overshadowed by bewilderment as I handed each guest a tiny paper cup filled with crushed ice. "Lemonade or iced tea?"
"This is my cup? Aren't these the ones people put in their bathroom?"
"It's a little gathering. Everything's little. What did you think I meant?"
Bewilderment slowly changed to laughter.
The hamburgers were the size of quarters, served on slices of cocktail bread. The hotdogs were also cocktail size, served on the same bread. Chicken I skipped because people might wonder and crawfish were presented as lobster.
Instead of potato chips, I put out potato sticks. A serving of green salad consisted of half a cherry tomato and a square inch of lettuce. The macaroni salad was made with the tiniest pasta I could find, pasta that poured through the strainer.
The food was the talk of the party as I'd hoped it would be. Family members who hadn't spoken in years were united by their desire to mention how they were on their tenth hamburger or sixteenth cup of lemonade. People couldn't fill their plate and scatter to far corners. They had to stand around, waiting for the next batch of hamburgers to be ready, and conversation resulted.
I took all the kidding that day with good humor because I knew I'd get the last laugh. This little gathering became only the beginning of a family tradition rekindled.