Hailing from a family that honors most traditions of the Democratic Party, we don’t discuss our differences. As sophisticates, we prefer the less confrontational posture of bearing grudges. For years. Seven years ago when I was departing Baltimore after decamping for a burp-length visit, I telephoned a certain sister, as had been my weekly custom during my Baltimore days. We spoke at such length that I had to shave again before we hung up. A week later when I was in her neighborhood, on my way back home, I started to dial her. Pop discouraged me on the grounds that I would be limited to a monologue. Why? He wasn’t clear, mostly because he didn’t respond. That was in late 1999.
A Century Here, a Century There
This sister and I have not spoken in this century, and I still have no idea why she has engineered a boycott. Several years earlier, when our family was at the cemetery to bury my younger brother, one among us was missing. As far as I knew, no one had spoken to her or heard from her in years. Unbeknownst to me, this sister, estranged, was standing near a giant tree at a great distance from my brother’s gravesite. She was far enough away not to be noticed but close enough to bid fare-thee-well to a sibling she had worshipped. By this rather mature stage of my life, I was beginning to understand why Mom and Pop had seven children. No matter the number of estrangements, one or two of us should always have someone to share with. The 25th anniversary of Mom’s death is coming up. I suppose I am too late in wishing that we had a larger family since disagreements are reaching epidemic levels.
Pro-Choice? What a Poor Choice
As for the sister who decided last Sunday that we had talked enough to last a lifetime, hers or mine, I have a clue to the cause. My wife reminded me that my sister was steaming the last time that a health scare by Pop brought us together on the telephone. Once we had waded through warm-up topics, we swam into the shark-infested waters of illegal immigration. Shamefully, she is affiliated with a group of questionable morality that shields illegal immigrants. Of such volatile components are spirited family conversations made. Donning my shopworn mantle of brotherly diplomacy, I suggested alternative avocations that any objective grown person would recognize as worthier than harboring criminals. What followed on the far end of the telephone wire would only be described as pretty by one who abhors tranquility.
