I spent Saturday afternoon in the basement of a tiny country church in eastern Kentucky, surrounded by people with noses and pinky toes just like mine.
Just around sixty of us gathered to eat fried chicken and chicken and dumplings and share photos and memories. The oldest attendees were in their 80s. A handful of blond-headed toddlers wandered between tables. Yellowing black and white photos of steely-eyed boys in overalls mingled alongside Christmas cards marked 2017 on tri-fold boards on tables sporting plastic cloths in UK colors.
It was an emotional day for me. In the space of four years, I’ve said goodbye to my grandfather, my grandmother, and a beloved uncle. All three professed faith in Christ before passing, which has given me a measure of hope that honestly sustains me on my toughest days. And the losses have pulled me closer to my father even as they have broken my heart— so clearly, there have been blessings mingled in with the hurt. And most days, it’s o.k. Most days I’m not feeling the longing for them to still be on this side of heaven. But when confronted with a whole room full of folks asking “Whose girl are you, honey?” and photo after photo of so many people I have loved who have gone forward… I crumbled.
When I finally pulled myself back together, I marveled at what was taking place. My great-grandparents married in about 1920, and spent the next 20-odd years birthing the babies that went on to become a tight-knit clan of five brothers and five sisters. By the time I was born, Poppy—my great-grandfather— was already a widower with white hair living with his youngest son on the side of a mountain that he claimed was “too close to town,” even though it was at least 45 minutes from anything even resembling a municipality. I’m pretty sure it never crossed Poppy’s mind, as he raised his children, that he was planting more than corn in eastern Kentucky.
But he did. Those ten kids grew up, got married, and raised their own kids. Though a handful, like my grandfather, moved north to find work, they all returned home as often as possible and eventually retired in the very hills they walked as children. It’s a pretty common story in the Appalachians— common enough that the term Hillbilly Highway was coined to refer to I-75.
I remember, as a child, reunions that were long and loud and so well-attended that it was easy to get lost in the sea of denim overalls and long skirts and “yun’s stay away from that mule or he’ll bite yer ear off!” Though we didn’t know it then, that was our family’s peak. The original 10 siblings were all still alive (only one remains today). Their kids were all married, and the great-grandchildren were trickling in. I can clearly recall the stinging disappointment of six pans of blackberry cobbler not being enough for everyone to get some, even amidst the Coca-Cola cakes and the banana puddings and chess pies. There was a long line of Dodges and Chryslers stretching up the gravel road for what felt like miles, and no shortage of cousins to play with.
Saturday’s reunion was different. More subdued. It occurred to me that it wasn’t actually the greying of the family that made it so, but the dwindling numbers. Poppy and Nanny had 10 children. Each one of them had far fewer: somewhere between two and four. Of those grandchildren— my father’s generation— the majority had two, but many had one and a few had none at all. My generation has continued the trend. I am the only member of the family, I was told by my great-aunt, to have had more than three children. She admitted that she was jealous of my father because after giving birth to her two girls, she now has one 21 year-old granddaughter.
Looking around that room full of family was bittersweet for many reasons. So many people missing, so much history behind us. But even more, I admit, was the feeling that the legacy of who we are feels like it is in very real danger of dying. People just don’t have reunions anymore, I heard over and over again. I have always wondered why that is, but now I think I know. A reunion should be a huge gathering of the many branches, twigs, and leaves of a root established long ago. Its arms should appear wide, robust, and be bearing visible fruit. Most modern families are less represented by the image of a lush, sprawling oak than by an ornamental vine just now being trained to a trellis. I’m not saying that smaller families are somehow less than larger ones, simply that as a society, we are losing something valuable in our march to plan a population that hovers just below replacement level. We’re losing workers, a diversified economy, a base of health care providers, yes. But really, what we’re losing is so much more personal. It’s realizing that you have the same laugh as your great-aunt. It’s knowing that you were prayed for two generations before you were born. It’s finding out that those branches uniquely grafted by adoption are no different from the others.
It’s family.