Family Trees

It was late one evening in my once-a-week graduate class with the lofty name of Family Systems. We were talking about family trees, but not the kind that genealogists draw as they trace the generations through the years.  We were talking about other things that make up family trees- the thousands of small events that grow and spread and intertwine our lives like the hundreds of leaves on a grove of oak trees. That evening’s topic was Family Rituals. We had no idea what that meant.  Were we going to talk about Bar Mitzvahs, Baptisms, Quinceañeras?  Our professor could tell that she was not getting through to our overloaded brains, weary as we were with work, family, commuting and studies.  Instead of quoting a research article, she shared a story. We settled in to listen, anticipating a dramatic life-changing saga. Her typically stern face grew soft, and her eyes turned misty with a memory-picture from her childhood. She began the story of… an orange peel.

Every evening just before bedtime, her dad would peel an orange.  With her by his side, he would stand over the trash can, a pen knife in one hand, an orange in the other. As the soft skin spiraled down into the can, the two of them would talk. The sweet smell of the orange drifted up from the orange segments that they shared, one for him, one for her, one for him, one for her…  The juice ran down their chins and the conversation continued.  They wiped their hands, he folded up his knife, and she headed off to get ready for bed.  She can’t recall what they talked about, yet every time she smells an orange she thinks of her dad, and that minutes-long nightly routine of peeling and eating an orange.  That, she said, is a family ritual.  Without the need for a textbook, a family counseling session or a video on good parenting (none of which her father had ever read, enrolled in, or watched), a nurturing bond was established. Their lives intertwined.  Their family tree grew.

The ice was broken as we recalled rituals or routines.  Not one memory was of a graduation, a wedding, or a momentous vacation. My story was also an ordinary one. Just after dark on many hot summer nights, my dad and I would hop into his little green car (He worked for the Power Company.)  He would hand me a notebook, a pencil and a flashlight and we would ride around the city streets looking for overloaded transformers.  When he saw a glowing red transformer light, he would call out the pole number. I would turn on the flashlight, grab my pencil and write the number in my notebook. After about an hour, we would head for home. All these years later I can still smell the dusty, oily smell of his car.  I can feel the warm breeze coming through the windows, and I can hear his voice calling out the numbers.  Only as an adult did I realize that he could have done this job much faster by himself.  He was not teaching me about the power grid. He was showing me with his actions and his time that I was important to him. One day I asked my own children for some childhood memories. I didn’t hear one story of a graduation or a Christmas present.  I heard stories about canning plum jelly, listening to books- on-tape, and eating slugger sandwiches (Don’t ask). Each story described something that we did together. Simple stories; powerful family rituals.

 These are just a few of the many leaves on our family tree. If you were to draw this tree, you would see green and orange and red and brown.  You couldn’t tell where one leaf left off and another began. You’d see some sturdy trunks, several of them, for our family includes friends as well. You’d see a few split limbs and some areas that need watering. You’d see these trees growing and changing, bending and sometimes breaking.  You’d see new growth amid old brown leaves about to fall.  If you look closely, you might see a tiny green car, a red plum, a half-eaten sandwich. If you listen, you might hear the sound of a voice reading a book-on-tape.

We teach others with words.  We share extraordinary moments together, events that mark important life passages.  The power of family is also found amid the small daily routines that we share. 

What we have loved, others will love. And we will teach them how. William Wordsworth

I’ve never much liked the drawings of family trees that I see in genealogy collections. While I respect the hard work and research that goes into them, they’re much too formal for me, with their charts and their dates marking births, deaths, marriages, and children. There’s so much more to our families. The boundaries of who is and is not family become blurry the more we make room for others to enter our lives.   Family bonds are not established only with those with whom we share a familial tie.  Family means relationships, and relationships are made up of hundreds of shared times. They need a picture that reflects color, depth, detail and beauty. This tile depicts three live oak trees that are just down the hill from my house.  At the ground level, you can see the distinct tree trunks, but above, where the branches intertwine and the hundreds of leaves overlap, the details get blurry. It is hard to pick out which tree is which—and it doesn’t matter.  These slow-growing live oaks are old, much older than I, and they will be around for a few more decades, I hope.  They grow together, a picture of relationships, enmeshed but distinct, strong and vital, green and growing.

As you read these stories of family rituals, what memory came to mind?  Something from long ago? Something from last week?  Take a few moments to think about the small routines and rituals that enrich your life.  Give thanks for them. Create new ones.