Throughout my life, we had a family reunion at one of my paternal aunts. In my family, aunts are called Matante. Uncles are simply Uncle. And our grandparents were Memere and Pepere. Neither the pronunciation nor spelling is pure from a modern French perspective, but our family devotion to these words represents a connection to the French heritage in my family.

This heritage, I have learned, has much in common with Franco-Canadiens, including the lack of a clear origin story. Perhaps that explains in part why the reinforcement of the broader family understanding is important. But that’s too heady for this post. This post is about the effects of family and a family’s tradition.

Our family simply called the cookout “The Fourth” as if the holiday were reserved expressly for us. With 40 cousins, it is not easy to get together in one place. And as people age and have their own families, the base of the party is eventually spread too thin. This year one of my cousins presented the news that it was no longer possible to have the cook-out remain a fixture on our calendar. The Fourth was essentially cancelled.

I live 3,000 miles from this event. I have not attended in years. Yet, the end of an era is big deal, and this reverberated to me all the way across the US. I felt guilt and sadness. Guilt because I could not help sustain this institution and sadness for the loss of opportunity to see my cousins, even though this was really just the memory of seeing them in the past. The ongoing “Fourth” represented a possibility of reconnecting even when the actual connection was not possible or taken advantage of.

I prefer, through much retraining of my brain, to think of this as beautiful opportunity to remember the joy and goodness of the event. And I also think of this moment as an opportunity to recall some of those memories and the impact they had on me.

I do not ever remember saying thank you to the hosts of the party. I don’t think this is a bad thing. It was such a part of my life from such an early age that you just take it for granted. Saying thank you would, in some way, betray it as some kind of out-of-the-ordinary event. And while it was all that, saying good-bye seemed adequate and at the same time difficult enough. You just didn’t want the day to end.

I’m sure the yard where all this took place is smaller than I remember. Isn’t that how the memory of something grand works? But the place it resides in my heart is big. And I don’t want to diminish that.

I am fifty years old and I attended this cook-outs throughout my childhood, on through college, and into my 20s. My Memere and Pepere have passed away along with cousins, uncles and aunts. The matriarch of the Hamel family, Matante Connie, is still alive but suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. I can only guess at her age, but she is my father’s older sister and he is 74. I mention this to reinforce that we are not talking about some mere decade of tradition, but rather more than 5 decades that I, myself, know about. I have no idea what the genesis of event was. Or, what is true versus the failings of my own memory. I don’t want this to represent the “historical” record of the event but instead offer it as my personal memory.

With that disclaimer, I submit some of the memories for “the fourth” and also some of the broader and loving memories I have for the childhood time I spent in Otter River, MA.

It is clear from the tone of your letter that this was not an easy decision, and that speaks only a little to the impact that the cook-out had on our lives. I understand all the points you made about how it has become difficult. I live in WA and getting together with my family is not easy either. But what a run this cook-out has had! I say celebrate that fact. Perhaps the Hamel cook-out was modeled after another cook-out but the Connie and Alec cook-out is the standard bearer for success in my life and probably my siblings (though I am not sure they like it when I speak for them).

But guess where that comes from? It comes in part from the values that were communicated to us at events like the cookout.

I remember seeing my cousin Brian absolutely killing it as he tried to capture a greased up watermelon at the town “pool”. Why it was called a pool? That I don’t know. But Brian was a competitor. He was nothing but wiry energy who just got after it. But so did a dozen other kids just like him. I don’t know if he won, but the watermelon put up a good fight.

I remember pining for the day when I would be able to swim out to the raft.

I remember greased up baseball gloves, singing along to records with headphones, and a player piano (A FREAKIN PLAYER PIANO!). I remember Uncle George and a guitar. And rousing choruses of the groove to Sunshine of your Love.

I remember dignity, too. I remember Memere and Pepere and then new Memeres and Peperes. I remember them taking positions in folding chairs and then having audiences with anyone who chose to sit down near them.

I remember sitting in the back of my dad’s pick-up always at the tail the Rutland parade that I would later march in as a member of local band. A junker of a truck, it was the transportation for our family. We fit everyone in the cab at times. It was literally hot-wired. I learned to drive that truck later and it had standard on the column. What a nightmare. I also learned how to open the hood and bang the linkage when you got stuck in reverse.

I remember fireworks. Not pleasantly but that’s my problem.

I just remember it as the highlight of my summer – a never disappointing event that allowed me to interact with my family. I had no idea how odd it was for an in-law to be so comfortable in the other family. My mother was welcome there and as comfortable as a Langlois. She stayed with us at the Hamel resort during our summer vacation, when my father was working. That seemed normal to me.

Thanks for all that.

Love,
Fran