Traditions remind me the exchange between Br’er Rabbit and the Tar Baby. They are artificial expectations of happiness formed by the hands of an others. They lack a soul, and a heart of their own, and rely heavily upon exterior participation to validate their existence. As long as you initiate all the effort to maintain status quo, they are just dandy, but the moment, you are tempted to alter anything, even for the benefit of others, you had best prepare yourself for a sticky confrontational mess.

Traditions aren’t bad or good, much like the Tar Baby itself. In my antiquated education of matters religiously significant, I don’t recall a single tutor being perplexed or concerned about original sin affecting common inanimate building materials. Anyone facing the challenge of two part epoxy or super glue, might possess a different opinion, but they aren’t typically men of god, in so much as they are mostly men in spite of god.

I’m beginning to realize it isn’t the spending of time with family that taxes me over the holidays. It is the coordinated effort required to make it happen. I miss the people I won’t dining with this year, just not all the geo-familial-political-bullshit required to initiate dinner.

It was easier as a child when the burden of decision making could only be accessed with a temper tantrum and a step ladder, and even then, you could only depend on having your ass warmed up with a kitchen spatula. There is something to be said for knowing your fate and confronting it like a ten year old. It is efficient and clinical, and if you don’t make an insufferable spectacle of yourself, you will be rewarded with the Wizard of Oz played in its entirety, even though it isn’t over until past your bedtime.

Rather than dwell upon traditions that are inherently evil from the point of view of one in sticky goo up to the elbows…

When I was a kid, we spent Thanksgiving with my father’s family. My mother’s family dominated all the gift-exchanging, egg dying, humidity-soaked holidays, but my father’s family, they were the thankful ones. This tradition required getting dressed in Sunday’s finest, and spending two-and-a-half hours in the car between two surly teenagers, bored shitless, while my father controlled the radio station, and yelled at my brother and sister, “Don’t you stir her up!” (referring to me).

In order to ply the three of us into partial submission for the car trip, my parents would allow all of us to raid the convenience store candy aisle while he filled the car with gas. Elated by the anticipatory high of of a coveted sugar rush,I would choose Jolly Ranchers and chocolate footballs. The footballs were a little larger than Hershey’s kisses, wrapped in copper colored foil, and the sold for a nickel. Today, you couldn’t entice me to eat one. They were chalky, and and stingy with the cocoa, but at age six they were the bomb, because my older brother and sister ate them, and they were a permissible pseudo-chocolate-imitation. What’s not to love?

After the two plus hour car trip we would arrive at my Great Aunt’s house, engage in an hour of polite chit chat peppered with family history, until my aunt announced we should leave for the restaurant. This restaurant served what many southerners would classify as home-cookin’. There was the traditional turkey and ham with all the trimmings, corn bread, turnip or collard greens, fried chicken, canned cranberry sauce, fresh vegetables, and an assortment of meringue pies like you might find in an all-night dinner. My sister and I always chose fried chicken. I’m not anti-turkey, but I don’t feel obligated to observe food restrictions since I am nit jewish or diabetic. The place catered to locals and hunters, once deer season was underway. The floor was covered in cheap linoleum tile, and the buffet had turquoise and lemon yellow lunch trays with faded streaks of gold.

By many standards, this was a “simplistic” dining experience, laking in the frivolities of cloth napkins, and glass drink ware, but that was perfectly okay because my family was overdressed. The food was reliably good, and the manger very accommodating to my Great Aunt’s requests. They would prepare special entrées that adhered to dietary restrictions, they would reserve a table (an unusual practice for this type of restaurant), and they would obtain a centerpiece from the local florist to decorate the table.

My Great Aunt was in her eighties, and one of the last “ladies” I have known. She was a wealth of history and evidence that although you might not change with the times, you don’t rail against others who choose to. I learned much from her about the importance of saying please and thank you.

Following dinner we would return to my aunts for for more conversation, during which my father would sneak down the hall for a post-dinner nap. One at a time, my siblings and I would slip into the bathroom to change into more comfortable clothes, preferable attire that didn’t require stockings and crossing your legs.

My sister and I would go outside with paper sacks and pick up nuts in the pecan grove. If we gathered more than a few pounds, we would sell them to a local pecan company and use the proceeds to stock my parents Christmas stockings. After my sister was old enough to drive, we would leave while the others napped and visit Providence Canyon sometimes hiking to the canyon floor.

By the time we returned, the others would have awakened and occupied the living room in hope anticipation of dessert, a caramel cake commissioned from the local baker especially for the occasion. Sated gastronomically, emotionally and heartily, we would sink into the car drowsily and enjoy the sound of soft snoring on the return trip home.

I’m better at setting goals for myself on the trail than I am in my day to day life. Hence the three palettes of concrete pavers in my front yard covered in fallen leaves. I’m exploring the Tennessee River Gorge Segment of the Cumberland Trail. With each additional trek, I try to hike further. This proves to be difficult now that the days are shorter.

After I reached the Edwards Point Overlook the next logical goal was Mushroom Rock. It seemed reasonable enough, an additional 6.4 miles depending upon whose trail map you believe. The elevation change for this segment isn’t dramatic, maybe a hundred feet, and the trail rises and falls gently

My first attempt was an abysmal failure. At Edwards Point, I lost the trail, and was unable to find the signature white markers. Not to be defeated, I opted to walk several miles into the woods following jeep and atv trails before turning back. I opted for additional map study, prior to my second attempt. The trail continuation was not as obvious as the intersecting jeep trails. This time, I found the trail, but was delayed by three intoxicated locals who wanted to discuss, politics, fermentation characteristics of homemade wine, and the changing leaves. This way a delay I couldn’t recover from, and was forced to turn back twenty minutes before I reached my destination, under threat of the setting sun.

The third attempt, which almost didn’t happen, was this week. I conveyed the details of the hike to the Mister the evening before. Leaving from a closer trailhead, it would be an 11.4 miles, round trip, and the temperature would be between 30 and 40 degrees. On the morning we were set to leave Mister Hombre backed out. Too cold for him. I conceded for an hour, and retired to the sofa with a cup of coffee. In between depressing financial news and cabinet predictions, it occurred to me, had the Mister been at work, I would have hiked in spite of the temperature……so I began gathering my gear, dressing in layers, and filling water bottles.

The Mister asked about my intentions, and I informed him I intended to find Mushroom Rock, and I needed to get moving because I didn’t have daylight to spare since I was leaving late. As is frequently the case with marriage, I threw down the gauntlet and didn’t realize it. Mister Hombre started making sandwiches and finding gloves.

The coldest segment of our hike was from our house to the trailhead. After we reached the swing bridge, our bodies were sufficiently warm for the rest of the day. Most of the leaves had peaked, but a few brilliant trees remained. The trail offered views of the Tennessee river, and the Suck Creek Gorge.

Eventually, Mister Hombre admitted he felt his manhood was being challenged with my declaration to hike without him, which wasn’t the case. I explained, that, barring safety, financial, or relationship issues, I didn’t believe one partner’s lack of participation should prevent the other partner from doing something alone if they chose to.

I like the Mister and enjoy his company. He hasn’t abandon me as a golfing widow, or hunting widow. I know I am a priority. In order for both us to have fulfilling lives, we will need lives together and separate. I don’t want either of us to look back decades from now and say, “My partner held me back because she/he didn’t want to do “XYZ” and would let me do it by myself. I’ve seen that flavor of co-dependance in action. On the surface, its sweet. Two people so devoted to one another they can’t stand to be apart. Beneath the thin sugary shell are bitter control issues between people who want to control their partner’s experience.

After, two miles of the Mister asking, “Are we there yet?”, we found the elusive Mushroom Rock. As I imagined, it resembled a large stack of cow pies, with the largest pie perched on top. It didn’t have any magical healing properties, nor was it spectacular backdrop for a Christmas card. It was simply a goal for a day hiker, and a suitable location to stop for lunch.

Last weekend when the fall colors were at their peak, we invited friends of the Mister’s to spend the weekend with us. It isn’t that they aren’t my friends. I like and accept them for who they are, but I don’t consider them intimate friends, more like acquaintance friends. If for some unforeseen reason things didn’t work out between the Mister and I, he would receive custody.

The woman, G, married into the same family Mister Hombre did. They were attached as outlaws twenty years before I met the Mister. G’s first husband passed unexpectedly, and after his death, the family rejected her, and discontinued most contact. G has always been hurt by the post-death familial excommunication, and nurses her pain extensively like a barfly with a warm beer. She behaves like she would rather be hurt over an incident that occurred over a decade ago than take petty behavior in stride, and focus her attention on her second husband who is alive.

Her husband, D has a marital past of his own and a history of strained relationships. He is more interested in living in the past and telling stories of his glory days rather than engaging in actual conversation. When he isn’t touting his own brilliance, he’s throwing out facts and statistics to demonstrate how intelligent he is.

Spending time with this couple is exhausting. I feel like the designated driver listener. Mr Hombre doesn’t usually engage in pissing contest about one-upmanship, but when challenged by another alpha male on his own turf, all bets are off. This works in much the same way that women are capable of bringing out the worst in one another, after two glasses of chardonnay and a week of picking up their partner’s dirty socks.

The easiest way to sum up a typical visit is to compare it to Groundhog Day. The difference being, there is little in the way of self-examination. We are subjected to the same delusions of grandeur, the same ego building tales of superiority, and the same tragic rejection stories. The same stories don’t resurface every meeting, but the rotation is so limited, seldom will two visits pass without regurgitation.

G constantly complains or gossips about her “former” marital family. Tales about Mister Hombre’s ex or former in-laws of little interest to me. I’d rather be indifferent than artificially fueled to despise people I don’t really know. At this point in the discussion, my soul escapes my body and floats above the room. After G’s slight has been thoroughly dissected, she shifts the subject to D as cuckold in his former marriage. After D is sufficiently rattled, the stories change momentum and he rehashes his entire resumé. Most of the stories designed to display his intelligence seem to involve the belittlement or humiliation of others.

These aren’t bad people. They have numerous redeeming qualities. They are compassionate. They are hard working. They are self-sufficient. They give of their time to others. They practically took Mister Hombre under their wings when he was going through his divorce. Unfortunately their strengths are frequently overshadowed by their self-victimhood, making me equally relieved at their parting as I am at their arrival.

In my past life as a desk jockey, I got a lead from one of our smooth talking, self-righteous, dumb as a box-a-rocks salesmen on a sawmill where I could purchase specialty lumber. I contacted the owner (a gentleman so southern he was practically related to himself) placed an order and drove to pick it up the following day.

The mill owner was a polite, yet curt, and simple in a hard-working pragmatic way. The office I entered to pay my ticket, was covered with faded pictures of country music singers and republican presidents. As I opened the door to leave, I mentioned I worked with his nephew, and thanked him for the transaction.

With no hint of irony, the mill owner replied, “Please don’t judge all Guthries by Buford’s example.”

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It’s difficult not to feel the same way when I consider extended family. I shouldn’t allow myself to feel embarrassed by the actions of others; humans being poorly consummated products of free will. Inevitably, humans dial into to others’ actions, and hold them responsible for either some artificial happiness, or personal satisfaction. As if. Like MY influence could possibly BE that extensive.

*******
The shitty thing about stereotypes, is a significant enough portion of the population engaged in irresponsible behavior which reflected poorly upon an entire sect of people. So, I am related to a stereotype.

*******

Case in point. My cousin had a shotgun wedding over a decade ago. Not a huge deal. Humans are prone to ignore become forgetful in matters regarding birth control. There are more devastating mistakes than having children before you plan them. Yes, his girlfriend at the time was still in high school. No, she did not know she was pregnant until two months before the baby was due (Cue Jerry Springer!). She just thought her ass was getting bigger, and couldn’t understand why she was having such a difficult time getting over the flu. Luckily the State stepped in and provided supportive resources for her and the new baby.

After all, we all suffer from errors in judgement….

The families also pitched in to provide free baby sitting and help with groceries. Young parents are overwhelmed with responsibility and they need the village to help raise the child. Her parents picked up the tab for private school tuition for the baby, and other extras. Family subsidizing, I think its called.

Later, there were two more State sponsored pregnancies. (We need a family planning intervention on aisle five!). Three children, no parental accountability, no basic understanding of financial management. Just an intrinsic ability to say, I want, I want, I want, and perhaps, Oh baby, Oh baby, Oh baby.

The youngest child is two. Miraculously, there now enough extra money in the budget to finance fake boobs for the mother, who already had nice real boobs before going under the knife.

Grrrr.

I don’t know where the money for fake tits came from, nor is it any of my business how they manage their finances….However, I am greatly concerned about how my tax dollars are spent….I would rather not finance self-entitled, irresponsible, cousin marrying (yes, really. third or fourth I believe) ingrates.

There is a support system in place, because there are people who truly comprehend what it is to need, not those who are lazy and merely want.

Currently the walls in the living room are rippling due to the constant vibrato of profanity being carelessly tossed around like a wet towel on the bathroom floor. For once, I am not the one exercising the power of free speech. I’m sitting quietly in the kitchen pretending everything is normal…of course in away it is perfectly normal. Reading and following directions are only as useful as products are universal. Universal fit is a misnomer.

My spouse is in need of either a boyfriend or secretary. I’m not sure which would be the most useful. As long as he doesn’t choose to sleep with either, I couldn’t give a shit which he chooses.

There are large cardboard boxes in the living room, a random collection of screwdrivers, braided picture hanging wire, an endless supply of electronic cables, acorns and a slingshot. There is also a 45 kilogram electronic device with an instruction manual equal in thickness as A-L of the Encyclopedia Britannica series (if you old enough to remember research tools prior to the Google era). Complicating matters further is a specialized piece of furniture with moving parts designed to accommodate and conceal said overweight electronic device. I shall remain in the kitchen with the liquor cabinet accessible should things continue to go, uh, badly.

Marriage vows dictate I return to the living room when paged in order to nod politely, and wedge my hands into crevices his will not reach. If the Mister had a secretary on staff, I wouldn’t be bothered looking for misplaced tools, fetching coffee, finding instruction manuals… If the Mister had a boyfriend, they would have either, (a) finished already or (b) be drinking beer, puzzling over the install, all in the name of male bonding. Not necessarily a bad thing. Both situations would leave me free to roam the studio and finish the work I postponed last week in order to travel.

Installations of all types our cursed in this home. We tend to be the exception rather than the rule. Perhaps adversity fuels tenacity. Or maybe it just the desire for a clean living room.

It’s true. The box is more fun than the toy inside