Because I grew up in a bland, East Coast suburb far removed from my Midwestern roots, I rarely met any of my extended family members. Of course, since the invention of the automobile and the airplane, geographical distance only goes so far in explaining the relative dearth of family connections experienced by people such as myself. A certain degree of emotional distance is also to blame. In the case of my parents, this emotional divide was in part the product of self-imposed, alcoholic isolation. Beyond that detail, however, was the fact that the families of my mother and father were unlikely to view one another with any real sense of familiarity, let alone friendliness.
Although neither side of my family was exactly over-populated by cosmopolitan over-achievers, at least my mother’s side included a few professional musicians and artists who lived in real cities like New York. My father’s family, in contrast, was more likely to include professional railroad and carnival workers in Wichita. When my mom’s brother would visit us and we’d all go out to dinner, chances were that he’d wear a well-tailored suit. My dad’s sister, on the other hand, was more inclined to head to the restaurant in her fuzzy pink bath slippers. It was habits like these that bespoke a gaping chasm in world view within my extended family unit…
