Standard American Family

A Short Story

The footprints leading up to the door are many, too many. Sizes range from 13 to 3 and my mind churns trying to connect each pattern to a person; I’m desperately trying to understand what I’m getting myself into. My ears burn as the wind whips around me, the type of burn that only graces a human when it’s too cold to feel that it’s cold. In fact it might be the only thing encouraging me to start walking to the door. I can hear the compression of the snow beneath me as my shoes bury into the walkway, becoming just another footprint in the sea of them. Just then, a beam of light washes over the house from behind me, and the reflection of the snow leaves me incapacitated. I turn around to see LED headlights that seem to have truly harnessed the power of the sun. The black SUV parks and as I adjust to my surroundings I can start to make out who it is.

Looks like the Jacksons, I think to myself.

I have about 12 seconds to make it to that door lest I get ambushed. A conversation alone in the cold is too much right now. My pace to the door picks up while my mind races trying to formulate a game plan with what I should do once the door opens. Before I’m even able to hatch half a plan I can feel my hand knock on the door. A yellow gleam of light bursts out as the door creaks open. Aunt Trish opens the door, which is a relief. She’s one of the easier family members to talk to. She’s short, at 5 '2”, but isn’t eager to prove that she’s tall in personality, which is the true marker of her tall personality. Her tucked-in white T-shirt and boot cut blue jeans paired with her blue eyes and flowing blonde hair almost have her look as if she’s an off-duty country singer.

“Andy! Oh, you brought wine,” she says with a mix of confusion and excitement. What she’s confused by and what she’s excited by I can’t tell.

“Hey Aunt Trish, Merry Christmas,” I say. My voice rising 2 octaves when I say it. I don’t know why I speak so differently around family members. It’s a sing-songy half-shout that I’m aware of but yet can’t seem to control.

“Coats go right there and shoes right there. I’ll take this,” she says as she quickly points at a pile of shoes and coats that have no order to them, and takes my wine. The wine was a purposeful gift. As the youngest in the family you have to work extra hard to be seen as an adult rather than an old kid. And alcohol is the easiest way to cross that bridge. While Aunt Trish goes to close the door we hear a faint yell:

“Hold it open please!” yells Stew Jackson. The stodgy middle aged father of the Jackson family. It’s always just him and his wife. The kids never come.

I swiftly slip back through the entry hallway. I’m reminded why I don’t like no-shoe households as I slip down the freshly mopped hallway. I can hear the faint voices get louder and louder as I slide closer to the end. The hallway is lined with photos encased in old frames, and there’s not a speck of dust on any of them. Most of the photos are just variations of Aunt Trish and Uncle James’ Standard American Family posing together. Lacrosse games, vacations; you can tell that the smiles are being forced out of the children. The hallway comes to a close as it opens into an open floor plan that consists of the family room, dining room, and kitchen. The smell of appetizers mixed with Christmas themed candles hits you in full force. The Chicago Bears vs Green Bay Packers game is on the television which is where the men are silently huddled. The Television Game is a necessity at our family gatherings. It’s the perfect excuse to not talk if you don’t feel like it. If you’re a talker you can head over to the dining room. The women sit in the dining room laughing and celebrating my cousin getting accepted to Med School. Before jumping into the fray I look back and notice Stew hasn’t even taken his jacket off yet. Aunt Trish politely nods along to whatever he’s saying.

I’m a TV huddler through and through. Growing up, the go-to when at a family gathering was to lean into the goofy and the silly. To give a hurried hello and then play sports in the backyard. Coming back when the food is ready. Growing up the meetings become more scarce and the interactions shift. People change and evolve with the years to the point that it might as well be a new family. The solution? Make small talk about college, reminisce about the past, loosen up with a drink, and embrace the new normal. They’re family after all.

Immediately after finding my spot in the blowout we’re calling a football game, time stops. We hear a collage of sounds crash down on us from the kitchen. A collection of gasps, clanging metal, and deep thuds. Our grandfather fell. The 83 year old head of our house has fallen. Every family has its “head.” The reverence for this person transcends any awkwardness. The cherishment for the conversations with them are probably the only thing that every single person in that room has in common. It’s always scary when an elderly person falls. About 0.86 seconds after we hear the sound everyone rushes to the kitchen. Roasted potatoes scatter the floor while the oven stays open pumping 450 degree air into the kitchen.

“Touchdown Bears! What a play!” yells the announcer on TV. It cuts through the worry that has taken a hold on the house. Some people quickly glance at the TV in curiosity, but the concern remains. My uncle takes the lead on helping him up.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, it's nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

There’s no response to the final question, only dismissal. A classic move of our grandfather. Some assist him to a seat while others clean up the area. We get him up and he’s rattled but he’s okay. The panic subsides while the shock still hangs in the air. No one really knows what to say or how to go back to normal. We try to go back to the TV and our separate conversations but there’s a thickness in the atmosphere that makes it difficult for our words to travel. We’re happy though. Stunned, confused, and many other emotions, but also happy. That this is our family, our Standard American Family. One in which we annoy each other, only see each other twice a year at Thanksgiving and Christmas, but rush to each other’s side if needed. What more can you ask for?