free to be

Roots

Despite having been in TN for almost 10 years, there's no denying my roots. Oddly enough, I have to admit I feel some strange element of pride each time I cross over the Wisconsin Stateline. I know most people out there aren't clamoring for bragging rights over cheese, the cold, the cuisine, or (let's be honest), even the Packers these days. But, nonetheless, going home always feels so good to me. Despite my protests of the blistering cold, I like that we 'survive' the winters; that our wardrobes reflect our preference to be 'warm and frumpy' than 'cold and fashionable'; and that every Sunday during football season is a reason to congregate at Grandma's. I even feel the tiniest bit of acceptance over the animal skins and stuffed birds that dad is beginning to display all over the house. Creepy at times, yes, but enduring in it's own Wisconsin-ish way.

I mentioned briefly that my dad invited the whole Roehrig clan over to his house one evening while Kyle and I were home. As I sat in the midst of my relatives and listened to their laughter, it felt good to be a part of them. I love that they enjoy being together. With Kyle and me living far away, I sometimes forget how it feels to be with them. It isn't until evenings such as this, when I am once again a part of something bigger that I feel that satisfaction and that ache. I love that these people are my family and that one's hurts are the hurts of the whole. I love how they care for each other.

There is one constant that colors every single event for which we have gathered together over the years. It hasn't mattered if the occasion was happy or sad. Even in the midst of loss and grief, I have witnessed how laughter permeates everything. As children, Chris and I used to get sent to our rooms when we'd become hysterical at the dinner table. I could not, no matter how hard I tried, keep the laughter (and at times, the milk) from hurtling past my tightly pressed lips-and when it finally burst forth, it was uncouth, occasionally messy, and always unrestrained. At holidays when we all journeyed to Grandma's, the exact same thing would happen to dad and his siblings with my Grandma (Olga) being the ring leader. The only difference between their outofcontroledness and mine, is that somewhere along they way they all mastered the art of laughing silently. Guests always remark on how everyone's shoulders shake incessantly around the table-the only audible noise is that of people coming up for air. Chris realized early on, that if he could make me laugh when we were fighting, it ruined everything. Surrender always came in the form of one unsuppressed giggle. Therefore, fights typically never lasted long because once I cracked it was over--and I always cracked.

My brief trip home reminded me that I'm proud of where I come from. Sitting outside at dad’s that night as one small part of the whole, filled me up in a place that I’d forgotten. There’s satisfaction journeying across the Stateline because it means coming home to my camo clad family who always make time for each other and who are never without a reason to laugh. Perfect, we are not, but the first time my kids spray milk all over the room in a fit of laughter I’ll see evidence of where they come from and for that, I’ll be proud.