On Saturday my parents stuffed the contents of their house and barn (of 25 years) into a giant u-haul and drove the two hours to their new house which happens to be three miles down the road from our house. As they drove by our place, my children lined the road and waved wildly. My younger daughter threw rose petals.

The next afternoon, we (my brother, my cousin’s fam, and our crew) met at the new house to unload the truck. I offended my husband’s sensibilities by standing around too much. But someone’s got to take the pictures, patrol the donut box, and patch the wounds inflicted by the an unfortunate blend of flip-flops, slippery metal, and careless hurry-scurrying! And anyway, even without my hauling prowess, the truck was emptied in a fast two hours.

Yesterday I stopped by with the kids and a plate of going-stale-but-still-okay maple pecan scones. The giant windows were open, filling the house with the gentle purring of breeze-ruffled trees. The mid-afternoon sun dappled the fresh white walls and the crazy-tall mountains of boxes. I found my mother in the back bedroom unpacking clothes into the white antique chifforobe.

“We live here,” she chortled. “We actually live here now!”

This same time, years previous: contradictions and cream, holding the baby, my new baby, and pear butterscotch pie.

This same time, years previous: catching our breath, it’s for real, one foggy morning, maple sugar and cinnamon popcorn, when the parenting gets fun, rustic cornmeal soup with beet greens, playful shenanigans, a touchy subject, Edna Ruth Byler’s potato dough, and sweet rolls.

Last weekend, the women of my mother’s family gathered at my aunt’s house for the annual soiree. There were twelve of us in all—cousins, sisters-in-law, aunts, nieces, sisters, mothers, etc—plus one little boy baby.

This year I was more excited for the soiree than ever before. Normally, leaving my nest makes me downright grumpy, but this time I was nearly giddy with anticipation. Perhaps it was because I was leaving behind a family that is more self-sufficient than it’s ever been. Maybe it’s because all I had to take was myself and a change of clothes. Maybe it’s because we were under orders not to dress-up which relieved my country bumpkin self. Maybe it’s because I knew there would be wine and coffee. Whatever the reason, I woke up at five on Saturday morning and couldn’t get back to sleep because I was so ready to go.

Earlier in the week I tried to explain my unusually abundant and ever mounting enthusiasm for the weekend’s plans to my friend.

“It’s just that this is different,” I said. “It’s not like a group of girlfriends getting together. This is the women in my family. I think it’s kind of unique and special.”

My friend laughed and said, “Well, that’s an understatement.”

Highlights included:
*Getting waited on hand and foot. Literally. I had my first manicure and pedicure. My aunt bought out the beauty bar for two hours and let us have at it.
*Talking—shrieking—about sex until 2:30 a.m. with the attic-n-air mattress girls.
*The cream pudding and lemon curd dessert served in real eggshells. Also, anise pound cake, a.k.a.toast.
*Sneaking the rest of the chocolate-covered pretzels after everyone else ate a moderate amount.
*Taking two-and-a-half hours to eat dinner in the dark on a deck overlooking the river. Also, the mushroom risotto and popcorn pots de creme.
*Getting locked in the parking garage.
*Watching my glowing sis-in-law with a perfect baby bump score almost every single piece of my aunt’s cast-off clothing. (I made off with a wicked leather coat.)
*Gathering in the sunroom first thing Sunday morning for coffee.
*Feasting on bread: jalapeño, spinach-cheese, cinnamon raisin, chocolate broiche.
*Watching my aunt open her varied hostess gifts: everything from a head scratcher to a giant pumpkin.

From other soirees: 2012, 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008

This same time, years previous: a lesson I’d rather skip, the quotidian (10.1.12), because reading books is dangerous, pulled braised beef, and comparisons.