Catherine T. Chacon
 
 

The Wedding Reception
It had been years since the three of us had gotten up to sing in front of the family like that. None the less there we were huddled at the microphone, for my aunt Belle's second wedding reception. As I looked out at the crowd, I saw dozens of the faces that had shaped my childhood, my two sisters of coarse being no exception to that. Naturally not everyone was there. Don't get me wrong, that probably wasn't a bad thing. There have only been a few times in history where I can recall all of my mothers family getting together for something. Sure, five or six of the Cancellare siblings and their families would get together once in a while, but all eleven of my aunts and uncles, and all thirty or forty of their kids (I lost count around 1990)...thank God that doesn't happen very often. Taking into account my dads family, which is not as big but big enough, lets just say there has never been a lack of family functions to attend.

As we began our song, the room quieted down and all eyes were on us. My elder sister Jennifer has the most beautiful voice, so she is in the middle of Liz and I. We sang the first few words and a lump developed in my throat, my heart began to hurt. We hadn't sung this song since I was thirteen years old. The words and tune seemed to come back to me like it was just yesterday, but still somehow I knew I would not make it to the end.

A Christmas Celebration
It was 9:00 P.M. on December 24th, 1984. I was seven years old, and yet another famous Cancellare Christmas Eve party was in the mix. Every year my mom would buy all four of us a brand new Christmas outfit to wear to midnight mass, and this blessed family event. Normally I would be thrilled to be buying new clothes, but a dress was a completely different story, and of course my Christmas dress, had to be a dress.

It was times like this that I envied my older brother, Anthony, lookin all comfortable in his new suit. I guess I envied him right up until the time one of my large, muscular uncles would grab his arm, twist it around his back, and demand "Who's your favorite uncle?"

 Being the stubborn ten year old boy that Anthony was, he would screech out, in his high, pre-pubescent little voice, any other name then the one belonging to that selected uncle. This would go on for a while with the grip tightening, and the surrounding laughter being replaced with good advice.

Earlier that night we had all sat down to eat a hardy, mostly Italian dinner. The grown-ups sat at the grown-up table (as it was well known by all), and everyone under the age of 16 sat at the kids table. We would say slightly rushed, although rather extensive prayers, serve ourselves and dig in. My grandmother, the head of the entire unruly clan, Nana (as she was well known by all), had cooked up a masterpiece once again. Of course she would never allow herself to admit it. "The lasagna is burned" or "The salad is soggy" she would interject between shouts of praise from around the two tables. I myself never got a burned piece of lasagna or an old piece of lettuce, and somehow, I doubt anyone else ever did either. " Who ever eats the fastest gets the most," was generally the rule of thumb around that house, and that's the way it went.

When the kids from the kids table, were done eating, we were quickly hustled out the door to take an after dinner walk around the block, or to go play tag outside, or hide-n-seek, outside. Basically, they wanted us outside. Well, our outside game lasted all of 15 minutes before someone had slammed into a wall and was bleeding or something. Meanwhile, inside my grandfather had just finished reciting his favorite poem, Face On The Bar Room Floor. Now it was the kids turn to entertain (as if we hadn't done enough already). A bunch of us cousins would go to the back room to plan a little show for everyone. After about thirty minutes of arguing about what to do, it was down to just us four (me, my two sisters, and my brother). Everyone else had gone off to play a different game or something. No big deal or anything, my older sister and brother had all the brains we needed to organize a show. Besides, we were the only talented ones in the family anyway.

We decided to sing a song we had heard Kermit the Frog sing in The Muppet Movie. Jen would lead, Liz and I would follow, and Anthony would direct (he was always the comic relief of our shows). So the four of us got out to the middle of the living room, waited for the ever so dramatic introduction, and began. I loved performing for my family, and this performance was to become the favorite of my Nana. She loved this song, and we made her very happy. So that is how it went, year in and year out, one big crazy, and most importantly (what seemed to me), a happy family.

My Memorial
Years later, I sat by Nana as she lay dying of lung cancer. She was not the same woman, and the family that sat around me, was not the same family. During the four months my grandmother had spent in and out of the hospital, my picturesque family had disappeared, and reality had slugged me in the face. Half of my "loving" family had not really ever gotten along. Unbeknownst to me, they had simply tolerated each other out of respect for Nana. Of coarse I was aware of the wide spread drinking habit in the family, but it wasn't until Nana's terminal diagnosis, that my aunts and uncles began to slip, and the information finally leaked from the adult table to the kids table. Drug abuse, domestic violence, and the list went on and on. All I could hope was that when my Nana recovered, everything would go back to normal. Surely, I could forget all I had learned. I would forget it.

I remember my last visit to that ICU room. I went with my mom, two sisters and brother to see Nana. The hospital would only let us in sometimes because we were too young and could still be carrying diseases, or something like that. So this must have been a special day. We went in there and some of my aunts and uncles were already there. It looked as though my Nana had aged decades since the last time I had seen her, but I was still not ready to face the reality of the situation. My uncle suggested we sing her song, The Rainbow Connection. And so we did. About half way through the song a tear rolled down my grandmothers almost still life face, and my sisters voice cracked. All I could think about was how I had not gotten my time with Nana. She could not die yet, it was too soon, the family needed her too much. I would just wait for the recovery.

Only, Nana did not recover, and on January 12, the phone rang, my mother answered, said "OK," hung up, and turned to me, "Nana is dead". I couldn't believe it. I mean, after nearly a year of suffering the shock was not the death of my grandmother, rather the death of my perfect childhood. Things would never be the same.
 

***
As I stood there in front of my family members, my aunt looking just beautiful in her wedding gown, I sang Nana's song. Six years had passed since that day in the hospital room, and I had been right, things were never the same. As we come up on the second verse, I can hear the newest cousins yelling and running around outside, my eight year old brother among them. He will never know Nana, or the family of the past. But I watch him at family get togethers and he is happy, and more then that, I am happy. My grandfather still lives at "Nana's house " ( as it was, and still is well known by all ), and that is where the family gathers. We were holding the last note when I looked out at the crowd once again. Not one dry eye in the place. Nana lived on in our memories, and most importantly will always be there to listen to her song.
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