We got to the Poconos with the Jersey Gang on Friday night, just in time for supper at a restaurant with the worst service. Wll, maybe not the worst, but close. With nine of us around the table, the waitress took the dinner orders of six people and left. We had to ask another waitress to get her to come back. She forgot to bring us our salads and several of our drinks. We tipped her anyway.
We spent the rest of the evening around a campfire setting off fireworks and recalling adventures that were appropriate for teenagers to hear. Peyton loved it. We took a hike and the men talked politics, so Peyton and I walked on ahead because we weren't in the mood for politics.
She got to hear more stories about the Jersey Gang -- several of whom her Grandpa has been friends with for 48 years. She says she had a really good time.
Today we came to New Jersey and visited Rob's cousin, Don, for lunch, and then cousins Fred and Irene for dinner. There have been some incredibly colorful people on Rob's father's side of the family -- the grandmother who never learned English and was furious with any grandchild who wouldn't learn Russian. There was one story that ended with a bunch of family members throwing stones at a sister because they thought she was trying to gain control of the family home. There was Aunt Julia, who outlived five husbands. And Peyton listened to all of it. She called her father and reminded him of a career suggestion from Rob's Uncle Mick when Danny was 13.
"You should be a clown chef," Mick said.
Apparently, that was something popular in New York City in the 1930s.
When Peyton asked why he never became a clown chef, Danny laughed and said he wished he could have spent the evening with us and heard those stories again.
Tomorrow and for the next few days, she'll hear stories about my side of the family. We're probably not as colorful as Rob's side of the family, but it's about the history. It's about where we came from. How can we know who we are without understanding where we came from?
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