A couple Saturday nights ago, I gathered by Zoom with my sister, Sonja, and her two sons, Ben and Tim, and daughter-in-law Lori. Borne of the exigencies of COVID when a summer reunion proved unwise, this conversation was maybe our tenth such Saturday evening confab in the last two years.
Early on, Ben suggested that we identify a topic for each call—based on something we all read or heard. We’ve taken turns suggesting background material: a short story; online museum exhibits; Native origin stories; aging; housing needs. Our conversations dance through and around those topics and sometimes touch on the week’s biggest stories. But not a lot. We try to wrestle faithfully with the theme for the evening.
Afterwards, I was struck by how much and how little our occasional Saturday conclaves resembled family letters from my past.
My dad’s family, the Sherfys, loved words. His father attended the Church of the Brethren seminary and prepared sermons the rest of his life. My dad and his three siblings all went to college—teachers in the making. My mom was one of two siblings among her eight who also put herself through college and taught school for almost a decade. My growing up was word and idea rich, grammatically correct and language colorful.
And for as long as I can remember, my parents received a fat envelope stuffed with an assortment of letters—different stationery, handwritten, typed. The Circle Letter—a “chain” letter circulated among my dad, his three siblings, and his mother. The siblings themselves didn’t always write; sometimes a spouse pinch hit. The deal was that when the Letter arrived you removed your old missive, read the remaining letters, and added a new note to the packet. In that era of frugality, you weighed the new bundle, added just the right postage, and sent it on to the next person on the list. There was a suggested deadline for writing and forwarding the whole parcel.
As grandchildren began attending college and striking out into the world, Aunt Ethel, my dad’s older sister, expanded the Circle Letter. It included the original participants and added in the growing-up group of next generation adults. All the same procedures applied.
But, the Circle Letter soon acquired complications. Chief among those, of course, was general tardiness and discombobulation among the younger set. We thought we were too busy with school and new careers to take corresponding with others as seriously. We lost the whole bundle once in a while. And we all dreaded notes or calls from Aunt Ethel or, god forbid our own parents, on the hunt for the irresponsible culprit. (The culprit didn’t always fess up.) When the Letter made its rounds, news was often significantly dated.
My memory’s a little dim here, but I think as the original four siblings grew older, they created their own Square Letter—rather than pestering the rest of us to participate responsibly in the Circle version.
Our Saturday night Zoom calls don’t have a name—a geometric identity. They span two generations and occur, once more, among folks for whom words and thoughts are the coin of the realm. The Sherfys and the Griffiths. Two PhDs, several Masters, a law degree, a nursing and divinity degree. The “youngsters” all children of parents who placed great stock in thinking and speaking well. So far, we’ve been able to hold our calls to fit everyone’s schedules. We usually talk for an hour-and-a-half or two. And settle on the month that might work for the next call.
Like the Circle Letter, our Zoom calls keep us in touch. With the added benefit of hearing each other’s voices and seeing how we look. The topical framework steers us away from cocktail hour conversations that linger on weather or Trump or Covid. Although we give in periodically to banality.
What we gain especially from our real-time visits is the interplay of ideas, debate, questions that need more consideration. We are learning a bit about how each of us thinks. Our passions. Our vulnerabilities. What pushes our buttons. Who voices their ideas quickly. Who hangs back a bit. Who thinks as a teacher might. Who is dazzlingly well-read. Who remembers what they’ve read!!
Oddly, we may find it harder to tell each other about important changes in our lives—maybe harder than putting that news in writing. We almost didn’t learn that Lori had been hired for a great new job. We are still shy with each other. And likely a bit reluctant to be emotional. But then those written round-robin letters were themselves carefully staged. We kept up family standards and imageries–gussying up our lives a bit for each other. Mildly competitive. For sure avoiding tricky issues. I was not inclined, for instance, to describe the lovely Manhattans I enjoyed during Friday night cocktail hour. Or Christmas on the Blue Ridge Parkway with Bob when there was clearly no ring involved. Or, explaining what galvanized me to seek extra help during my first fear-filled year in grad school: set against the high bar already established by most Sherfy cousins.
On balance, though, I think we’ve edged closer to being real in our Zoom sessions than we would in writing. Our Saturday night gatherings bring us into each other’s homes. A dish of ice cream and comfortable chairs ringed around one of our living rooms would be wonderful. But even so—for sure with more fellowship than transcontinental travel would allow—we’ve come to be comfortable with each other. And for me, to gain deep respect and flat-out joy in learning to know my family–most especially that next generation—better than I ever might have in writing. ©
