Last year my oldest daughter Tanya organized the first reunion of our combined families, which began auspiciously on the summer solstice. We converged in a gigantic faux-American log cabin lodge in the hills near the heart of Dollyland, approximately forty of us. There were assorted brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. The highlight of the reunion was to be a whitewater rafting trip down the Pigeon River. So far, so good.
A few days into the reunion I was sleeping off the effects of eight Cuba Libres, stretched out on a king-sized mattress, part of a rough-hewn lumber canopy bed in a spacious back bedroom. I dreamt that I was Tim Considine of "Spin and Marty" fame. Deep in REM sleep (in my virtual birthday suit) I wore a mad Stetson hat, chaps, and spurs, awaiting the arrival of Annette Funicello in her prime, who, it was understood in the Alice in Wonderland patois of dreams, would join me, in the Biblical sense.
In dreamscape I watched in awe as Annette slipped into my room attired in her trademark cowgirl outfit: fringed knee-length skirt, white tooled boots, white kid gloves, and fetching cowgirl chapeau with drawstring drawn tightly against her chin. She kicked off her costly boots and giggled coyly at my saluting member. The stage was set, with my metaphorical May pole in the homo erectus mode and ready for glove.
Then methought the air grew denser, not perfumely censered but "fairly blued" as Walt Kelly would have it, for a hideous commotion had arisen from the adjoining main room. An extremely disappointed, pouting Annette faded away like drifting smoke as I was rudely awakened by a blood-curdling Rebel yell, an instantly sobering experience to a Yankee in the wilds of Tennessee.
I slid off the regal mattress, and had the brief sensation of falling, as the business end of the mattress was nearly five feet above the hardwood floor. A bit shaken, I shuffled off to the bathroom, still tumescent, but with a distended bladder, another victim of the infamous "piss hard-on.”
Standing before a pedestalled replica of Elvis's throne I did my best to get a downward working angle on the porcelain bowl, but to no avail. I was forced to stand tip-toe at the windowsill and micturate through the screen, much to the consternation of several middle-aged matrons who were sunning themselves on the deck of the neighboring lodge. I gave them a metaphorical tip of the old Hatlo hat, but they were not amused. A thousand curses upon you, Annette.
I washed my hand, splashed cold water on my face, toweled and donned a pair of shorts, a Michigan State Spartans tee-shirt and my trusty Doc Martens. By now the shouting from the main room had risen a good ten decibels. I gently cracked open the bedroom door, wary of the impact of an iron skillet or a custom-drilled bowling ball. The bizarre scene without was reminiscent of a classic Ma and Pa Kettle movie in which the principals are eighteen sheets to the wind on moonshine and hog jowls.
The air of the cavernous main room was thick and tense, trouble brewing and boiling over. A veritable blood feud was in progress, objects flying willy-nilly through the air, kinfolk ducking and cursing. I slithered in, maintaining a low profile behind a huge oak table festooned with heavy oak captain's chairs, and watched in silent awe as the true meaning of Einstein's Fear of Relatives manifested itself in ordinary reality.
Roger, a towering inbred mutant from the hills of Kentucky, was squaring off on my estranged wife Kathleen, his fist clenched and his arm drawn back for the knock-out blow. Instant adrenaline rush. I grabbed a massive captain's chair and upended it, intent on bashing in Roger's alleged brains, but was brushed aside by my two sons-in-law Steve and Jeff, prodigious lads of Italian-vanilla extract, known affectionately in our clan as "The Barbarian Brothers.” The boys waded in and efficiently neutralized the not-so-jolly Roger, who stammered and sputtered in the characteristic, inarticulate rage of the slack-jawed ridge runner.
Roger’s feral wife, my inbred niece Treena, instantly went berzerk, screaming obscenities at my wife, her progeny, and all her ilk. Treena grabbed a five pound glass millefiore paperweight off a coffee table, hefting it in one hand, surveying the room for a suitable target. Her darting reptilian tongue protruding between a pair of thin, bloodless lips, the red light of murder in her eyes, she settled upon your humble narrator. Rearing back a la Nolan Ryan, Treena hurled the costly Venetian paperweight at my punkin head.
I ducked in the nick of time. The well-aimed glass missile (reflecting much practice) crashed through a convenient window and ricocheted off the back deck into the woods fifty feet below, sending legions of angrily chattering black squirrels scrambling for their furry little lives.
Treena bared her teeth in rage and charged me, but my seventeen year old daughter Sarah executed a magnificent karate kick to Treena's left knee and my would-be executioner hit the floor like a turd from a tall cow's ass, breathless, cross-eyed and quietly moaning. Roger managed to free one arm long enough to take a swing at Sarah, but she calmly stepped out of harm’s way, side-kicking him squarely in the solar plexus with the momentum of a trip hammer. Roger grunted and went down gracefully, much like Monica Lewinsky in a powder-blue dress. He skillfully puked semi-digested pizza, cheese Doritos and Bud Light all over his brand spanking new bib overalls.
The party was in full progress now and we were all obliged to repair to the great outdoors where there was more room for the donnybrook that ensued. I grabbed a disposable camera, a Grolsch, and a joint, and then found a good vantage point on the front porch. I chilled out on a massive Granny rocker, watching the ear-splitting carnage with great amusement. The impressive exhibition of windmilling fists, cursing, kicking, spitting, biting and hair-snatching that followed was a thing of rare beauty.
As I was about to fire up my doobie, merrily popping off candids right and left, Roger outflanked me, snatched the camera from my hand and trampled it into the rustic Tennessee dirt with his hob-nailed boots. He looked up, grinning like a deranged Cheshire cat eating a bowl of gourmet shit. He was chagrined to see Sarah facing him, smiling with evil intent. She drop kicked the gape-mouthed clod hopper square in his once cherished marriage prospects. Roger folded like a cheap accordion and regurgitated the last remnants of pizza, beer, and Cheetos.
The battle now raged in earnest, with the neighbors fleeing for their lives to warn the gentry. I was lighting that long-awaited joint when I heard the unmistakable music of sirens in the distance. The combatants froze in their tracks for a moment, blinking like philosophical lizards, and then rapidly dispersed in all directions like cockroaches in the blinding light of closing time.
Sighing, head throbbing, I got up and sauntered off down the road into the woods to enjoy my well-earned number in the dim light of a peaceful glade. Sarah caught up with me and tagged along to keep me company. In a cool, dim holler we discussed the relative merits of the brawl, focusing on the individual styles of the combatants, the many interesting techniques of hair snatching, ear-chewing, heinie-biting, and so on. The sirens drew nearer.
The local Bulgani arrived in record time, but to their consternation they had arrived too late. Surveying the deserted scene in despair, they combed the neighborhood in vain for witnesses, for the towering pinewood lodges were as empty as the ruins at Machu Picchu. All the combatants were hiding in the underbrush of the adjoining woods, hunkered close to the ground like hunted badgers, flushed and breathless. After twenty minutes of fruitless effort, Pigeon Forge’s finest departed empty-handed, mumbling and shaking their heads, still a bit twitchy from the adrenaline-induced anticipation of finally getting to bust some skulls, preferably Yankee skulls.
As night descended upon this tale of veneers, the Confederate side of the family packed and slipped away into the darkness, burning rubber in their haste. We built a huge bonfire and celebrated, drinking and singing old favorites such as The Battle Hymn of the Republic, The Union Forever, and my personal favorite: Just Before the Battle, Mother.
To this day I have yet to hear a coherent explanation of how or why the feud started, but the aftershocks are still being felt. The disgruntled and failed genetic experiments from Old Ken-tuck declined to attend my son Joe's recent wedding, even though Joe wasn't even present at the reunion. (A good thing, too, as he’s large, armed, fast and dangerous).
Half the family still isn’t talking to the other half. No big loss, in my opinion as I never saw any evidence of quality communication there in the first place. At best it was analogous to the image of Abe Lincoln and Jeff Davis screaming at each other in high-pitched Mandarin while carrying out a spirited bitch-slap contest.
I learned something from this experience, however; that one should avoid family gatherings that involve inbred hillbillies, pick-up trucks with gun racks and homemade alcohol in two gallon earthenware jugs. Oh yes, and an important safety tip, good for all occasions. Never, under any circumstances turn your back on the womenfolk.
