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Show few weeks ago I had a long telephone conversation with my cousin, Beatrice Neely, who lives in Kansas City, Kan., to discuss the ambitiously large reunion that our family is planning to hold in Henning, Tenn., during three days of August 1982. Cousin Bea may well have a counterpart somewhere within your family, a lovable irrepressible organizer who steadily busies herself keeping a growing and changing list of every relative's address and telephone number, plus a current record of all births, graduations, marriages and career ad- the Civil War and Reconstruction, younger folk preening, middle-age- 4 d vancements. Cousin Bea and I shared some hearty laughs, trying to predict how many babies will be declared the "spittin' image" (of whichever parent comes from our family, naturally). On the other hand, we groaned, tolerantly anticipating the challenge of keeping refreshment tables supplied adequately for an estimated 500 to 600 people who would find a menu featuring an "ol' timey" array of edibles. Our family's planning committee was unanimous that the small, quiet town of Henning should be our reunion place. Henning was where the 1870s wagon train arrived that was led grandfather, by our great-gre"Chicken George" Lea, bringing his own and several other families who had been slaves. We speculated as to what would unfold during the reunion: Young kinfolk experiencing their first introductions to cousins and uncles and aunts, cameras endlessly snapping and flash-inthe full collection of remembered stories one told upon the other of family members during slavery and g, folk boasting a bit, some elders vying to be the most popular matriarch or patriarch present, and, finally, the clan assembled for its formal portrait. Although our reunion is more than a year away, I know my eyes will mist, as they have when I have shared other families' reunions. What touches me starts with seeing strong young ones tenderly assisting the most aged, whose footsteps seem to falter as they move toward the front seats, those chairs always reserved for the oldest. Of course, the photographer will want the clan's infants placed into that front row's venerable laps. It sweeps over me like a warm wave when witnessing this living drama, a span right there on a chair. Possibly for the last time, frail, arms embrace a old, work-wor- n descenplump, vigorous, months-ol- d dant of those long in their graves. Given society's accelerating frustrations and complexities today, I wish more American families would consider the strengthening tonic of reunions. Many people who write to me, because I wrote Roots, say that their first reunion generated a subtle, psychic bond among family members who had seldom, if ever, communicated. A good third of these expressions come from younger people of high school and college age. They've candidly told me how they had felt remote, abstract, simply uncaring toward their ancestry. Some said they felt estranged from their parents as well as their brothers and sisters Nearly all said they had to be coerced to attend a family reunion. But, after the experience, most admit feeling considerably less the terrible sense of rootlessness our young are often prey to. The value of reunions is not the by Alex Haley COVIR AHD INSIDt PHOTOGRAPHS BY SUVl SCHAPIRO 4 PARADf APRIL 19. 191 |
