No news is good news...

I know, I haven't posted for a while. I'm back at work and doing fine. A little busy as you can imagine. Still knitting and hoping to publish a paper in an allergy journal soon. So if you have guessed that no news is good news, you would be right. I'm still flying back and forth to Sloan Kettering on a weekly basis. It's a drag. I'm a little bored with the JetBlue terminal. Maybe the corporate geniuses did focus groups which told them blasting Lionel Ritchie loud enough that I can't talk on my phone is somehow soothing to passengers but I'm not seeing it. Nor do I understand why a rock band of kids in the central hub seemed like a good idea around Christmas time. A bunch of ten year olds singing "I see a red door and I want to paint it black..." is just wrong. It's just...wrong.

And now the entertainment portion of our show (log off now if you just wanted the news):

Liquid Warfare (pre-approved by a Moran)

I'm going to tell you a little about my mother's family.

All of the Moran siblings appear quite pleasant and intelligent. Quite a handsome group. Of course appearances can be deceiving. They are fond of family gatherings and telling stories but they are even more fond of causing hotel staff, neighbors and complete strangers to wonder, “what the hell is wrong with those people?”

Pranks were frequent in the house of my mother and her seven siblings but nothing compared to their fierce devotion to liquid combat. This is because as children, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with having a full bore water fight involving buckets and hoses at their large Victorian house in Romeo, Michigan . Indoors.

The fights started outside with the hose and Annie did her best to keep the kids out of the house but to no avail. Children would race through the house with buckets while Annie mopped the kitchen floor. “He's over there, go get your brother!” she'd holler at a kid racing past her.

New members of the family's mettle were tested by seeing how they reacted to a dousing. Kind of a baptism into the family, if you will. Aunt Joyce was treated to a little liquid greeting as was my father. He came out of the bedroom he and my mother were staying in yelling “what the hell is going on!” That scared a few of my mother's sisters but not for long.

Since the Morans clearly had a weak definition of social boundaries it was only natural that water fights would break out at family functions. The only difference was that the owner of the house under siege usually got a little more concerned than Annie did about the trafficking of ammunition through the house. There were always a few people, most notably Uncle George's wife, Joyce who really seemed to think the whole thing was juvenile and tried to disappear during skirmishes. She became a cherished target and we loved her for it.

At my cousin John's wedding, his wife to be, Susan, was extremely anxious about any liquid combat breaking out. She seemed terrified that we'd all start leaping over the pews, SuperSoakers in hand to drench the couple while they said their vows. My mother and her sisters couldn't see what the fuss was about. Just as in The Highlander they'd never battled in a church before. I wouldn't call it sacred ground, I think no one ever thought of it. Several of the cousins were deployed to spread the word that no (squirt) guns were allowed in the church. It felt like noon at the OK corral. Have you figured out yet that this kind of paranoia only eggs the Morans on? My mother amused herself in the meantime by getting some of the toddlers to run through puddles.

Rest assured, Susan and John were married peacefully although Uncle Bill's breast pocket was noted to be leaking. We were even fairly well behaved at the reception because Susan was worried about her dress. Her stern looks as she and John made the rounds of the tables seemed to quell us temporarily. However, next morning at the brunch several cousins were hunkered down behind buffet tables taking pot shots at late arriving diners. Wait staff had to be escorted out of the dining room with an armed escort. Eventually the fighting spread out into the parking lot. My mother complained that she was wearing a silk skirt and didn't want it water stained. Sally and Martha looked at her sadly, “well that was stupid.”

My sister was the first of the three Friedman children to get married off. Her wedding service was unremarkable except for being lightning quick. I don't know why, it was just fast. It might have had something to do with a sporting event that day. The pastor did announce the score of the Michigan game to the relief of my mother and the groom, Doug. The reception was held at the Hanover Inn. By this time the younger cousins had gone high tech bringing in elaborate SuperSoaker back packs to the dining room. I recall one of my very large cousins seated with his back to a wall, before him a very large plate of food taking pot shots at wedding goers. He nailed me right in the middle of my back. I was after all, the Maid of Honor.

The high powered riflery was a big hit but for subtlety The Squirting Pepsi Can ruled the evening. Another cousin brought them. Uncle Bill got his hands on one and made the rounds of the reception. Sadly, the wedding video was accidentally taped over with a Star Trek episode because someone didn't pull out the little tab...but on tit was a group of reception goers who the videographer, our friend Dr. Cimis, was quizzing about Kate and her new spouse, Doug. Into the shot walks Uncle Bill, smiling and holding a drink. He moves out of the shot just as the person next to him puts his hand slowly on his chest to feel it now soaking wet. I really have no idea how this behavior went down with the rest of the wedding goers. I think Doug's family mostly took it in stride. They are midwesterners too and are used to outlandish behavior. Surprised? Look, it's not the group of kids at a table in the back wearing black with everything pierced who are going to do something weird at a wedding reception. It's the group of straight-laced looking middle aged women who will start a game of “Chuckle Belly” right on the dance floor. Some of the guests were clearly fascinated. A colleague of my parents, Dr. Vince Memoli, was seen sneaking away from the reception with some of my cousins to score himself a Pepsi can.

Most water fights were spontaneous but one at least, was carefully planned. At Aunt Martha's reunion the Friedman contingent started preparing weeks in advance. We were all issued the latest in SuperSoaker technology. We had t-shirts made up with a watergun-toating frog on the front that I designed and the logo F.R.O.G. (Friedman Revolutionary Oceanic Group-or some such nonsense). I wore a bandana and shades and cut the sleeves off my T to complete the look. Kate and Ted did the same. Happy Hal wore khakis. Granny Franny wore a Michigan rally cap, shades and several fake tatoos. We parked down by the road and then surrounded the house. Franny (or Frankie as she is known by her siblings) burst into the living room and threatened to soak down the walls. We were rewarded by a prompt emptying of the house for a full on response to our covert operation. It don't get much better than that.

There have been many other water fights. It's hard to choose from them all. I know I'll get emails from relatives telling me what I should have recounted. And probably one from Susan who is a really good sport and will now just as soon soak you down as look at ya. However, I will add that no one loved those water fights more than Bill's wife Helen although she somehow managed to remain remarkably dry. She has the honor of inspiring a water fight where no Moran ever has before.

One reunion when the fighting had penetrated indoors, Uncle Bill got one of the little kid's rain coats, hat and a mop pretending to be his mother Annie. I remember my face hurting from laughing that night and even more the next morning when Helen recounted the resultant “shrinkage.” So in her memory I'm sure somebody besides my brother Ted was thinking it, but it was Ted who actually started the water fight at Helen's wake. He went next door to borrow the hose from a neighbor doing yardwork. “Aren't you having a wake for Helen?” “Uh huh.”
Helen would have loved it.

Next time I will either get around to the Legend of Uncle Bill and the Wedding Cakes, or Grandma Friedman and the Can of Tuna.

bif