That's me right there in the middle. That drunk-looking little guy in the dark jacket all slouched back in his chair.
You see my cousin Jaybock peering innocently over my right shoulder? He was poking me in the back.
Ah, Frankie (that was his nickname), you were such a joker.
That's my dad over on the right in a white shirt holding Rod, so this would have been about 1961 or 2.
This was a rowdy crew and I can't believe they were all able to hold still long enough for this photo to be taken.
The Yankee uncles were loudest though the Southern guys were pretty raucous in their own right.
In fact, I cannot recall a single gathering of Tolars or Rohrscheibs (no matter the size of the gathering) where you could not hear howls of laughter or a dull roar of conversation.
Joie de vivre, I guess you might call it.
Even funerals, though they were attended with the proper solemnity, tended to become more of a celebration of sorts after all the formalities had been attended to.
Celebration seems an odd word, doesn't it?
But you know: of family, with all the strength and comfort that brings even in the hardest of times.
Of life its own self cause dying is part of living and though our hearts are broken, we carry on.
Sort of like an Irish wake you might say but without the heavy drinking.
These thoughts come to mind because the next three summers in a row, we would gather to say goodbye to some of the young people in this picture.
And finally, on a blistering August day, Grandma Rohrscheib ( the little old lady seated at the end of the table on the left).
And that was the last of it for a while, like some weird family curse or something.
Maudlin stuff, you might say, but as I said, dying is part of living.
So celebrate, y'all. Never neglect any opportunity to gather together to love and enjoy those precious ones.
They might not be here tomorrow and we can't let fear rob us of these precious, fleeting moments.
