I always imagined I didn’t like reunions for the reason
That they try to take every beautiful Sunday in the middle
of the summer season;
I thought family dinners weren’t suited to my mood
Because of the overabundance of uncles and the comparative
underabundance of food;
And I considered my horror of picnics due
To potato salad, plus the ants and flies that picnic on me,
but never seem to bother you.
Even when the wife’s Garden Club held Family Night, I put the blame
For my desire to absent me on my inherent dislike for
plant names with more syllables than a Russian diplomat’s name.
Until the occasion when a child hit me in the neck with a wilted ice-cream cone at one of these gatherings,
When it dawned on me that I’d been dreading this all my life,
and that I’d turned into an ogre who can’t stand the
Little Dears with their unchildish pranks, precocity,
and blatherings.
Hence, I will say in conclusion, that I maybe could endure such assemblies
If it weren’t for the people with the large femblies…
by Ray Romine Sunday, April 8, 1951
