Going visiting

We seem to have lost the art of “visiting,” which was one of my favorite things to do as a child.  Daddy would say, “get your coats; we’re going out.”  We would beg to know where we were going, but it would be a surprise until we made a tell-tale turn on the road that indicated where we were headed.  Visiting was always about conversation and good food.  What more could you ask for?

Many a Sunday afternoon was spent in Nana and Pop’s kitchen, or running around in their huge yard.  It was there I developed an appreciation of Italian cookies made with anisette, and it’s also where I learned to crack nuts.  Aunt Margaret’s husband, Uncle Jim, played the electric guitar.  Aunt Laurie and Uncle Jack had a big boxer that actually scared me, and I hated how he slobbered all over everything.  Aunt Gilda made the best pasta, and Uncle Joe cracked the best jokes.  Uncle Hank had a house that seemed like a haunted mansion right up the road from where we went to school. 

The Balzer side of the family offered visiting delights as well.  Uncle Charlie and Aunt Mary Ann (and all the Balzer cousins) had a cool red house on a hill, and it had a forest of bamboo behind there where I would get lost.  They also had a playroom out by the garage with a miniature kitchen and lots of other toys.  We would also go see Aunt Mary Christine and Uncle Joe and Aunt Jane and the other Uncle Joe, and I mostly remember the playrooms in their homes where we would spend our visiting time playing with the cousins or watching TV.  I remember visiting Grandmom and Grandad in Upper Darby when I was very young; I loved their fireplace mantle and the Grandmother clock that kept time.

But mostly I remember visiting our Balzer grandparents down at Grove Point (a beach community Chesapeake Bay).  There were always folks to visit on the Point – it seemed that every other house was owned by a relative, and we would often be regaled with stories of the old days while we munched on watermelon or chips and played cards.  How fun it was to hear how my Balzer aunts and uncles misbehaved in their youths! 

My favorite visiting story was going to see Daddy’s aunts in Florence, New Jersey.  It was to be a long ride, and we didn’t often get to see these relatives.  It was a lovely day, and I remember being gathered around a picnic table in the back yard.  We got lots of hugs and kisses, of course – these were, after all, Italian relatives.  Dinner was a feast!  We had some lovely salads with Italian meats and cheeses, and then huge bowls of steaming pasta.  Mmm…  But then they brought out the chicken cacciatore.  Didn’t we just eat dinner?  Nope, that was just the pasta course.  I wish they had told me more was coming!  And the deserts!  I was completely full by the time we left, and I learned an important lesson about multi-course meals!

So may memories of spending time with relatives and friends of my parents for an evening, a Sunday afternoon, and even weekends down the shore.  (Funny, I don’t remember so much people coming to visit us, except at Christmas.  Perhaps they were smart enough to know that a small house filled with six kids (and often more) wasn’t always conducive to a nice quiet visit.)  Visiting is how we got to know our aunts, uncles, and cousins.  And it’s how we absorbed the deeper meaning of the word “family.”

The dictionary says visiting is “to pay a call on as an act of friendship,” and it’s becoming a lost art that I hope we can recapture.  In an age when our lives are full of events – sports practices and games, instrument lessons and concerts, work and overtime, appointment TV and surfing the net, it’s too easy to be absorbed.  While the world is becoming more electronically connected, it’s becoming more interpersonally disconnected, where most communication among family and friends occurs on a computer or smart phone screen.  Even among friends, we’re out of practice at just giving a call and inviting ourselves over for an after-dinner visit. 

Visiting is one of the small joys in life.  I hope you’ll visit me soon.