The art of visiting

Visiting is something of a lost art. Perhaps because my family and friends are so far away, I don’t often get spontaneous visits. Even with those that live nearby, lives tend to be tightly scheduled with multiple commitments, and when someone has spare time – all they want to do is chill. (I get it.) People think that having guests entails scheduling and cleaning and cooking, so our times together are often in a restaurant somewhere between rather than at one person’s house or another. That’s not a bad thing, but I do miss the surprise of a spur-of-the-moment catch-up.

There was a time – granted, way back in the 1800s – when visiting was a fine art. The elite crowd had many guidelines and traditions related to entertaining visitors. That was the era of calling cards (a formal request for admittance) and “at home” times where tea and treats were served with a flourish. (The rules then were elaborate, and although it sounds quite civilized, it’s a good thing that we’ve moved past those structures.)

But you don’t need to go back that far to see examples of regular visiting practices in a neighborhood, albeit more informal. TV shows and movies whose characters lived in decades before the smart phone revolution contain scenes of chatty conversations with friends who just popped in and exchanges of profound wisdom with neighbors over a fence or clothes line.

These days, people are more likely to catch up via social media or text. (Even phone calls are falling out of favor.) We’re left with the occasional party or pre-arranged meet-up as our venues for longer conversations and opportunities for story-telling. I am sorry to see simple visiting disappear from our social repertoire.

Visiting in my youth

When I was young, our family went visiting regularly. Dad would place a call just to check if people were home, then we’d go hang out for an hour or so with our relatives or our parents’ friends. We’d sit on the floor and listen to the adults talk and tell stories or disperse to play with cousins in other areas of the house. People sometimes came to our house, too – especially around holidays.

The still-shot memories of these visits include Aunt Laurie and Uncle Jack’s big slobbery boxer, Nana and Pop’s steady supply of Italian cookies, and Uncle Hank’s spooky Victorian house with dark wood everywhere. We could count on Uncle Joe and Aunt Gilda to serve up laughter (Uncle Joe’s contribution) and homemade desserts (by Aunt Gilda). A visit to Aunt Margaret and Uncle Lou was a longer ride but a special treat – they often played live music (with electric guitars!) and told Lombardozzi family stories.

On Mom’s side of the family, our cousins’ playrooms were a highlight (we didn’t have such a thing at our house). The Campbells had a sunny playroom off the kitchen, and at the Matters’ house, we congregated in the panel-lined rec room in the basement. When they lived in Media (PA), the Balzer’s well-stocked playroom was outside in the garage, with toy kitchens, and jump ropes, and driveway chalk – plus they had a closet full of games and puzzles to choose from.

We spent quite a lot of time visiting Grandmom and Granddad at their retirement house on Grove Point (on the Chesapeake Bay). When they first moved to the Point, conditions were nearly primitive – original amenities included an outhouse, a steel barrel for burning trash, and a huge bunk room in the unfinished (and un-air-conditioned) attic. The house eventually got modernized – more daily-living- and family-visit-friendly (although the bunk room never changed). We kids ran free throughout the Point with cousins, or stopped in around the neighborhood where there were plenty of other relatives to visit, gathering on breezy screened porches with a soda, a Yahtzee game, and lots of laughter.

I can also recall a particularly memorable visit with Daddy’s Aunt Vivian in Florence, New Jersey. We sat at a big outdoor dinner laid with tons of food. After we finished up homemade pasta and meatballs, the aunts came out with platters of Chicken Cacciatore! Wait, What?! That was our first experience with a multi-course Italian meal, complete with a dessert tray suitable for a church’s Italian festival.

There were honorary aunts and uncles we visited, too. One summer, on a visit to “Uncle” Bill Priest’s house, Dad decided to try out Bill’s new motorcycle and proceeded to ride it up a telephone pole (small injuries, no damage). Mom’s high school friend “Aunt” Eileen always came to visit on Christmas Eve – and I wondered when mom saw her outside of that time (I’m sure she must have…).

My most important visits were every afternoon after school, when my bestie Maryellen and I would walk the neighborhood and chat about the events of the day. We weren’t in the same class, and later not even in the same school. Perhaps my love of visiting was seeded and nurtured by having my best friend right across the street – always a ready play date, quiet confidant, and conversation partner.

For me, visiting was experienced as a relatively unassuming practice of sharing a few simple refreshments and munchies, and just sitting around for conversation, stories, and games.

In all those informal conversations, we learned of our parents’ younger years and saw a side of them that didn’t often emerge when keeping up with six kids. We saw how much Daddy’s sisters doted on him (and yet still ratted him out with tales of his playboy days), we heard about Uncle Charlie’s elaborate prank to put the principal’s car on his front porch, we got to know the story of Aunt Laurie’s dramatic (and scandalous) elopement with Uncle Jack, and we found out that there were family secrets. (For example, no one talked about Aunt Betty’s fall-out with Grandmom and Granddad, finally reconciled when Aunt Betty came home one Christmas that I remember most because of her dramatic reading of The Night Before Christmas.) We learned how Pop Lombardozzi knew when it was time to “make-a the wine” (when the draining grapes were attracting flies). And we were surprised to hear about Mom’s time living on a farm as a child.

We learned who laughed the loudest, who told the best stories, who had a completely different personality after a few drinks, who had a deep competitive streak when we played games, and who served the best food and drinks. Visits acquainted us with our history, our inheritance, and our family’s quirks, and visiting was part of what shaped us as we grew up.

Visiting in the here and now

In my turn, I want to keep the tradition alive. I’ve tried to create a visit-friendly house, often issuing specific invitations for dinners or game tournaments. I enjoy entertaining company, getting to know little ones in the next generation and seeing them grow into adults that I am still happy to spend time with. The early years in my house in Wilmington were filled with visits as family and friends were nearby and the children in my life enjoyed sampling my game collection. At some point, however, that waned. And I am missing it.

According to Merriam Webster, to visit is “to pay a call on as an act of friendship” or “to reside with temporarily as a guest.” Oddly, it also has a near opposite meaning: “to cause (something unpleasant) to be endured.” Surely, we were doing more of the former than the latter, and I know my guests in The Next Chapter will be much more friendly than unpleasant as well.

The game cabinets are still full, and my recipe experiments have included special treats I want to share. There is much to see and do here. I know there will be more overnight visits than drop-bys, and that’s what a beach house is for. The invitation is open.

Note 1: Add your own memories of visiting in the comments. I would love to hear them.
Note 2: The picture at the top of the post is of my new chairs… ready for company!