Dear Family,
At some point, near the end of the second consecutive evening of festivities marking my father-in-law’s 80th birthday, Crystal’s Aunt Cara gave me a hug and observed, “At least you’ll have more to write about this month than choir performances and bike rides.”
(Or words to that effect.)
Cara was right, and she didn’t even know the half of it. Neither did I.
I originally envisioned most of this letter being devoted to the two large-scale, multi-day, extended family gatherings in Southern Utah and Northern Idaho that took place earlier this month. Those events may indeed wind up consuming most of the page, but they were ultimately eclipsed by the early arrival of Felicity Grace Wonnacott to Sophie and Luke a week and a half ago.
Felicity arrived two weeks ahead of schedule but was by no means premature. At 3.74 kg (8 lbs, 4 oz for those who insist on using idiotic, non-decimal-based units of measure) Felicity’s birth weight makes me think that somebody counted wrong somewhere. But I don’t really understand how gestation works.
I refer you to Sophie’s letter for the story of how Felicity came into the world, including the details of how a scheduled visit to her obstetrician’s office quickly and unexpectedly evolved into a c-section at the adjoining hospital.
Hannah and Emma, possibly the proudest aunts you can imagine, have done an extraordinary job photo-documenting Felicity’s first days. Here are a few. See Sophie’s letter for the official package:
I suppose it is not entirely without significance that Felicity’s birth makes us grandparents. Outside of family and church, most people view me as a surprisingly young grandfather. Among the 100 or so people at the company where I work, I believe I am the only one. (I am also among the oldest people but by no means the very oldest.) On more than one occasion, I have found myself trying to explain to friends and colleagues that in my extended family and religious community, many (if not most) of the men my age have been grandfathers for years. Only my Orthodox Jewish running friends are not gobsmacked by this revelation.
Felicity’s ahead-of-schedule arrival would have given Luke a reasonably good excuse for skipping the Hobble Creek Half Marathon in Mapleton a couple of days later. But persistent bullying from Luke’s in-laws, encouragement from his wife (and, in all likelihood, Luke’s mother’s suggestion that he not do it) ultimately pushed him to the start line.
As for getting to the finish line, that was all Luke. (Well, Luke and gravity. I think it must be written in the Utah state constitution that every marathon or half-marathon must have at least 1,000 feet of elevation drop. He might have finished faster coasting down in a pair of Heelys.) But we’re still proud of him.
Anyway, mom and baby came home the day of the race (I think) and are doing well. Crystal and I look forward to meeting the baby shortly, but that will be a story for next month’s letter.
Zion
For the second consecutive time, the biennial Willis family reunion (i.e., the descendents of my Willis grandparents, who passed away in 1997 and 2001 and whose living posterity now numbers in the low triple digits — I can name 25 first cousins of mine on that side of the family alone, and I’m probably forgetting someone) was held at Zion Red Rock, a collection of four (soon to be five) luxury vacation rental properties owned by my cousins, the Mabeys, near Zion National Park.
Most of the reunion happened at the large “Oasis” and “Villa” properties, which are adjacent to one another. Between them they sleep well over a hundred people. But “over a hundred people” isn’t big enough for all of us, and so my kids and some Corrys were assigned to the “Chalet” property, across the Virgin River (the river that carved Zion Canyon) from the main action, but probably the place with the best views. Crystal and I were relegated along with most of the old people (e.g., my parents’ generation) to the “Red Rock Inn,” a small cluster of cottages in nearby Springdale — a 10-minute drive from the main reunion action but walking distance from the southern entrance to Zion National Park. This worked out well for us.
There was literally nothing about the reunion that I did not enjoy. Four weeks later, here are some highlights that I still remember:
Breakfast with the senior generation at Oscar’s Cafe (included free with your night at the Red Rock Inn, next door). The average age of this cohort was probably somewhere around 75, and within minutes of my sitting down, the topic of conversation had already turned to burial plots. Ever the planners, my parents currently own burial plots at both the Salt Lake City Cemetery and Parklawn Memorial Gardens in Rockville, Maryland. My father expressed a desire to be cremated, which I guess means we can put him in both places. We probably talked about less morbid things, too. I don’t remember what, but whatever it was, it was pleasant.
Running with Jeff — My cousin Jeff Huber was similarly exiled next door to us at the Red Rock Inn. This worked out perfectly (for me, at least) as the Inn’s proximity to the park facilitated an early morning 11-mile run from the Inn up to Zion Lodge and back.
We started well before dawn. Temperatures never fell much below 80 degrees even in the cooler, early-morning hours. But with dew points hovering, hello, in the twenties(!) it was pretty much ideal running conditions so long as you beat the sun. (Once the sun rose, it quickly got up to between 105 and 110 every day we were there. That’s pretty miserable at any dew point.)
I thought the early start would favor me (an East Coast guy) more than Jeff, who lives in Oregon. But he was up before I was! I had a great time.
“Outlaw panel” — On the first night, Mom, Aunt Peggy, Uncle Gary, and Uncle Bob fielded questions about what it was like to marry into the family. I appreciated learning about the hazing Mom took from Dad’s little brother, Uncle David, which apparently included short-sheeting her bed. Most of it was light and fun, but I also appreciated hearing people reminisce on the 50th anniversary of Aunt Francine’s passing at the 1976 Willis family reunion.
A smartly planned talent show that limited the performances to one act per first-generation sibling. (Otherwise it would have gone all night and gotten tedious.) The Corrys (i.e., Aunt Barbara’s clan) won the night with an impressive (and extensive) revue of Newsies (I think it was Newsies — it’s been a few weeks). Honestly, the Corrys should have won since there are like 50 of them and mostly live within an hour of Zion. But they showed up with the goods and delivered.
Impromptu showtune singing around the piano. After the talent show, as most folks were scattering from the large living area (I guess you’d call it a “room”) on the middle floor of the Villa, Betsy Mabey produced (from some mysterious place) a giant pile of musical theater song books and directed me to sit at the piano bench. A dozen or so of my cousins then instinctively encircled the piano for possibly the most big-Mormon-family thing ever.
Singing around the piano is probably the most on-brand thing our family does. The same, I imagine, is true of many families like ours. We plodded our way through Les Misérables, Wicked, and some stuff I was less familiar with.
The piano playing was mediocre (there were probably a half-dozen people at the reunion who would have done a better job — it just happened to be me this time) but the singing was fun and enthusiastic, as evidenced by this 55-second clip, which I did not realize Justin Mabey was shooting. Try to ignore the piano and watch the singers:
I think it was after “Defying Gravity” that Jacob Corry (wearing a Star Wars shirt in the video) shocked me by saying something like, “Didn’t you once write in the Famlet that you don’t like this show because it’s so overtly feminist?” I don’t remember exactly how he phrased the question, but it was something like that. (He’ll read this at some point and is welcome to correct me.)
I remembered having written not exactly that, but something kind of like it, and so I went back into the (extant but not easily searched) archives to find it. Incredibly, it turns out Jacob was somehow remembering something I wrote on July 31, 2011 — 15 years (to the day) earlier! You can read the letter for yourself if you want. If you do, please note that I was a rather prolific user of em dashes even back then — long before A.I. began inserting them into everybody else’s writing.
Please note also that, while I did take issue with certain themes from Wicked 15 years ago, the word feminist never appears in the letter. My views have evolved somewhat since 2011, but even then I don’t think I would have characterized myself as “anti-feminist.” My old letter took issue with the story not because it is feminist, but rather because it is misandrous. That’s the adjective I chose back in 2011 — misandrous. Misandry and feminism comfortably co-exist in some of the same minds, but not always, and they are not the same thing. Anyway, I argued (then) that Wicked is misandrous because basically every man in the show is detestable, and the closest thing it has to a male hero is the character who, literally, lacks a brain.
I still can’t believe Jacob remembered it.
The current version of me probably would not write what I wrote then (even though it’s basically true) but — I say for the thousandth time to my posterity — this is why it is important to maintain a record of your writing. It allows you to look back at who you used to be in ways no photograph can. Anyhow, I loved the show (and the song) in 2011 (as I wrote at the time) and continue to love it now.
Everything Else: And then there was the water olympics, the work project (where I mostly leaned on a shovel in the 100-degree morning sunshine) while other digged post holes for a future rope fence that will hopefully deter future drunk guests from driving into one of the property’s ponds), the meals together, the Sunday-afternoon “testimony meeting” (the imperfect name we gave the final gathering because no one could come up with a term for what it actually was) — I loved it all. But most of all, I enjoyed just being with cousins, aunts and uncles whom I seldom get to see and yet, likely owing to a half-century of these gatherings, continue to feel a reassuring closeness to.
Coeur d’Alene
The weekend of the Willis reunion conflicted with the weekend that was ultimately chosen for Rod Kent’s (Crystal’s dad’s) 80th birthday celebration in Coeur d’Alene. The conflict would have been difficult to foresee when the 2026 Willis reunion was scheduled (in 2024) since Rod’s actual birthday is not until December. But a decision was made to move the party (parties, actually) up to August because 1) that’s when the local community college hosts an annual craft fair that people of Rod’s ilk apparently enjoy, and 2) North Idaho is noticeably more pleasant in midsummer than it is in late fall.
The Kents graciously accommodated this conflict by pushing the main festivities off of the weekend and onto the Monday and Tuesday following the Willis reunion.
For the four of us living in Utah (Sophie, Luke, Hannnah and Emma) this meant a 14-hour drive from Zion to Coeur d’Alene on Sunday.
For the remaining four of us who live “back east” (Ari, Grace, Crystal and me) this meant a very early three-hour drive to the Las Vegas airport on Monday morning followed by a two-hour flight to Spokane followed by a short (call it 45 minutes) drive from Spokane to Coeur d’Alene.
Rick and Mimi (Crystal’s brother and sister-in-law) picked us up at the airport and we somehow arrived in town on Monday in time for lunch. This was followed by unstructured activities mostly involving Roland and Marci’s (Crystal’s other brother and sister-in-law) various watercraft behind their house on Hayden Lake.
All this, in addition to being fun, was mostly just killing time in advance of Monday’s main event: a two-hour sunset cruise of Coeur d’Alene Lake with 60 or so of Rod’s family and friends aboard (if I remember correctly) the Osprey.
I was fairly exhausted from the long day of travel (and water sports) by the time we finally set sail on Monday evening. And a social gathering from which the only means of escape is jumping overboard and swimming to shore is never going to be something I excitedly look forward to. But the company was lovely and Coeur d’Alene Lake is simply beautiful. Heavy smoke from the nearby wildfires made breathing unpleasant but also enhanced the beauty of the setting sun. I was ready for it to be over when it ended, but I had a nice time.
We spent the night in the “Lodge” at Roland and Marci’s Aspen Creek Ranch (it’s great having relatives who own nice places and are kind enough to let us sleep in them). If you’re familiar with Dutton Ranch in the TV show “Yellowstone” and the house where Kevin Costner’s character lives, the “Lodge” kind of makes you feel like you’re living there (minus all the intrigue and murder and whatnot).
After spending much of Tuesday back on Hayden Lake, the birthday festivities continued that evening with a luau in a conference room at the Coeur d’Alene Best Western. The food was followed by toasts and tributes and a few musical acts (including by Grace, who sang a short mashup of peppy gospel tunes).
It was a fitting celebration of pretty great guy. I have thought for many years about how I hope to be as kind, patient, and generous with my daughters’ spouses as Rod Kent has always been with me.
Costanza Redux
For the second consecutive year (which I guess now makes it a tradition) Richard Krikava and I ventured up to New York on Thursday for Seinfeld Night at Yankee Stadium.
The MacGuffin catalyzing our aventure was this year’s George Costanza bobblehead, which features him holding a calzone (IYKYK). It is inferior in every respect to the bobblehead of George sleeping under his desk, which Richard and I successfully obtained last year. But that was always going to be a high bar to clear since last year’ desk bobblehead was unquestionably the single greatest ballgame giveaway of all time.
Last year, we arrived at 3:00 p.m. (the game started at 7:00) to ensure that we were among the first 18,000 to get in (thereby securing the bobblehead). But the line was already snaking around the stadium by then. We made it in and got our bobbleheads but not without considerable anxiety (see last year’s letter for those details).
We caught an earlier train up this year, stopped at the Soup Nazi on 55th St. for lunch (we both had the lobster bisque) and managed to correctly follow the instructions, which were posted in at least ten different languages.
We avoided all the anxiety by going directly from the Soup Nazi to the stadium, arriving by 1:00 p.m., leaving no question as to whether we would be among the first 18,000 in.
The question was not whether we were close enough to the front of the queue, but whether we would survive the elements. Between 1 p.m., when we arrived, and 5 p.m., when they opened the gates, we stood through multiple thunderstorms, too-close-for-comfort lightning strikes, and heavy downpours.
We got wet (and almost died) but we made it!
The ensuing baseball game against the Astros we could not have cared less about. (I mean, like all decent, God-fearing people, I utterly detest the Houston Astros — a bunch of rotten cheaters who should be contracted out of the league. But the outcome of the game was, at best, of tertiary importance to us.) We stuck around long enough for the Yanks to fall behind and to watch Jose Altuve get booed a couple of times, which was fun, but not long enough to watch the home team ultimately fall, 5 to 1, extending their Seinfeld Night losing streak to 3 games.
The Yankees have never won on Seinfeld night, which is only fitting in light of the Costanza connection. Hopefully they won’t cancel it.
It has been truly wonderful to see and spend time with so many of you this month.
Love,
Tim
Managing Editor of The Famlet Monthly