In many locales, the family unit is the unifying force, the spiritual and geographic center of one’s existence. These traditions, less removed from ancient imperatives, elevate kin above all else, for reasons both practical and psychological. Filial and familial duties transcend the desires of the individual in ways that invite, but do not tolerate, lament. To pick up sometimes literal stakes and migrate elsewhere is rare and anathema.
This community exists in almost diametric opposite. Largely comprised of first-generation migrants – I will leave my commentary on local immigration attitudes for a separate time – the towns of our Valley are replete with those that struck out on their own for a new, different, hopefully better life. Arriving full of vim and verve, but usually lacking any human resources, the initial months and years can be challenging and lonely as one builds a network from scratch. Soon enough, as friend groups coalesce, they turn into a simulacrum of a family environment, sometimes a healthier one in many respects than that left behind, but in any event not one bound by the vicissitudes of blood relation.
Preternaturally close to my family, it was indeed very difficult to leave the comforts and confidences of living in proximity to them. Settling here, having a baby, constructing a quasi-adult life, it was begun in relative isolation – a few increasingly close friends and a wife, a brother in Boulder, and the relatively frequent phone calls home were all that sustained me, apart from my own individualistic spirit. I was free and happy to be creating my life according to my own dictates, but I was not complete.
As Violet grew, I became increasingly dismayed that she did not have the connection with her extended family with which I was blessed in my youth. We had made trips back to Georgia and Virginia – the Charlottesville contingent of cousins forming a particularly important foundation – but these were passing, limited opportunities for bonding. I longed for a time when Violet would know her grandparents as well as I had known mine, spending inordinate hours with Papa (prior to his devastating passing), Grandma, and Tata.
Fortunately, my parents also acutely felt this void. With my brother and his bride on the Front Range and our little clan up in the mountains, Colorado was a big draw. After a few years of traveling back and forth between Georgia and Avon, Mom and Pops made the move here to become full-time residents. It was revelatory and celebratory and now, eight or nine years hence (so hard to keep track of time these days!), it feels almost like it had been obligatory – I cannot imagine living here without them.
The key to our familial harmony is perhaps that we live close, but not under the same roof. Now that Violet is a teenager with her own schedule and needs and desires, we have three separate, but interlocked spheres. We cannot immediately walk over to each other’s houses, still have to make plans, but they are easily coordinated. And there is always great joy to run into Pops at City Market or on the ski lift or Mom at Bookworm or otherwise out and about, those blissful serendipities that come only from living in the same place.
Sunday dinner is the reference point, the time when we all come together, but one of the funniest discoveries has been the unexpected synergies across the three generations. Violet has friends whose grandparents are coincidentally friends with hers, I have helped out my folks’ compatriots with legal work, my amigos are Violet’s extra aunts and uncles, and so on. With a unique last name, we all frequently and individually get asked by each other’s people if we are related.
To some, I am not T.J., but Violet’s dad or Michel’s son. To others, Mom is Violet’s grandmother and my mother. Depending on the context, each member of the family has carved out their own reference point in our chosen home, with cool overlaps and surprising connections. Regardless of the situation, we are all proud to be Voborils.