Afterwords

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>	Are we on the air? By Linda Buchanan Wagner ’79
>	A generation in search by Nancy Obrien ’94
>	For you, A.J. by Ed Ziegler ’72
>	Whit one day, world the next by Marie Ranoia Alonso ’90
>	My brother’s keepers by Jim Koscs ’85
>	Can you say, “College is super-dee-dupor?” by Moira Jablon-Bernstein ’92
>	Project Santa from a New Perspective by Lisa Shea Linden ’86
>	The train to college by Dorothy Ciryak Clark Leonard ’76, ’84
>	Debating the future by Ron Weisberger ’65
>	A deeply-rooted relationship by Harriet Clevenger Lockwood ’88
>	Curtain or copy: a major decision by Susan Goodman Magod
>	The bear necessities of friendship by Qraig R. de Groot ’93
>	Special delivery by Darlene Beck-Jacobson ’74
>	A room of my own by Melissa F. Sherman ’86
>	The diploma by Ros Psolka ’90
>	Remembering Sabrina by Ros Psolka ’90
>	Who wants my 33s? By Jim Koscs ’85
>	Looking for a sign By Wendy Weber Crawford ’75, ’79, ’88
>	An ode to 27A South Main Street By Keith Forrest ’88
>	Our flag in the window By Lori Marshall ’92
>	Mail, mortality and American mettle By Brian Kass’85
>	Christmas trees in the Kremlin By Don Dunnington’97
>	Aimless and malcontent no more By Tim Zatzariny, Jr. ’94
>	Bringing the family By Susan Parker ’74
>	A little too soon for golden oldies By Keith Forrest ’88
>	Tale of a tile man By Sabatino Mangini ’01
>	Remembering Reagan By David Coyle ’81
>	Time well spent By Leigh Koebert ’97
>	Still a college kid... By Gregg Clayton ’81
>	What’s at the end of your “If only…”? By Carol Servino ’75
>	Catching the moment and the meaning By Casey Christy ’92, M’03
>	Starting at Glassboro, finishing at Rowan By Lori Samlin Miller ’77
>	Room to grow By Casey Christy ’92, M’03
>	Lifelong friends in spite of themselves By Patricia Quigley ’78, M’03

Bringing the family
A summer holiday makes hospitality mean more than usual
By Susan Parker ’74

We had no plans for the Fourth of July.

Since my husband’s bicycling accident four years ago, we hadn’t been invited to a parade or a picnic. His electric wheelchair was too big and awkward for backyards. It would be just Ralph and me alone in the house, like every holiday and weekend since the accident.
The phone rang, interrupting a M*A*S*H rerun on one TV and a Giants game on the other.

“Is Jerry there?” a female voice asked.

“No, he’s out,” I answered. “Can I take a message?”

“This is Celeste. Tell him I’m having a barbecue tomorrow and I’d like him to come.”
I recognized the name. Celeste was the woman married forty-five years ago to Jerry, Ralph’s live-in attendant.

“Celeste called,” I yelled to Jerry when I heard him come in later that night.

“Oh yeah? What she want?” He headed straight into the living room and pulled the covers off Ralph’s hospital bed.

“She wants to invite you to a barbecue tomorrow. Jerry, can Ralph and I come with you? It’s the Fourth of July and no one has invited us anywhere.”

Jerry rolled his eyes at me as he started the long process of putting Ralph to bed. “Lemme think about it,” he answered.

“Jerry, I want to meet your family.” I was whining.

“You really want to meet them?” He unbuttoned my husband’s shirt.

“Yes, I do.”

After Ralph was settled in for the night, I handed Jerry the portable phone and watched him as he dialed.

“Celeste, that you? How are you baby? Got your message. Say, I’m fixin’ to bring the family with me tomorrow, if that’s okay with you. Yeah? All right. What time? Want us to bring somethin’? You sure? Okay. See ya then. Bye.”

Jerry handed the phone back to me. “Celeste says four o’clock.”

In the morning, Jerry dressed and shaved Ralph and placed him into his wheelchair. I made potato salad, deviled eggs and a big pound cake. I wanted to make a good impression with Jerry’s kin.

The barbecue was in Hunter’s Point, an area of San Francisco I had never visited, but I knew from the 11 o’clock news it was riddled with guns, dope and prostitution and populated by out-of-work men. I already knew Hunter’s Point, I thought.

But Celeste’s house, set on a steep hill, was neat and tidy and full of friends and family. Four strong men hauled Ralph’s wheelchair, with him in it, up a staircase. Others moved sofas and chairs so that Ralph could squeeze into the living room. Out back a barbecue cooker took up the entire backyard.

Wings, ribs, links, burgers, hot dogs and pork chops sizzled on the grill, smoke billowing into the sky. Bowls of dips and chips, plates of cornbread, cupcakes and pies crowded a picnic table outside and jammed the dining room sideboard indoors. Our host, Celeste, forced paper plates of food upon us and re-introduced Jerry to ex-step-children, in-laws, cousins and second cousins.

Jerry introduced Ralph to Roaddog, Guinea Hen, and J.D., old friends from the neighborhood. They wheeled Ralph up to a folding table and dealt him a hand of cards. Jerry juggled a plate of food for himself and Ralph and held Ralph’s cards at the same time. I chatted with an enormous elderly woman who had known Jerry when he was just a “twinkle in his daddy’s eye.”

A deep belly laugh snared my attention. I looked across the room. It was Ralph. His chin was titled toward the ceiling and he was grinning from ear to ear. I caught Jerry’s eye. He winked at me. I gave him a thumbs-up sign and helped myself to more macaroni salad.
As we climbed into the van to leave, everyone gathered around us, shaking Jerry’s hand, patting Ralph on the back, giving me hugs.

“Jerry, that was wonderful,” I said as we sped onto the freeway. “I learned a lot about you and your family today.”

“Our family,” corrected Jerry.

“Yes, you’re right. Our family.”

I hoped Celeste would invite us back again next year.

______________________________
Susan Parker ’74 lives with Ralph and Jerry and another attendant, Hans, in Oakland, Calif. A freelance writer, she is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. This essay is excerpted from Tumbling After, Pedaling Like Crazy When Life Goes Downhill (Crown Publishing 2002).