Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family: Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.
~Jane Howard
Our parents had a saying: “We want you kids to grow away, not go away.” But when the time came to test that sentiment for the first time, it was harder than they imagined. The summer of 1969, my parents watched their oldest child grow away. Our big brother left, clean-cut, with a brand-new knapsack, fresh jeans and a good pair of hiking boots. His plan was to hitchhike across Canada. Beyond that, there were no plans.
Now it was just the four of us: my parents, my younger brother and me. I was fine with it. It did not change my summer plans of camp and hanging out with friends. Mom and Dad did not talk about my brother’s absence much, but his postcards were welcome arrivals.
Mid-July, my aunt who lived in Winnipeg called. My brother had dropped in for a couple days to visit. My mom was ecstatic. She wanted details. “Is he okay? Is he getting enough to eat? Did he say what his plans are?” As summer drew to a close, there was still no news. Then, late August, my brother called to say he would be home that Friday. Like the return of the prodigal son, Mom sprang into action. Steaks were bought, and potatoes were scrubbed. Favourite snacks and desserts were made. Our family had much to celebrate.
On Friday, my brother walked in the back door like he had done a thousand times before. Visibly taller now, he had long, stringy hair and a big beard. His jeans were tattered and faded. His hiking boots had been traded for a pair of well-worn leather sandals. Over his T-shirt he wore a scruffy, colourful sleeveless vest with frayed edges. “It’s called a serape,” he told us proudly. Our brother was immediately embraced with a rush of hugs and tears. After we chatted for a bit, Mom tactfully said we’d help him take his knapsack and clothes down to the laundry room. She suggested he “get settled in and cleaned up. Supper’s at six.”
Down in the laundry room, I helped Mom load the washer. But when it came to my brother’s serape, Mom paused. Holding it up to the window, she took a good look at it, including its length and inseams. Moments later, she was on the phone to Dad. My father worked in a shoe factory. They often sold odd bolts of materials used to make slippers and linings. She asked if they had any colourful material with a bold, horizontal pattern. Shortly, three bolts of material arrived, and Mom went to work. Using the now freshly washed serape for a pattern, Mom measured, cut and sewed for the next couple hours.
At 6:00, the four of us gathered on the back porch and waited excitedly for my brother to join us. It was the first time in months we’d all be together. The barbeque was on, and the coffee table was filled with my brother’s favourite foods. The moment he walked out, we jumped up and shouted, “Welcome home!” Welcome home, indeed. For there he stood in his newly washed serape, and there we stood in our bright new serapes. Taking this all in, my brother paused for a minute, and then he nodded with a wry grin and said, “Yep, I’m home.”
Our family talked well into the night. We each shared our summers. Our brother told us about his many adventures, the people he met and the places he visited across Canada. Occasionally, my mom joined in, but mostly she sat back and enjoyed. Her family, at that moment in time, was home, safe and together. Years later, I realized that matching serapes was my mom’s way of reconnecting our family. It was her way of showing we were all made from the same fabric. After that summer, my parents knew it was just a matter of time before their children would all grow away. Letting go is never easy. But we were forever grateful that our brother took the first step to blaze that difficult path for all of us.
Our bright, bold serapes are long gone. What remains are the endless threads of love with which they were made.
~Cheryl E. Uhrig
