First Impression

Exposing a new girlfriend to my family would be fraught with risk even in the best of times. We Corbins are intimidating, both singly and in a group, but most importantly, en masse: all of the in-laws say so, and they should know.

First there are the sheer numbers. I am seventh of nine, and the other eight are all married with children, some with grandchildren. A family reunion now of only my parents’ progeny and their spouses would require some 45-odd place settings if nobody brings a date. Then there’s the energy level. We are a fast-moving, loud-talking, fun-loving bunch, known for marathon games of volleyball, cards, and board games – and need I mention that we’re also highly competitive? My west coast friends call me intense; my siblings often remark about how laid back I’ve become. It’s all relative, but you get the idea. It’s the sort of family for which introductions really ought to include, as part of the package, three weeks of basic training.

Now layer on top of this situation a serious illness that brings us together, without much warning, with holidays approaching and at a time when new relationships are just taking shape. New significant others like my girlfriend Nancy want to be there for us during the crisis, providing consolation, strength, love, and space – not an easy task to begin with in this crowded arena. But just for grins, let’s add the complexity that she and I live clear across the country and she’s never met most of my family. And, um, immediately upon my arrival I’m given the role of new head hospice nurse for my terminally ill dad, an iconic figure whom everybody loves.

Did I say loves? I meant reveres. No pressure, but, hey bud, don’t mess up his meds, okay? And hey, when do we meet the new girlfriend?

Into this environment we walk late on a Saturday night, into my parents’ tiny duplex currently set up to sleep five: my dad in his hospital bed, my mom in an adjacent twin, my niece Ashley and her five-year-old son Lucas sharing her queen in a makeshift basement apartment, and a new twin bed, originally intended for Lucas but instead accommodating a revolving door parade of my parents’ descendants. (Lucas has not, himself, ever slept in his new bed.) The bad news, of course, is that parents of nine, grandparents of eighteen, open their doors to many more guests than they have beds, as a matter of habit but in particular in times of crisis. The family is used to this, of course; all eleven of us shared a 3-bedroom one-bathroom house growing up, and while we weren’t exactly poor, we were, in fact, crowded. For purely entertainment purposes my mom would have us swap bedrooms at random times, sometimes two or three times in one year. If we occasionally forgot and fell asleep in the wrong bed, it was all understood and forgiven. If nothing else, it prepared us for times like now where the number of people exceeds the number of available beds. It’s not uncommon for us to end the night by asking each other, “So, where do you intend to sleep tonight?” and not blinking when the answer bears no relation to where we spent the night before.

I had living like this for a week and a half, exhausted by a round-the-clock hospice routine while family members rushed in to see Dad in his weakened but recovering state, when I took a break to meet up with Nancy, on vacation in New York. On the night we returned, my sister Patsy from North Carolina had chosen the sofa (or it was chosen for her; nobody, including Patsy, is really sure), Derek (from LA) had Lucas’s bed, and Ashley’s queen had been reserved for Nancy and I. Living room duty means you get up when guests arrive, so Patsy was the first to meet Nancy; Derek, still on west coast time, was second. We sat up in the kitchen eating banana bread from Mom’s oven and telling stories about childhood. One that stands out in my memory is Patsy’s story about the time when she was in fifth grade and the principal, Mrs. Crawford, a 4-foot-something apple-shaped woman with a brown beehive and horn-rimmed glasses and a voice straight out of a Cheech and Chong skit, got very excited when she realized she had Corbins in each of grades one, two, three, five, and six. (Perhaps needless to say, we’re all close in age; all nine of us were born within eleven years.) Having five kids from one family in her school at one time was some sort of grand occasion, and to celebrate, she took each one aside and bought each of them lunch that day. What a grand gesture! Our publicly-subsidized lunches cost a whole quarter apiece back then. Mrs. Crawford’s generosity ran her a whopping buck and a quarter. I suppose that’s a lot on a teacher’s salary in 1963.

The thing that shocks the most people about my upbringing is the single shared bathroom. “Eleven of you? How did you do it?” It strains credulity, but I swear it’s true. Like anything else, you adapt. Baths and showers are short; you get used to seeing each other (and being seen) dressed only in a towel. I still prefer to watch TV in my PJ’s. All flaps carefully closed, of course.

Old habits die hard. My parents still have only one bathroom. This fact freaked Nancy out so much that she never did shower here. Luckily, when six of the siblings and SO’s and a scattering of kids and friends gathered for my Dad’s birthday celebration Sunday at noon, the aroma of spicy pizza covered a multitude of sins. On that point, I won’t elaborate. I’m just glad she’d already made a good first impression.