April usually allows me a bit of time for travel, and a bit of my own down time. I generally know that this month will require few if any in person meetings, so I can enjoy maximum flexibility.

The constraints on my time are the bookends of Easter, which was early this year, and the annual Benjamin Franklin Harper family reunion. It’s been held every year (save 2021 during the initial Covid shut-down) since the 1940’s.

The time in between those two was longer than usual this year, and I decided to test the limits of the “work from anywhere” trend. April was spent taking care of clients and doing a couple of Zoom meetings from the Florida Keys. I remain quite fond of the Georgia coast, but if you’re in need of a real get-away, I can now vouch for many locations that will serve an excellent Cheeseburger in Paradise.

At the end of my out of state travels, it became time to return to Georgia with stops on the way back to metro Atlanta in St. Simons and Savannah. The trip back to Fife – a community and former rail stop that straddles the Fulton and Fayette County line just south of Atlanta’s airport – wasn’t just about the miles spent on I-95, I-16, and I-75, but was more importantly about time travel.

The reunion is in honor and memory of my great great grandfather, and his 11 children. It began in the 1940’s as the cousins got tired of only seeing each other at weddings and funerals. My great grandfather – one of the 11 – had 21 children. My grandfather was the last of those 21. There were a lot of aunts, uncles, and cousins to catch up with for quite a while. Attending these events was mostly mandatory as a kid. Frankly, it still is. I mentioned to my mother a couple of years ago that it might be time to phase it out. Let’s just say that trial balloon was a non-starter.

I don’t believe I ever met any of the original 11 kids. I knew a few of the next level descendants. Stories about all of them have been passed down. Not enough of them were written or saved. But to a kid and young adult having to attend these events on an entire Sunday in the early spring, I’ll admit to not having a proper appreciation for the history that was being shared.

There is a “formal” meeting at each reunion. We used to elect officers until it became clear that this was really just a covered dish dinner that had been on autopilot for decades. I became the Vice-President of the meeting when in my early twenties, and President a year or two later. This requires me to run through a list of recognitions and awards handed to me by “Mrs. Brenda”, the permanent secretary of the reunion, and requesting a report from cousin Susan for births, marriages, graduations, deaths, and recognition of those serving in the military.

A few years in we added the “Grace Alvarez Award”. It’s given for no particular reason to an attendee that best exhibits the spirit of Grace. Cousin Grace was a couple of generations older than me, and is the first person I can remember as a child swearing in church. It was an utterly charming moment that I still remember.

She cared deeply, but also didn’t care at all - At the same time. She had a magnificent yet hysterical sense of humor. She helped me see that a lot of these “old people” I had to come see once a year were just kids like me who had aged a bit. We were people with a shared history that didn’t share the same spaces in time.

This year for the first time in a while we had quite a few younger cousins attend. It was nice to see “kids” in their twenties, teens, and a couple barely school age spend a Sunday afternoon with the older folks – of whom I’ve now fully accepted my age and membership. I made sure I told them a few stories about Grace and a few other family members, with a few off-color anecdotes for good measure.

We weren’t always old. We used to be fun and funny. We did a lot of the same things, and screwed up in a lot of the same ways.

Through our experiences we gained wisdom. We benefitted from those who paid the price for their wisdom who came before us. It’s up to us to make ourselves relatable to those coming behind if we’re to share our history in such a way that they can see us in them, and they in us. Time travel isn’t science fiction. It’s sharing the travels in our own journeys in such a way that our experiences become those of the younger generations who share time with us now, and will one day be the ones having their own experiences and deploying earned wisdom well after we’re gone.