What It Means to Be a Hildreth

This week marks a year since Grandpa died. I started my blogging month with a post about him, and I found I actually have a little bit more to say.

Though I have never carried the Hildreth name (I'm a Wolford, through and through, and now proudly a Faulhaber), I carry the spirit of being a Hildreth down deep. Based on a prompt last summer from the 100 Days of Summer Writing at the Moving Writers blog, I began to contemplate what it means to be part of this family.

What does it mean to be a Hildreth?

It means...

Thanksgiving around a table: a seat at the kids table in the piano room; graduating to the big table (the one with the tablecloth Grandma had ironed earlier that day); later, after we outgrew everyone's homes, perched at the hotel conference room tables, playing games, eating Gina's carrot cake.

You love front porches: And swings and gliders. Waving at people as they walk by. When someone honks, you toss up a hand, even if you don't know who it is. Clematis creeping up the trellis, the ceiling fan quietly spinning. Drumsticks in the summer, popsicles for the kids.

Writing thank you notes. For gifts, for visits, for relationships. There is no occasion that can't be punctuated with a thank you note.

You pray. The rosary, the Our Father, kneeling at the Stations of the Cross, or sometimes just in the quiet corners of your memory. You gave up exchanging gifts for having prayer partners at Christmas. Your confirmation sponsor or confirmation name has ties to your extended family. You have said the same prayer before dinner, holding hands while Mimi wells up, every year for as long as you can remember. And, if you're in a time of your life when you don't pray, you always know that someone is praying for you.

You're loud. You've got a lot to say. Teasing is a love language. You love to tell stories or jokes. The stories have become lore: Pat's special brownies in high school, Ed mooning the cops, Katie and the jelly beans, Chuck falling down the stairs naked and Grandma coming out with her flashlight. The stories are the soundtrack of your life.

You cherish traditions. Dietsch's at report card time. Christmas tea in the little red mugs. The red tin full of butterscotch brownies (what a disappointment when Grandma stopped baking and that tin was only full of brown sugar. Never stopped us from checking.). Playing cribbage and backgammon.

Being a Hildreth carries comfort with it. It's a part of my cultural identity. I'm so lucky to have an extended family that feels like home.