Pfeiff Pfamily Pformal

Not us, but you get the idea.

Miraculously, for the second time within a year, the entire Milton Pfeiff clan came together. We were on the dance floor, jiving the night away, in our long gowns and dark suits, atypical for the Pfeiffs but honoring the request of the lovely bride who was joining our family. Many of us will wear the same clothing to next year’s wedding, saving the photographer time, not needing to repeat photos.

Our mother’s presence was felt. In life, Gerry wavered between pride and disgust for her offspring, referring to us as a ‘bunch of boozers,’ which we adopted as our moniker and use as a toast today.

Mom loved a good party. Outgrowing the church’s disdain for dancing, she loved to dance with my dad. She just wasn’t a drinker, taking to heart the Methodist pledge which we all signed in our youth, the church trying to capture us before we were exposed to the devil’s brew. It stopped there. No one taught us how to moderate.

I recall only one time when there was liquor in the house. Well, before my Big Bro hosted college parties when Mom and Dad were away, and when we became adults BYOB. Mom and Dad won a bottle of Chianti at a social event, the 18” neck rising from the bulb. After serving the wine, Mom filled it with colored water and placed it on the bathroom vanity where it stayed until she moved out years later. I think it is now a collectible.

Dad enjoyed an occasional beer with his brother across the street. The sip he allowed me was probably more effective than signing the pledge: the foam was bitter, unlike that of a root beer. I didn’t understand the attraction.

Mom enjoyed a good margarita and joined us occasionally in a glass of wine, entering the room with a glass and a question: have you killed the bottle? At one time she wanted to serve wine coolers to her friends but was too embarrassed to enter the liquor store, alcohol not yet sold by grocers,

‘Someone might see me.’

‘And you will see them.’

On her hospice bed, all of us gathered round, as we prepared to leave for the night, she noted

‘I suppose you will go party.’

‘Well, Mom, we are all here together and it is only 7:00. So, yeah.’

She was disappointed that she couldn’t join us.

As a child, surrounded by Andersons, Petersons, Johnsons, Van de Voordes, Van Kamps, my last name was an embarrassment. No one knew how to pronounce it, producing mispronunciations often used as nicknames: Pfuff, Pfluff, Piff. Now I wear it proudly, using it in my pen name. The Pfamily plays with it, referring to Pfeiff Pfamily Pforum, Pfeiff Pfamily Pfarm, Pfeiff Pfamily Pfun.

So, back to the wedding, everyone boozing, some more than others, the old folks having learned their limits. Everyone dancing. I am guessing what my mother would think after noting the flow of alcohol:

I produced four children, all with advanced academic degrees, all happily married, all independent, all with children of which they can be proud. Thus far, in three generations, no plague of addiction. The in-laws are adopted as family to the point of cult. And, they all love to be together.

So here’s to Milt and Gerry. Thanks for nagging us to the good life.

And to the Pfeiff Pfamily, loud and crazy without alcohol.