A story written by my wonderful sisiter Ellen for my 24th birthday:
How in the World did my Liberal Mother Raise a Christian Missionary?
Ellen LaVigne
This is the question I’ll ask God if I’m lucky enough to meet him. My sister, “Lucky enough? Oh stop, you will.” As assured as I wish I could be. For some unexplained reason she seems to only see the best in me. One of my best critics, despite having had a front row seat for all my most epic failures. And there are more than a few of those: the high school house parties that got busted, the roommates I’ve pissed off, the petty fights about Fox news with Dad, the squirmishes over the bathroom, and who could forgot the awful white sweatpants of ’04. You see, I attribute most of my healthy relationships to the fact that most people are fortunate to witness only a few of my regrettable screw ups. But the exception that breaks the rule is most certainly Ms. Maggie LaVigne. She is easily the most stable, put-together, sturdy person that remains a constant in my life. Hey, maybe I’m circling the answer to my question after all.
My parents certainly were not perfect. That being said, neither were their children. Politics at the dinner table was a recipe not for disaster but rather a self-destructive instant microwavable mix for dark, painful, imminent doom. Once a hitch-hiking, grass eating hippie, now a self-made successful business owner with assets up the hoo-haw (lucky son of a gun). Mr. Michael ‘Mars’ Crary is our token corporate and a nice juxtaposition to our liberal yet lovable, hybrid-driving, writer mother. Did I mention her boyfriend, owner of the House of Balls art studio? We may love Allen now, but when he was parking Harry Balls, his art truck, complete with bowling balls & pins glued to the top and a pair of large wings on the side doors, in our driveway for all of our precious middle school friends to see, Maggie and I were not too happy.
When Maggie got a truck of her own, it was filled with horse tackle and “George Bush 2004” pickets. I’m not sure what my dear sister’s political ideals are now. But back in high school, campaigning for my mother’s archrival out on the intersection of 244 and County Road E felt pretty redeeming. These days I do not hesitate to express my democratic perspective but I will never forget how rebellious it felt out there next to my sister and her long time friend Lisa holding that greying president’s red and blue sign. What would my poor mother’s Unitarian friends think of us now?
Our father still escapes to his little piece of land in Forestville for some quality fly-fishing time when things get a little too messy. My mother would have died if she’d known the sort of things us kids got into at that beautiful little getaway in the boondocks of Southern Minnesota. It’s where my sister fell in love with her first horse and she taught me that when you fall down you’ve got to get right back in the saddle – that crazy horse of mine is still living down there with Ernie who probably, hopefully, has not changed. Cigarette sticking out the side of his mouth, practically turned backward on his saddle looking at us, drawling on about how each woman in his life is comparable to one of his horses (a great compliment ladies). We’d ride all day out in the woods, just the two of us. Maggie always beat me back to the campsite.
The next morning we’d take the amphibious six-wheeler, Max, across the stream and through the biggest mud puddles we could find. The muddier we came home, the better. Dad always warning us not to disturb the fishing, unless of course there were intruder fishermen on his part of the river. Then we were allowed, nay encouraged, to ride that vehicle the length of the root river, of course, until we hit Joe’s barbed-in cow farms. But don’t worry mom, we were always made to wear a helmet (until we got out of sight and threw that troublesome thing off). Around twelve, Dad taught each of us how to drive a ‘real-man’s vehicle’. I’ll never forget when Maggie drove our Great Grandmother’s ’78 Impala into a tree, practically knocking over the outhouse under it. All of a sudden, driving wasn’t a game. Worried the old relic was busted, she jumped to defend her honor as a good driver. To her fortune, that thing is still running after all these years. I suppose it’s an omen to Crary-LaVigne reckless driving. How long did Maggie have to drive our poor father around after he got his last speeding ticket? Oh the gas we used in Forestville. Mom, your hybrid will never be able to make up for the things we did to the environment down there.
Our family remains to be anything but perfect. It is a beautiful wreck. An inescapable entanglement of love and acceptance. You can run as far away from this town, this state, this country as you want. But the Crary-LaVigne unit knows no geographical bounds. There is no continent that the web doesn’t extend too. Maybe that’s why my sister is a Christian missionary. She’s stretching the net of compassion to those who need to fall. This crazy family taught us how to swim so we could jump off the dock in the most outlandish of costumes.
