Home to Oklahoma, Where Daddy's Bald and the Pot's Medicinal

We're hardly the family reunion type; this was our first get-together in 15 years. My mother, who insists on being referred to as "Mother" (calling her Mom or Mommy would make her skin crawl off her body), hated Christmas, which she usually canceled because of the hassle. She doesn't like people; just animals. The only time I've ever seen her hug anybody was our German shepherd, Helga. Mother doesn't like to be touched.

She's been rattled ever since Daddy (who is Daddy, not Father or Dad) unexpectedly had a mini-breakdown and retired early from his 30 years at Continental Oil Company. Mother cherished the eight hours a day he spent at work and out of her hair. Now he has not only invaded her space, but he's doing it with manifestations of full-blown depression. Last time I called, Daddy had locked himself in the study with his pistol. "Your father's threatening to kill himself," Mother told me. Then I heard her scream, "Craig! Let me in! You don't have the guts to do it! You'll just botch it and break the Hummel figurines! Let me pull the trigger for you!"

Daddy's had high blood pressure ever since he left his job, and hasn't had an appetite since he went on Prozac. He's a member of Mensa and a 32nd-degree Mason. He's extremely well-read, but hasn't been reading since his depression. He's had a rough time dealing with Mother from the start. Daddy is very affectionate and Mother is a pit viper. It's a mystery how I was conceived, but Mother insists sperm flies. When Daddy married Mother he became an instant father to Bambi and Crane, who were sired by Mother's first husband, Jack, a paranoid schizophrenic who hit her if she didn't iron his socks. He's also had to deal with Mother's pal Smith, who wears overalls and a Greek fisherman's cap. Smith boasts about his fifth-grade education and only speaks monosyllabic sentences. He came to fix our roof 16 years ago and never left. Even though Smith is older than dirt, he's still fairly spry. We think Mother's having an affair with him, but we're not sure. Smith and Mother like to watch old reruns on the back porch while Daddy watches Face the Nation upstairs. Smith pretends he's Buck Owens and Mother pretends she's Barbi Benton. I wish she and Daddy would watch old Bob Newhart reruns in the family room like they used to.

My dad's younger brother, Uncle Sherwood, was also invited. I'd never met him before but I'd heard a lot of weird stories. He's a former priest and he and my father could pass for mirror-image twins, except that Uncle Sherwood is flamingly gay and wears a toupee, while Daddy is bald. It's like seeing a computer enhancement of Daddy if he was 10 years younger.

My brother Crane, three years older than me, a nurse in an intensive care unit, still lives in Oklahoma and is Mr. Catholic Amway King. His wife, Robin, is Mrs. Catholic Amway Queen. Robin is credited with straightening out my once-wayward brother and making him responsible. I liked him better wayward. Mother thinks their towheaded six-year-old son Jessie should be tied up most of the time. He's afraid to go to sleep at night and still sleeps in the same bed with Mommy and Daddy, which saves Robin a lot of money on contraceptives.

My niece Alana from New York (my sister Bambi's girl) was raised Jewish. Mother is convinced that the only way to make it is to marry a Jewish doctor, so Bambi (who was named Bambi because she resembled the Disney character as an infant) converted to Judaism and moved to the Big Apple. I decided to take the confused 11-year-old niece with me to celebrate her first Christmas in Oklahoma, since her parents opted not to attend.

I'm the black sheep of the family. I've avoided anything in life that wasn't fun. Therefore I've changed careers a lot. I have not married a Jewish doctor and I have no medical insurance. My Broadway credits are not worth mentioning in light of these two facts. Mother is very disappointed that I have not followed her Nazi game plan.

Alana was very excited to fly for the first time with her "Crazy Aunt Viv," so it was my golden opportunity to bond with her and play the role of responsible guardian. Alana seemed surprised I was able to handle the logistics of air travel, with our plane changing routes and six suitcases. I decided not to smoke in the bathroom of the plane and risk getting arrested, though my right hand had a palsy-like twitch from lack of nicotine. I assured little Alana I was just cold.

My father and Uncle Sherwood picked us up at the airport. I hadn't seen my dad in a while, and had never met Sherwood, so it was understandable that I got them confused. I hugged my Uncle Sherwood and called him Daddy, and then hugged Daddy and said it's great to meet you Uncle Sherwood. Alana kicked me in the shins and I noticed the toupee; I made a mental note that became my silent mantra. "Sherwood has hair while Daddy's bare... Sherwood has hair while Daddy's bare?"

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The first day in Blackwell, Smith's dog Baby died. Mother was very upset. She loved teasing Baby and provoking her with a stick so that she would attack people Mother didn't like, which is basically everyone. Unfortunately, the ground was too cold to bury the ratty gray poodle, so Smith was carrying around Baby's dead body in the back of his pickup truck. Baby remained frozen in the position she died?beady eyes open and sporting a vicious snarl. This was my first clue that my marijuana was not going to be a recreational drug for me. Medicinal, medicinal, medicinal.

Later that day, Uncle Sherwood convinced Daddy to wear his toupee, saying he would look years younger. This was terribly confusing. I kept calling Daddy Uncle Sherwood and commenting that he looked tired. This only added to my father's depression. Daddy's been altering his medication, so he was not exactly Mr. Personality. Then I would call Uncle Sherwood Daddy. He thought I was reciting lines from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, so I played along and would say, "Mendacity, mendacity, mendacity," and Sherwood would babble something about "no-neck monsters."

That evening everyone went to bed early except me and Uncle Sherwood. Though our home is huge, for some reason we only seem to hang out in this tiny room, and if you saw it, you might think we live in squalor, but it's the only room that is heated. Maybe if the breakfast nook had proper ventilation, Uncle Sherwood wouldn't have gotten such a major contact high from the joint I smoked in front of him. At first he was alarmed to see me casually pull out a big, fat spliff, which I'd hidden in my Kotex box. After a while he was laughing so hard I thought his temples would burst. He squeezed my hand and told me this was the first time he'd really laughed since he was gang-raped in Savannah.

The next morning was Christmas Eve, and tension was mounting. Jessie and Alana had more energy than Energizer bunnies on speed, while Mother kept bringing up the dead dog in a vain attempt to kill the Christmas spirit and thwart the ominous Christmas-tree search. In Blackwell no one buys trees at stores. You go out to the tree farm and chop it down. It was an all-day event searching for just the right evergreen. The kids were in heaven; however, the highlight was when Smith was unloading our find. Baby was still frozen in the back of Smith's pickup and she got tangled up in the branches; she would have ended up an ornament if I'd found a can of spray-on snow.

That night, everyone went to bed early again except for me and my brother. Evidently Crane had been talking to Uncle Sherwood, and his curiosity had peaked in regard to my high-quality weed. I still had half left. I expected Mr. Catholic Amway King to disapprove, but he didn't skip a beat joining me. We talked and laughed till the wee hours of the morning. I was deeply moved to have so much fun with my loner brother.

On Christmas morning Alana and Jessie woke everyone up at the crack of dawn in anticipation of presents. Mother was not amused. Her only solace in life is sleeping. The adults tried to keep the kids quiet so as not to upset Daddy's delicate mood. He isn't terribly fond of children playing, because they make noise. It was too much excitement and he had run out of Valium. He cornered me by the Mr. Coffee machine and began quizzing me about cannabis sativae.

Daddy is very straitlaced and conservative, so I was more than taken aback when he began jonesing for weed. I lured my father into the garage to bond.

We stood next to his beige Lexus as I got higher than a kite trying to teach him how to toke on what was left of my roach. He was having difficulty, so I ended up giving him shotguns, blowing the smoke into his mouth. It worked, but I'm sure if you had walked in on us you would have gotten the wrong idea. Daddy began loosening up. He told me he was glad he'd never have to die in a rest home because he knew I would take care of him. "Of course I would Daddy," I said. "Now hold this in your lungs." I was feeling a sense of overwhelming responsibility and doom, and thinking, "Look, Pops, I'm not sure if I could handle the medical and financial end. Couldn't I just supply you with drugs?"

When we sat down for Christmas dinner, the family commented on how we both reeked of my father's car air freshener, but everyone was pleased that Daddy's appetite had spontaneously returned after a three-year hiatus.

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Maybe I wouldn't have performed that modern-interpretive-Isadora-type funeral dance when we buried Baby in the backyard on Christmas afternoon if I hadn't been stoned. It was more than tasteless that I began stripping and singing a Willie Nelson song, but the forbidden laughter was redemptive.

Alana cried when we had to leave. I almost did too when Daddy said goodbye and whispered in my ear, "A high time was had by all." I didn't get a chance to say 'bye to Mother because she was still outside, talking to Baby and leaving a bag of leftover Hamburger Helper on his tiny grave.