the family that farkles.

I look at my dad’s first cousin’s daughter’s second husband and state, “Face it, man: you’re a farkler.”

I think that’s decent proof that family reunions are a bit ridiculous. In a good way, of course. I went to our reunion this weekend out in Super Small Town, Texas where, after walking in with Grandmother’s fruit tray, I was soon introduced to a second cousin twice removed (by the way, this is not The Farkler, and I have no clue at all how these two would be related). Soon, familiar faces trickled in with their multi-colored casseroles. We joined hands to pray; together, we circled the kitchen, hall, dining room, and den. By the time I picked up a plate, my young cousins were already scooping out seconds. Piles of macaroni and brisket disappeared and my aunt started to round up some of us for a dice game—she’s a big gamer, and we’re pretty obliging.

The Farkler corrals the dice with his forearm and shoves them to his daughter. “Right-o,” he says. “I farkled. I farkle. And don’t worry, folks, I’ll be farkling again soon.” We laugh like kids and test the verbs ourselves, tasting the silliness.

Farkle is a game of chance and risk-taking, but, as sixteen of us take turns, I realize that we’re all pitching out advice (even if it’s the peppy devil-at-your-ear kind). We’re involved and laughing regardless of which player’s rolling. As we’re gaming, I look through the window to the sunroom and see another twenty family members sipping tea and coffee, chatting and remembering. Being around families stirs that feeling in me that I get when I snuggle under my quilt and my dog curls into the crook of my leg, rests his head on my knees. It’s simple, sweet and comforting.

Now, really—who would expect that from a game called Farkle?