I spent this past weekend with my family. Twenty-four of us (13 adults and 11 children) swarmed around a very large house and yard that now belongs to my sister to celebrate the 12th annual Schreiberfest.
The house that hosted this year's reunion, in Fort Wayne, IN, was designed and built by my father 30 years ago. Our family lived there for five years in the late 70's/early 80's, and then sold it when our dad got a new job in North Carolina. The house had been out of our family for 26 years until my sister bought it this spring.
So of course we had to have Schreiberfest here, in the house where all my siblings went to high school and where I lived from first to sixth grade.
The back yard is still huge, but the previous owners added a pool and my sister put a trampoline in the corner.
We hung out on the back porch,
played in the pool,
listened to nostalgic records from the 70s & 80s,
played a bean-bag tossing game called "cornhole" and then made crude jokes about our cornholes,
and took the five dogs in attendance on group walks:
We also had dinner in the formal dining room (while the kids ate in the kitchen),
sat around the family room and told family stories that we'd all heard 20 times before,
and made custom t-shirts for the kids:
My only priority all weekend was to challenge my oldest brother to a tennis match. We were all ready to go Friday morning, but the courts were locked and my sister couldn't remember the combination.
While they fumbled with the lock, I grumbled impatiently.
But eventually we figured out how to get in and I got to show off my color-coordinated Rafa outfit and matching tennis skillz:
I was up 5-4 in the first set, but then he put his older brother hex on me and won eight games in a row. He beat me 7-5, 6-1.
The activity that we do the most at Schreiberfest, though, is taking pictures. We take them, show them to each other, and even take pictures of us looking at pictures,
or pictures of us taking pictures
while we shape the kids into poses
or pose ourselves:
My family rocks.