An extended family can be comforting, like a martini

There is probably no good reason to come to Livermore unless you are a nuclear scientist at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory secretly researching ways to hasten the apocalypse or are attending a family reunion at an Italian restaurant.

Since I have no interest in exerting the amount of effort required to blow up the world, it must be the family gathering that brought me to the funny little town just 20 miles east of Oakland.

Actually it was my second trip there, the first being an effort as a young reporter to interview Dr. Edward Teller, the so-called father of the H-bomb, who, when he discovered my presence, shouted loudly that if they didn’t throw the reporter out he would leave and never return. So they threw the reporter out.

The trip this time was to be among 26 family members from around the Bay Area and as far away as Reno and L.A. for an afternoon of spaghetti and bocce ball at a noisy, cavernous eatery called Campo di Bocce. It proved more than adequate for this kind of affair, if you love garlic and indoor sports.

The Campo’s crowded bar was as long as the two bocce ball lanes, indicating an interest beyond ball-rolling. The reunion was on a Saturday, so football was played loudly on a large, wall-mounted television screen, in addition to which small children ran screaming up and down the bocce ball lanes, and everyone raised their voices to be heard, bringing the overall decibel level to that of a prison riot.

I heard only about every 37th word that was said but understood that we all looked great and not a year older than the last time we met. That was about 20 years ago, and it would have been some kind of cosmetic miracle had we not grayed and sagged, but I accepted the compliments and headed for the bar.

I have no interest in indoor sports or parlor games, but I was in something of a dilemma. We had come together at 2 o’clock for cocktails followed by dinner at 4, because it was the only time we could get a reservation at one of the apparently very few restaurants in Livermore willing to tolerate family gatherings.

Under normal circumstances, I have a martini before dinner, but that is usually at 6 or 7 in the evening. It was not a part of my regimen to drink at 2; eating at 4 was more like supper in Kansas than dinner in California. We’ve evolved beyond that.

So I tried smiling and mixing without a martini, which is a manner of socializing that only dukes and diplomats have mastered, and I am neither. I pretended to listen and occasionally nodded wisely, otherwise contributing little else to the networking that went on.

Only a somber Aussie who is the husband of one of my nieces appeared less willing to be a joyful participant.

He is a big man with a grip that can bring you, face twisted in pain, to your knees. The first time we shook hands I thought he would break my fingers, forcing me to write columns with my toes, the way disabled people learn to paint. I wouldn’t imagine toe-written columns to be as effective as finger columns, however, so when I saw him this time I only offered the tip of my hand, like some sort of effete and powdered Lord of Buckingham, preventing him from establishing a firm and crushing grip. He scowled.

I missed my praying sister Emily, who died last year and who was always trying to save my rotting soul. Three other family members have died since we last gathered, including my drinking buddy Bob, a brother-in-law, and my singing partner Eddie, another brother-in-law.

We called ourselves the three caballeros and sang with a gusto that frightened little children. Three caballeros, we’re three caballeros, they say we are birds of a featttttther. . . . Now there is only one caballero.

Dolores is gone too, and Mary is the only other sibling left. She came with my niece Liz, whose three young boys ran up and down the bocce ball lanes, reminding Cinelli and me of our own kids, who are approaching middle age now but once romped like gazelles through the fancy of their youth until the running seasons ended and autumn set in.

I realized at the reunion that I am essentially a lonely person and that my need of family is probably greater than I ever suspected.

So I said to hell with it, ordered a martini, joined the crowd and began talking like a filibustering Mississippi senator to the dear and embracing family that is always there for me.

Supper at 4 was distinguished by one of the kids who, when asked what he would like to eat, replied smartly, “Giraffe!” We all laughed with the joy and resonance of people who liked each other, but giraffe wasn’t on the menu.

We ate spaghetti. I would have preferred giraffe.

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