Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

Life always has the capacity to surprise. Sometimes the surprise is delightful, and sometimes it most definitely is not. This past weekend, life did what it does best, but thankfully this surprise was of the delightful strain, as I’m pretty sick of the other type.

Our dear friends, the Bakers, have been a part of our lives for, jeez, over twenty years, now. I first met Mike at work, and we’ve been friends for most of that time. It’s with Mike that I used to sit across the table and do the NYT crossword puzzles during our lunch break (he got the downs and did the puzzle right-side up, while I got the acrosses and did it upside-down).

In time, I met the rest of his family—his wife and two (then) small boys, his brother (whose blog is always an enjoyable read), sister-in-law, niece and nephew, and his mother, the matriarch of the family. Over the years, we’ve watched their children grow, go off to college, get married, and begin to build their own lives. We’ve been to ball games and cookouts, and I’ve worked with Mike’s brother, Todd, on writing projects and learned from him some of the finer points of grilling.

As a clan, they are loving, patient, supportive, compassionate, intelligent, easy-going, witty, accommodating, artistic, caring, and about seventeen other positive adjectives that I won’t bother you with here (full list available upon request). In short, they’re an exemplary family, and for many years I’ve openly stated my sincere desire to be adopted by Ma Baker and become a member of the tribe.

Once in a great while, Ma Baker treats her boys and their families to a fancy, high-end dinner at one of Seattle’s must-go venues, Canlis. The restaurant, built in 1950 and still owned and operated by the Canlis family, is perched on the edge of Queen Anne overlooking Lake Union. It’s lovely, and has a long reputation as a place that provides an old-school, fine dining experience, the kind of place you still dress up for, jackets and ties preferred. A few years ago, we were pleasantly surprised by an invitation to join the troupe, and it was wonderful, so when Ma Baker asked us to attend again this year, it immediately went on the calendar in ink. Nothing short of tragedy would keep us from joining our favorite group of people for one of the best meals you can get in Seattle.

This was the third such trip to Canlis for the family, and this time it was a birthday celebration of sorts. The three Bakers, sons and mother, all have birthdays in November/December, and as I was about to turn sixty myself in a few days, my birthday was added to the pot of reasons to celebrate.

The dinner was the gift, though, so I was surprised when Todd pulled out a bag and handed me a wrapped present. I mean, it was my 60th birthday, but still, it was unexpected.

Inside was an oval of wrought-iron with a bas-relief of an old-style firefighting rig and the letters “U” and “F” emblazoned on either side. Todd then proceeded to explain that this was an old “fire mark,” issued by United Firemen’s Insurance Company. All of the Baker households, he said, have had a fire mark in their homes, a tradition begun by their father (who worked in the insurance industry), and since they’d all decided to adopt me, it was only fitting that I should have one also.

What?

Wait.

Sorry.

Back up a little. Say again?

Yes. The Baker clan had decided to take me up on my expressed wish and adopt me. Todd read off the list of reasons and conditions, including the proviso that my wife came along as part of the deal, as her laughter offset my “curmudgeonliness.” The document he gave me had signatures from all the primaries of the family: Mom, sons, and daughters-in-law.

It took a lot for me to keep from losing it. As it was, I got more than a bit misty.

You see, life in my own family was rarely peaceful, rarely happy. With an emotionally absent father, a mother who died when I was young, an overbearing stepmother, and siblings who were aloof at best, I often viewed my friends’ families with longing. Growing up, I was pushed to excel in all things, expected to perform duties on command, and was never, ever allowed to do anything that might bring opprobrium upon our name (which I brought on us anyway, despite the price that was to be paid, each and every time).

Since then, I’ve tried to have as drama-free a home life as possible, even when it seemed impossible, so when a group of loving, well-adjusted, thoroughly delightful people decided to adopt me (unofficially or otherwise) it was a big deal that moved me beyond words (a condition from which I’ve obviously recovered).

Our first order of business, of course, was to determine my standing as a member of the family. I’m older than either of the brothers, but it was decided that family standing is based on one’s entry into the family, not age.

As a result, I am now, proudly, the youngest of Ma Baker’s kids.

Today, I am a Baker boy, and couldn’t be more pleased.

k