Snapshot.

The house is at the bottom of a hill and the end of a long street, a characteristic of many houses in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Though one of the masses, there is nothing ordinary about this house.

The brightest thing on the block, light streams from its broad windows allowing it to become a beacon on this crisp, fall night. The laughter and sociable shrieks of both children and adults squeeze their way through the cracks in the walls and echo up the otherwise peaceful street. The cops could have been called for a noise complaint an hour ago, but it’s Thanksgiving.

Lucky for the family.

All seventy of them…

Zoom in closer.

My dad is at the piano, his fingers pounding on the keys. He’s playing that song again, you know the one he plays every year? The Beatle’s one! Umm… “Let it Be.” Yes, that’s it.
See that boy sulking in the corner? That’s my cousin Robbie. He’s studying piano in England. His fingers are itching to get at those ivories, but he’s too polite to shove his uncle off the bench. He’ll just have to wait his turn.

Flash

And with the might of a heard of buffalos, the family goes stampeding through the house. The pack is led by Aunt Nancy, Uncle Michael, and, with fear displayed openly on his face, little Cousin Dylan.

They gobble wildly in song as they snake from room to room in a conga-line formation.

The yearly “Turkey Dance” has begun and dinner will be served shortly.

Fast Forward.

Robbie’s fingers flit across the piano as he fills the room with George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue.” For years he has perfected this piece and revels in this moment when the whole family can really enjoy it.

Grammie and Great Aunt KK sit on the couch nearby and smile as they watch Robbie. The pride reflected in their eyes gleams with the light of the candles my second cousin Katie lit after dinner.

Dad is in the other room, eating some pie with a heavy dose of whip cream on top. He’s moved onto bigger and better things.

Flash.

“Gota find myyyyyy coooorrrrnnneeeerrrr… of the skyyyyy.”
The rag-tag group of cousins finishes their rendition of “Corner of the Sky” from the Broadway musical Pippin in complete 4-part harmony. Sheet music from Les Miserables, Rent, Ragtime, Wicked, Phantom of the Opera, and more lie scattered on the piano.

They sing these songs every year. One could say that musical theatre is in our family’s blood.

Flash.

Whoops and hollers echo around the dining room, now cleared of chairs and tables, as Uncle Joey finishes his yearly tribute to the Austin Power’s theme song. My 2nd cousin Gus, who wants to dance like Uncle Joey, tries to replicate his father’s moves in the middle of the dancefloor.

Within a minute though, his face has turned the color of the wattle on Uncle Michael Till’s turkey hat. His glasses slip to the tip of his sweaty nose as his mom drags him to the bathroom, chastising him once again for eating more than his fair share of Aunt Mary’s famous pilgrim cookies.

Slide Over.

And we’re back in the sitting room. Cousin Caitlin’s new husband, Ryan, strums away happily on his guitar as my brother-in-law Adam, Uncle Scott, Uncle Michael, and (of course) belt out the lyrics to John Denver’s “Country Roads.” The adults have filled the once vacant armchairs and sofas around the room. They gulp down their coffee and finish off their last bites of pumpkin pie as they try to stay awake.

It’s going to be a long drive back to the hotel.

Flash.

The dance party in the dining room is quickly winding down. From Katie Perry to Michael Jackson, the kids, teens, and adults who wish they were kids and teens grooved to it all. They kicked off their heels and dress shoes a long time ago though, and there is only so much jumping up and down one’s bare feet can take before the pain settles in.

As the last notes of The Proclaimer’s “I’m Gonna Be” winds down, they make their way to the sitting room. Perching on the arms of chair and collapsing upon the floor, they position themselves to listen to the last song of the evening.

My grandfather, whom we lovingly call Pop Pop, shakily stands from his seat next to my grandmother. Then, with as much gusto as he can manage, begins reciting the old Irish tune “Oh Danny Boy.”

He can’t reach all the notes.

He started in the wrong key again.

He ran out of breath.

But no one cares.

In a family where music plays such a key role in bringing everyone together, the pure passion of the song is enough to fill the room with a warm, contagious joy.

And stop.

These songs are my favorite things.

These songs that my family plays, sings, dances to, recites, and listens to every year tell our story. We are quirky, we’re jazzy, we’re classic, we’re unique, we’re old, we gobble, we love Broadway, we would walk five hundred miles to see each other, we can’t all dance, we can’t all sing, we are great listeners, and most of all, we love one another for who we are.

And frozen, in this moment, on Thanksgiving, in the well-lit house at the bottom of the hill and at the end of the long street in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, it comforts me to know that something as simple and everlasting as music could bring so many people together in love of one another.

Who could ask for a better snapshot than that?