Here I am, writing from my family's Christmas vacation to St. Lucia, and it seems fitting to talk about these annual trips and what it was like to grow up in the Samuelson family.
As some of you know, and plenty do not, my grandfather, Paul A. Samuelson, was an incredibly accomplished economist. In 1970, he was the first American and second person ever awarded the Nobel Prize in Economics. You could quite literally say he wrote the book on it. His textbook, "Economics: An Introductory Analysis," was the best-selling economics textbook of all time and used to teach students Keynesian economics for 50 years.
But to me, Paul was Baba. He used to call our house on our landline, announcing himself as Gramps, which was obvious because his old voice could only belong to a man who had lived through both world wars. He would ask us a few questions, mostly math, and once we passed or didn't, he'd ask for our father.
In addition to being an accomplished economist, he was the epitome of a patriarch. My grandmother, Marion, passed when my dad was 24 from breast cancer. No one has a mean word to say about her, except for maybe her cooking. There are rumors that Marion and not Paul wrote the book, but I think it's folklore.
Paul and Marion had 6 kids: Jane, Marnie, Billy, and the triplet boys. That's right, in 1953, when they were expecting baby number 4, it turned out to be babies 4, 5, and 6. Billy was only a year older than the triplets. The three include an identical pair, Paul R. and my father, John, and their fraternal third, Bobby. Can you imagine?!?
The 6 grew up, Marion died, and Paul A. remarried an evil stepmother, Reisha, a transgression I'm not sure any of the children ever forgave. All this was ancient history by the time I arrived on the scene.
Despite his accomplishments and distinction, all he hoped for in his family was cheerful dispositions and to get along. Ours weren't always, and often we didn't. But once a year, at Christmas time, we all gathered in Florida, where he and the wicked witch wintered.
Each December, the Baby Boomer Samuelsons and their 15 grandchildren brought chaos to resorts in Florida. Most memorable were the years we stayed at the Royal Sonesta in Key Biscayne. Baba brought us all there for a week to spend time together and see us grow. And he gave us a power that no kids should ever have: the ability to sign to the room.
15 toe heads ran around the resort like we owned the place. We would press all the buttons in the elevator, lose things off our balconies during fights, and take over the lobby sofas to play cards. Of all my childhood memories, most take place during those vacations. Here are a few.
At night, we would play kick the can on the beach. One person guards the can, while the others hide and try to swipe it before the guard can call their name. One play was epic. My cousin Tom and my brother Jake switched clothes. Tom ran to the can as Charlie screamed, "Jake! Jake! Jake!" Tom flew to the can and kicked it into outer space. It was legendary.
As a teenager, I once found myself with debilitating food poisoning after eating Lobster with Red Tide. I camped out in my room with my cousin Charlie. Outside, it was sunny and warm. Inside it was stuffy and smelled like puke and poop. We were together where we wanted to be and happily watched a marathon of Tila Tequila, a spicy bisexual with her own reality TV show.
But the stories that are the most fun to tell and relive always star my cousin Dave. Dave is the youngest Samuelson of our generation. At number 15, he was often at the mercy of the 14 ahead of him. As number 12 myself, sometimes I felt like a big kid, but often, I was right by his side, relegated to the little kid's table.
When we went to laser tag, Dave somehow exited the arena and walked around Coconut Grove in his full laser armor at age 6 until some friendly stranger escorted him back. On another occasion, we were camped out in one of our hotel rooms and sent Dave off to the bar with a list of drink orders. He returned with piña coladas sliding off a tray and slathering him in icy sticky sweetness. He told us all to "go fuck ourselves." A bonus of being the youngest of 15 is at least a vocabulary full of swears.
But in my favorite story, Dave and I stood up for ourselves at the bottom of the cousin food chain and refused to take any more crap. The cousins were obsessed with a card game called Asshole. You may know it as Presidents, but clearly, if given a choice, our family picked the curse. The idea of the game is to get rid of all your cards the fastest. The first man out is president, then vice president, and so on until semi-asshole and asshole. And once you claim your position at either end of the hierarchy, it is hard to move. Asshole gives all their best cards away and has to eat the dogshit the president doesn't want.
Dave and I had had it. As asshole and semi-asshole seemingly for life, the third hour of the game, on the fifth consecutive day, had lost its appeal. We took ourselves out to dinner away from the cousins. Later, our parents found us at a romantic table in the Chinese food restaurant, in a private booth with beaded curtains. We had a feast of dumplings and lo mein and no shitty older cousins to call us asshole. We were 5 and 8 years old. Our bond has only grown.
Decades later, some things have changed, and many haven't. Now we're the parents, and our parents are the grandparents. We favor gin basil smashes to rum punches, and our kids prefer strawberry daiquiris to piña coladas. But much is the same. Cousins run around acting more like siblings. Another generation of Samuelsons brings chaos to a new resort. There are occasional tears, but much more often, laughter and smiles. We show love in our own unique Samuelson way. I am so proud to be part of this family.
I feel the absence of Jude like I would if I were missing a limb. He is a piece of my heart, and I'll never stop wishing he were here. But we will continue to say his name, to love each other as he showed us how, and damn sure have a piña colada in his honor. To Jude.