I carried my handmade corn basket in my lap on the airplane. It made for a strange carry-on, filled with earphones for the kids’ Spanish program that we didn’t want broken in the luggage, a hand painted wooden toy truck with beer caps for hub caps, my wallet, a ball of yarn and a pine needle basket I purchased for seventy cents in Chichicastenango a couple of months ago. It was the only way I could think of to get it home in one piece, and I had to have it because Ruthie and the boys gave it to me for Christmas filled with chocolates and wine and it’s how I carry her with me.

For being smack dab in the middle of the friends and family tour that inevitably is our re-entry routine, we’re doing remarkably well. No one is sick, beyond the usual continental shift gut trouble that’s unavoidable. We’ve had one lovely visit after another and are, as always, overwhelmed by the love and generosity of those who know us best and love us anyway.

There really are no adequate words to describe the joy of seeing the two biggest kids in our family, Hannah and Ben, curled up on their grandma’s bed, guitar and violin in hands, playing for hours. I couldn’t help but tear up a bit remembering how they’d play, long afternoons, beneath a sheet draped over our dining table when they were four, pretending they were from Carthage. Gabriel, who was barely crawling, was declared a Roman. This time they played duets at the pizza restaurant, to the amazement of the staff and patrons alike.

Perhaps the best thing about my family is their complete lack of interest in our life. Not lack of interest, exactly, because they always want to know what we’re up to, but lack of “impressed,” might be a better way to put it.

“So, where are you going next, Honey?” Uncle Terry asked between mouthfuls of baked ham, bacon-boiled green beans, mashed potatoe casserole, Indiana sweet corn and broccoli salad that was Easter dinner at my cousin Jill’s house in Trafalgar.

“Asia, we think, perhaps via the Trans-Siberian Railway… we’re not sure, there are a lot of details to work out this summer.” I replied

Everyone nodded and kept eating.

“My sister shaved her head!” Brandon mentioned casually.

“Yeah, I saw the pictures on Facebook… interesting look… I kinda like it,” I answered.

“Well, at least it’s not a tattoo!” Aunt Shirley interjected.

“RIGHT, at least it’s not a tattoo!” Grandma affirmed.

Dinner continued.

It was a beautiful afternoon. I’m blessed with a family that has it all, from soup to nuts, and as many different colours of life philosophy as are represented by my gene pool there’s not one that doesn’t add to the rainbow and there’s not one that isn’t accepted and loved for their quirks. Even our family, and we have extra quirks.

“At least it’s not a tattoo…” I’ve reflected a lot on that summation this week, as we’ve carried on to other family, old friends and beyond. It pretty much encapsulates the grace extended across the rainbow that stretches from my ninety-one year old grandmother who walked through WW2 beside her sailor husband, to their three daughters with wildly different husbands, and their nine children, my generation, to our collective twenty-four children.

Our crazy way of living across continents, raising our kids in multiple languages and cultures is lumped right in with Tyler’s new bald look, so-and-so’s interesting partner choice and the many skeletons that occasionally rattle behind closet doors.

“At least it’s not a tattoo…”

• It’s not permanently scarring
• The shock value will pass
• It doesn’t cause bodily pain
• It’s not a mark on the skin of the family

Like the fire-engine red tips of my hair that made people roll their eyes on my last visit, it will fade, it will pass, life will go on.

I love that nothing we do impresses or shocks these people. They knew I’d grow up weird, my parents are weird. This life we lead is no surprise to them. But at least it’s not a tattoo. In fact, upon reflection, I’m pretty sure that not one of my 46 immediate relatives on the maternal side of my family has a tattoo. If someone does, they’re keeping quiet about it.

We walked a long morning through the forested rolling hills of Brown County, in southern Indiana yesterday afternoon. Mercifully, the rain held off while we wandered beneath the celery green canopy of deciduous trees, just waking up and stretching their branches skyward after a long winter’s nap. The dogwood drips like white eyelet lace through the undergrowth this time of year, just as the redbuds are bowing off of spring’s stage to make room for the mayapples, jack-in-the-pulpit, trillium and purple violet as they dance into their glory.

I walked with my basket, jingling the chime on my necklace as I wandered to call out the mushrooms from their hiding spots, just as my grandfather used to blow his mushroom whistle when hunting in forests not so far from here.

My basket was a little confused, she’s only ever carried pineapples and mangos and listened to Spanish and Ka’chikel swirling through her woven sides as we’ve shopped our way through markets at the other end of the continent.

Dandelions and wild mustard combined with seven big yellow morel mushrooms felt funny rolling around her insides as we whispered back and forth about the cultural diversity that is our life and her role in it. It will be a long time before she rolls about in the bottom of a lancha on our familiar lago, filled to overflowing with cilantro and avocados.

She will have to learn to carry other things, mushrooms, apples, sweet corn, asparagus and perhaps tomatoes from my mother’s island garden later this summer. She’ll have to learn to live with crisp cold mornings and a general lack of the lago’s morning mist between her weave.

We all adjust.