Looking past familiar leads to lively evening around campfire

My boy and I watched them arrive. Eighteen people in two cars. One 60ish couple, a handful of 20- and 30-something adults, some elementary-age children, a bright-eyed 3-year-old girl and a Rottweiler mix. Camping gear. Boxes. Bags of charcoal. Ice chest after ice chest. Pillows, tents and sleeping bags.

I wasn't eavesdropping, but was close enough to notice the family banter. They smiled a lot. Laughed hard and often. The adults respected and tended the children.

The scene was sublime, and I caught myself staring a few times. Soaking it up vicariously, like an interfamilial shoplifter trying to sneak a few items off their shelf into my own pocket.

Well geez, it's not like they didn't have more than enough love to go around.

And that's about when they started walking through our campsite, back and forth to the restrooms. One by one. Or in groups. The dog, too. And I mean right through our campsite. Right by our concrete picnic table. Right by the front door of our tent. At one point walking in between our chairs around the campfire. Close enough to touch.

Where I come from, that's weird. And irritating. Shockingly impolite. Personal Space, don't you know. This campsite is, for the weekend, my home, and you might as well walk through my front door without knocking, between me and the television, down the hall, through the master bedroom and out the back patio door as a shortcut to the grocery.

My son was starting to murmur snotty things under his breath. But I told him to hang on. I told him there might be more going on here than meets the eye.

This family was Latino, origins unknown. They hadn't spoken a word of English since they arrived.

Years ago, I worked for a behavioral health agency that was contracted by the city of Scottsdale, Ariz., to intervene in a conflict between the city and Hispanic immigrants. Scottsdale is a resort town, and a steady flow of Mexican and Central/South Americans came to find employment at these resorts. When settled, they would rent "single family dwelling" apartments, and bring their "single family" to join them in the United States.

Ever seen 18 people in a "single family dwelling" zoned for four?

But that was the rub -- competing definitions of family. Native Latinos don't do "nuclear family," and don't understand why anybody would want to. They don't do "your backyard" and "my backyard." They don't do Personal Space they way Americans do. It's Everybody's neighborhood. Everybody's kids. Everybody's front yard or porch.

Scottsdale officials wondered why these immigrants would defy the city zoning laws. The immigrants wondered why Americans would build apartments so small and expect them to contain a "single family."

I was alone at my campfire, my son gone for his midnight walk around the lake, when my neighbors beckoned me over. Greeted me with the enthusiasm I reserve for an ol' college roommate. Two meager years of high school Spanish is all I've got, but we muddied through. They were first generation Mexican immigrants. The eldest son had opened a family tire store.

El abuelo de familia (grandpa) sang Mexican songs up to the stars. The songs got better as the tequila, limon y sal kept going around. (Reposado! These people have great taste in tequila!) Everything they owned was, for the moment, mine. Their joy was their hospitality.

My boy came limping back from his Ordeal to find his father smoking a cigar, sipping tequila and absolutely crucifying the chorus harmonies of Mexican songs with his new Mexican friends.

The next morning, Danny and Joel, 13 and 12 respectively, came over and asked to borrow my fishing pole. I paused inside. Where I come from, my fishing pole, my guitar and my toothbrush are personal. You don't stroll up and lay your hands on them. You don't casually borrow them.

But why stand on uptight suburban bourgeoisie ceremony when you can make two boys smile so as to change the course of stars? I gave them the pole. They caught a fish, and then completely screwed up the pole. Brought it back to me in a tangled mess. The fish had gotten bored and jumped back into the lake.

I repaired the pole with a smile. And then I gave the boys the pole.

Thought it was a fair trade for the tequila, the cigar, the friendship and the terrific feeling I had about my whole universe.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling Wellness Center in Las Vegas and the author of "Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing" (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Sundays. Contact him at skalas@reviewjournal.com.