The beautiful traditions that bind us

I came home this weekend, making the two-hour jaunt northwest from Grinnell on Friday evening. This being my first time home since before spring break in mid-March, there were plenty of questions from family and friends about what I’d been up to lately, how my classes were going, and how I’d enjoyed my time in South Africa (where I spend said spring break learning about disease spread in Kruger National Park alongside my peers in Biology 195). All of that was fine and dandy, and it was a joy, as always, to catch up with those I most care for, but in reflecting upon the happenings of this weekend past, I find myself mostly hung up on one thing: tradition.

It started on Saturday, where, after an early morning call to chores from our father, my brothers and I formed some esprit de corps as we fed our animals with the same collective thought in mind—pancakes. For years now, the Vosburgs have maintained a tradition of visiting Greens’ Sugar Bush in Castalia, Iowa, for their annual pancake breakfast. Located two hours to the east and a touch north of Hampton, this sugar bush is the oldest continually operating business in Iowa, with the Green family having made maple syrup here since 1851. When my grandfather was still writing columns for the Draft Horse Journal, he ended up interviewing the Greens about their use of draft horses to pull their syrup wagons through the maple groves. Along with this discussion came an invitation to the annual pancake breakfast, which was taken up when I was just five months old. From that first interaction onwards, a tradition has been set: Rain or shine, come snowstorm or high water, the Vosburgs will be at Greens’ Sugar Bush eating their fair share of pancakes drenched in homegrown syrup, with homemade apple sauce and sausage, alongside a crowd of hundreds of other like-minded, and like-stomached, individuals (shown above when the line was smaller). This year proved no different, aside from the fact that my cousin Jack ousted me as reigning family champion, eating 17 pancakes to top my past record of 16.

The traditions continued on Sunday, too, with a Vosburg playing an instrument in the Church of the Living Word Easter Service. In the past, that had always been me, alongside my friend Isaac Sauke, as we delivered some punchy taglines and melodies on our trumpets under the careful guidance of resident virtuoso Steve Huling. This year, like my pancake record, proved different as well, with my little brother William hopping up on stage to back the whole ensemble on drumset. In a way, these occurrences felt like the passing of a torch, though I was not the one to hand them off. Though I had once been the one to hold each aforementioned torch, in my absence, the vacuum had been filled in an even more meaningful (or stomach-full, in the case of Jack’s pancakes) manner.

I reflected on this as I drove back to Grinnell on Sunday afternoon, after a lovely lunch with my Mom’s side of the family. There are two new babies either delivered or on the way among that group, while I, on the other hand, will be turning 20 in just a few months’ time. Just as I am exiting childhood and coming into my own, there are two more in my family joining the ranks, sure to receive all the love and affection that could possibly be showered upon them. In a way, I guess I’m just struck by how fast this whole “growing up” thing happened.

Just after I returned to Grinnell, I changed out of my Easter clothes and into a navy blue kurta, Indian traditional wear for men, and headed over to an Eid celebration hosted by the college’s Muslim Student Association. There, too, I found tradition, with excellent food, community, and the sharing of stories across cultures. As I waited in line for a henna/mehendi tattoo, I chatted with friends and met some new people, reminiscing on the Eid celebrations I’d partaken in while I lived in Malaysia. It was a wonderful time recounting such iridescent memories.

As I look back on this rollercoaster of a weekend as a whole, I can’t help but come away grateful for family, friends, and community. The throughlines, I’ve now found, are the beautiful traditions that bind us.