It Never Fails: El Nin~o Always Manages to Rain on This Family’s Gatherings, Spawning More Squalls Along the Way

Get ready.

El Nin~o is coming! El Nin~o is coming!

These are the cries and concerns I find generating from every form of media I know: print, TV, the chain letter I received just last month in the mail. The wrath of that warm spot in Pacific waters has been kept at bay way too long, and now he, El Nin~o, is preparing to strike the Southland, the country--heck, the whole wide world--in just a matter of days.

As the state of California braces for the onslaught of roof-ripping weather this holiday season, I witness firsthand the throngs of frantic homeowners at my local Home Depot grabbing last-minute supplies of sandbags, heavy-duty bolts and tear-resistant tarps, and I can hardly sympathize.

This Thanksgiving, my family and I have additional worries: the arrival of a lesser-known el nin~o. (In Hollywood speak, his cameo appearance might be called “The Return of El Nin~o, Familia of the Damned.”) But this is not Hollywood fiction fantasy, for this el nin~o is a real being, a person--the only son of my Uncle Javie and Aunt Lucy.

Living southeast of Visalia, el nin~o travels with his parents in tow, in a northwesterly direction, causing a disruptive current and downpour of devastation in every home he hits during the holidays. No one has ever escaped his path.

In a word (or two), Uncle Javie and Aunt Lucy’s nin~o is an overactive, big-mouthed, tattletale--a 7-year-old child with a somewhat angelic face settled between two massive ears that soak up every bit of information within a 15-yard radius.

El nin~o takes it upon himself to be the disseminator of family facts, ruthlessly plowing through every family gathering, uprooting secrets, callous comments and over-the-shoulder remarks he overhears from unknowing adults. The aftermath of el nin~o has proven to be a holocaust of bruised egos, seared hearts and broken esteem.

Take, for instance, the time we all celebrated Thanksgiving at my Uncle Willie’s place out in Riverside. Uncle Willie is the oldest bachelor I know. At 58, he continues to dream of the day he’ll carry a bride over the threshold of his Mediterranean-style condo. Maybe it’s his acute sour breath, maybe it’s the enlarged bald spot that exposes a skin growth on the back of his head, but for whatever reason, Uncle Willie just can’t find a woman wanting to marry him.

So many years in vain, he’s tried everything: registered with high-priced dating services, consulted Tia Annie’s matchmaking methods, even scoped out the unemployment office handing out beige-colored business cards stating “Attention Ladies! Work no more. Inquire within. (Partial college credit available.)”

We continue to hope for the best concerning our dear Uncle Willie, but after what he went through with el nin~o one season, he may never recover from the emotional mass destruction that took place.

We were all sitting around the table patting our guts from the last helpings of a Cool Whip pumpkin-flavored pie when el nin~o, who was calmly watching an Olsen Twins video, suddenly called out from his place near the TV.

“Hey, Uncle Willie,” el nin~o’s voice funneled through the living room, “my mama said that maybe if you wore a wig and took some Tic Tacs, maybe some lady will like you. Have you ever thought of that? Huh, Uncle Willie? Have you?”

And with that, el nin~o turned his attention back to the TV, singing along with two yellowed-haired girls, not even aware of what he had just done.

And what could Uncle Willie do except suck his breath in real tight and turn to el nin~o’s mama, who suddenly became engrossed with the remaining pie crust on her dessert plate? He took a long, despairing look at each and every one of us. We could do nothing but remain uncomfortably speechless. Uncle Willie then slowly pushed himself away from the table and, with one hand over his bald spot, the other covering his mouth, quickly retreated upstairs to his spare room.

That was the last time I ever saw Uncle Willie. Since then, he has become a recluse, a wearer of flannel bathrobes and worn-out flip-flops, continuously rewatching movies such as “Sleepless in Seattle” or “It Could Happen to You,” comforting himself with reheated Swanson turkey TV dinners.

But Uncle Willie’s incident wasn’t just an isolated event. The year before that, el nin~o struck Aunt Lola’s home in Hacienda Heights. Aunt Lola is a recent divorcee who came out an emotional winner from her lengthy and painful divorce from Uncle Charlie. She is now a happier woman, blissfully in love and engaged to a much younger man. I truly believed that el nin~o could never bring Aunt Lola down, but was I wrong.

That Thanksgiving morning at Aunt Lola’s, the first signs of el nin~o appeared calm. In his hands, he carried a school project, a diorama of our country’s first Thanksgiving, complete with pilgrim and Indian dolls made of cornhusks.

“Oooooh, this is so beautiful,” Aunt Lola exclaimed as she took it from el nin~o. “I’m gonna put it right here, right here on the fireplace mantle.”

“No, Aunt Lola,” el nin~o explained as his eyes rolled upward. “It’s a centerpiece. Get it? It’s a piece for the center of the table.”

“Oh, isn’t that cute,” Aunt Lola patted el nin~o’s left cheek. “He wants to show off his new toy.”

“No,” el nin~o insisted. “This isn’t a toy. But Aunt Lydia said that you got a new toy: a jailbait. Where is it, Aunt Lola? Can I play with it before dinner?”

That particular Thanksgiving, we all ate in silence as el nin~o’s diorama was settled smack center of the dining room table. Aunt Lola never spoke to Aunt Lydia again. In fact, when Aunt Lola got married three months later, she invited none of us to the wedding ceremony--or to the reception at Chuck E. Cheese’s.

These are just a few painful, periodic episodes of el nin~o past. How can a mere child get away with so much destruction?

For one thing, like the westbound winds of El Nin~o, the parents of our el nin~o also gradually shift and move in opposite directions, ceasing to pay concern to the havoc their nin~o is wreaking.

For another, none of us is prepared to hear the outburst of truth during that loving family bonding time called the holidays.

This year, after months of scientific surveillance (e.g. rechecking the family tree and making a few phone calls), I’ve come to discover I will be hosting Thanksgiving, and el nin~o will be striking my home. As I painstakingly rethink and retrace my words over the entire year, I can recall el nin~o’s presence near mine, where he must have overhead me say unkind things about family members. Will he leak what I said about cousin Richie’s new wife having a backside like an ostrich? How about the time I mimicked ol’ Aunt Cathy’s flatulent habits?

This Thanksgiving, I can only do so much to keep myself from worrying about el nin~o.

I iron a russet-colored tablecloth, pick up my ordered turkey from Ralph’s and give Maggie the pit bull a light sedative. All I can do is pray for a heavy rainstorm that may keep el nin~o and his parents stuck in Visalia. But I know I will hear the backfire of Uncle Javie and Aunt Lucy’s car in my driveway. That will be my initial warning. Seconds later, I can expect the escalating shrieks of el nin~o as he swirls toward the front porch and clenches his fist, ready to pound and pound the fragile exterior of my front doorbell.

* Serros, a poet based in Los Angeles, is a spoken-word artist for Mercury Records, and her book “Chicana Falsa” will be reissued by Riverhead Books next year. She is working on a forthcoming book, “How to Be a Chicana Role Model,” also for Riverhead.