A Few Good Women

It's been over a week since I attended a "cousin reunion."  It is limited to the female cousins on my father's side of the family.   It gives us a chance to really talk.

I've wanted to write about this event but haven't quite known how.

I love my cousins.  While, they probably know more about me than I do about them, thanks to my blabbing in this blog, they still always feel familiar in a good way.

Those of us born in the 50's and 60's were very lucky.  Our parents got together often for picnics, potlucks, birthday celebrations.  We saw our aunts, uncles and cousins frequently.  Most of us lived in the same area.  Many of us went to the same school, same church.  Our lives crisscrossed in so many ways that sometimes we'd long for anonymity.  We wanted to be defined by something more than the clan to which we belonged.

People several towns away could tell what family most of us came from simply by our facial features and body type.  We were as easily identified as a Holstein or a Guernsey or a Black Angus.  Most of the time they could even accurately guess who my father was.  If they guessed incorrectly, they were always very close.  "No, Uncle Herman isn't my Dad".
But it was close enough.

Growing up, I used to hate standing there waiting while they played this guessing game.   I felt I could never win.  I didn't want to be labeled so easily.  I didn't want the gossip circuit in town to refer to me as a "typical Hendricks."  I would imagine them shaking their heads and saying, "That's a Hendricks for ya."

I longed not to be so well known by the people I'd meet.

In time, I got my wish.  Almost every stranger's face I'd see was exactly that, a stranger.  And, I was a stranger  to them.    I had learned to see people without looking at them.

And, eventually, I learned just how lucky I am to come from a big family, one that celebrated so many things with cousins and kin folk.  Baptisms, First Communions, birthdays, 4th of Julys, holidays, weddings, and funerals took on an added meaning when shared with family.

Without a doubt, our family suffered the typical family dysfunction.  Descendants of German immigrants we were never hugged or loved openly enough.  Criticism was the norm, negativity a defining characteristic.  Yet, for all these shortcomings, after all the years, all the personal neurosis, we cousins, still make an effort to come together once in a while.  We reminisce, share stories of our parents, who as siblings are/were remarkably alike.  It's the best kind of therapy, sitting in a lawn chair under Kim's patio, sharing food.  Yes, all of us are pretty good cooks and love to eat.  We get that from our parents.

When I leave and return to my life, where so many people are absolute strangers, I carry the memory within my heart.  I have a big, flawed family who provides an anchor in a world with so few anchors in it.  My family helps define who I am.  Despite our individual differences, our unique talents and abilities, they remind me that on the face of this huge planet, there is a special group of people who belong to my special clan.  I belong.  It is my birthright.  I am very grateful and extremely honored by my relationship with them.

So, heres to my cousins.  I love you.  Always have.  Always will.   But in my typical, stoic, repressed German way you may not always have been sure.  "Die Katze" is out of the bag now.