For a lot of people, ‘cousin’ isn’t a term that means a whole lot. Distant people your age who you might sit next to once a year at a Christmas meal and stand beside to take a family photograph. You can always tell when people aren’t familiar with their family from those kinds of photos. Stances are mechanical and smiles superficial. Everyone pushes out the word ‘cheese’ through stiff grins.
None of my family photos resemble that. 18 cousins and we all lived in a 2 hour radius growing up. A few of us who were luckily the same age, lived in the same town.
‘Cousin’ meant so much more to me than distant unknown relative.
My cousins were my classmates. We won soccer games together. We learned how to ride our bikes in the same driveway, learned how to swim in the same pool. We experienced seasons; raking and jumping in the piles of leaves in front of the old Bed & Breakfast, tying the sleds to the back of my Dad’s old Dodge and letting him pull us down the road, catching snakes in the backyard and riding four wheelers through the fields.
Annual highlights included Angelica Heritage Days, Thanksgiving Turkey Bowl, Fall Cup, Uncle Bob’s birthday bash, Christmas parties and trips to Sodus Bay.
Now most of us are out of the house, and those exciting gatherings don’t happen much anymore. But we’ve got some great memories, and a foundation that keeps us connected.
The word ‘cousin’, for me, holds a lot of significance.
all ignorance toboggans into know and trudges up to ignorance again: but winter's not forever,even snow melts;and if spring should spoil the game,what then? all history's a winter sport or three: but were it five,i'd still insist that all history is too small for even me; for me and you,exceedingly too small. Swoop(shrill collective myth)into thy grave merely to toil the scale to shrillerness per every madge and mabel dick and dave —tomorrow is our permanent address and there they'll scarcely find us(if they do, we'll move away still further:into now