I have been blessed with many cousins. My two cousins closest in age were both boys, Brian and Dane. We went camping and hiking together and stayed in the cabin up north.
We all remember the day we made tea from red sumac berries, and — after we’d drunk about a gallon each — my Uncle Mike told us, “You know that stuff is a laxative, don’t you?” (For the record, it is not.) We are still close, although I marvel at how similar we seemed when we were young, and how serious and reliable they now seem compared to me. My mother had 10 siblings, and she was the third from the youngest, so most of my cousins are older than me.
I remember my older cousins listening to the Beatles behind closed bedroom doors. I stood in the hallway and listened to the music seeping out from under the door and knew I could never be that cool. I remember my cousin, Jill, ironing her Gunne Sax dress on grandma’s ironing board.
Jill was beautiful, and she dyed her hair black. She had a marvelous loud laugh and was the only person I knew with long fingernails. I felt lucky to be around her.
Then, just to make the whole thing more amazing, Jill’s handsome boyfriend (who was a musician, naturally!) would drive up to the farmhouse in his VW Bug. I knew my older cousins were all smarter and funnier and much more sophisticated than I could ever be. I still feel that way.
I just spent a long weekend up in rural Ontario with a number of my first cousins and a few of their children thrown in for goo.