The Postscript: Blessed with cousins

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 good measure. It was a wonderful time, and I was reminded again of how blessed I am with cousins.

Most of the time was spent just sitting and admiring the beautiful scenery and telling stories — lots and lots of stories. And I was amazed how few of these stories I remembered.

I didn’t know what my uncles did for a living or who my aunts dated when they were young. I didn’t know how late it was when everyone in my family finally got indoor plumbing or how early my aunts were in studying things in college that women at the time rarely did.

I remembered the conservative pastor’s wife who changed her name from Alice to Twyla when she discovered her birth mother. But I had no idea, after she became a widow, that she took to making corn wine or that she broke her arm when she fell off a table at the VFW.

I knew about grandpa’s once-a-year fishing trip with his brother, Evald, but I didn’t know where they stayed or how they drove to the Mille Lacs Reservation in northern Minnesota to buy the northerns they claimed to catch. I didn’t remember much about my great-aunts and great-uncles and, honestly, I still don’t. But I got a glimpse because of my cousins.

One of my cousins was recently diagnosed with ALS, and died. His sisters came to this cousins’ reunion. It was a long trip for all of them. But I’m sure they felt — more acutely than I — how short this time is that we have with family, how precious the opportunities are to remember and share.

“She fell off the table?” one of my cousins said in disbelief. “What was Twyla doing on the table at the VFW?”

Nobody knew. But we all laughed until tears ran down our faces. And I now have something new to remember.

Till next time,

Carrie

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Carrie Classon is married to Havre native Peter Heimdahl. Her memoir, “Blue Yarn: A Memoir About Loss, Letting Go, & What Happens Next,” was published in 2019. Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.