Living Wisely And Living Well

It’s a funny thing about first cousins in later life…
 
Since I had two siblings, lots of friends and an intact family, my first cousins always seemed to play a minor role in my life. 
 
When visiting my Michigan cousins growing up, I noticed that artifacts of our family’s history adorned their walls and table tops – just as ours did in my house. Our shared history was the spines of both our homes and a naturally occurring bridge to our closeness. Here is one of our treasures – my Grandpa Harry’s captain’s hat, bronzed: 
 

 
All four of our parents were also hyper-vigilant about passing on family lore. The prestigious. The mundane. The outrageous. 
 
It was the outrageous I remember, of course. Our Grandpa Harry was a frequent topic of interest. He mesmerized the six year-old me and my younger brother and cousins with his tattoo of a naked lady on his forearm. When he flexed, the lady danced around – as did her body parts!
 
That wasn’t the only unique aspect of Grandpa Harry. He was a bootlegger and, during the Depression, ran a “boarding house” renting rooms by the hour, if you get my drift. 
 
But to his credit, he provided for his family and when his wife – my Grandma Ida – died at a young age and left him with four kiddos to raise in Upstate New York, he kept his family together. He was a renegade deserving of respect and remembrance. 
 
Living under a quirky man’s boot, it’s no wonder two of his sons passed on a sense of reverence for rugged individualism and sheer chutzpah. 
 
Fast forward many years. My grandfather and parents are gone, as is one of my first cousins. As a result, his three sisters and my one remaining aunt and uncle from my dad’s side have become very special to me.
 
I walk into the house of my 95 year-old uncle a few weeks ago and one of the first things he says to me is, “When I was 18, my buddies and I went out right after you were born and bought you your very first dress! Lacey and pink.”
 
How many 74 year-olds get to hear that?
 
And how many 74 year-olds get to witness their 95 year-old uncle outfitted in a pair of jaunty blue jeans?
 

 
And how many 74 year-olds get to sit with their 90 year-old aunt and hear her give a detailed account of how she became interested in Saturday and Sunday antique collecting and estate sales? 
     Money? Nope. 
     Curiosity? Nope. 
     My uncle working every weekend in his father’s butcher shop, leaving her husbandless? Yep.
 
 
 
So my three cousins and I spent three days together in West Bloomfield – a tony suburb of Detroit. A lot of it was spent hanging out in my oldest cousin’s home. I was mesmerized by the wildlife outside her soaring windows and the waters of the still-frigid lake beyond her sloping, wooded backyard.
 

 
We laughed
and ate ice cream 
and drank tequila 
and reminisced.
And we got down on the floor and played jacks.
And played jacks some more.
And ate more 
And plotted out our next meal while eating the present one.
 
And as quickly as could be, my visit with my cousins and my aunt and uncle was over.
The inside jokes that just don’t translate on paper will have to wait til next time.
The sense of shared crazy relatives and their strange idiosyncrasies – never got to it.
Regaling each other with who was the heftiest among us as we were growing up – went unexplored.
Parsing through our moms’ and dads’ parenting styles or lack thereof – saved for another visit 
Savoring this time in life when we are no longer deep in the trenches of carving out our life paths – this we got to.
 
When it was time to depart, saying goodbye was easier than I thought 
 
Why?
 
Because my three first cousins and myself had set aside sacred time – intentionally curated time – to spend with each other.
 
We had given each other the gift of togetherness, of listening, of being in the moment, of exchanging insights and sharing confidences.
 
We hugged goodbye with gratitude deep in our bones – realizing once again how fortunate we are – in this chaotic world – to be with people who knew us before braces and boobs, boyfriends and husbands, broken hearts and mended egos, and kids and careers.
 
Lucky are we to have people who, in spite of our hang-ups, faulty assumptions and often poor judgments, embrace us. Accept us. Root for us. And love us.
 
Just as I was finishing up this column, my cell phone pinged. 
 
From Cousin Debbie:
“Thank you so much for visiting with us. It was a great weekend. I know it made my parents very happy. And of course, us sisters loved it. “
 
My sentiments exactly!
That weekend we all lived wisely and lived well. 
 
As Audrey Hepburn said, “The best thing to hold onto in life is each other.”
 
And we did. 
 

 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom, 
 
Iris Ruth Pastor