
A big family
I sat last evening with a good number of our children and grandchildren at picnic tables. We needed 3 tables and not everyone is here yet. A catastrophe with a toy, heart break as it fell beneath the crack between the deck and the cabin into a muddy marshy no man’s land. An Uncle who bravely risked all to climb under, saving the toy and the evening. Lots of aunts and uncles. Lots of little kids, ‘tousins’ as it is pronounced, eating ear after ear of corn. “Did you ever think you would have so many grandchildren” one Uncle asked.
I wanted a big family of children. I ached for a big family of children. Our family reunions were bleak. Desolate. Old people. No children. We were the only children. Maybe some years a relative would bring a couple of children. Thrilling! What a day! Second cousins once removed to be treasured. Our own cousins were either really young and an hour away, or the right age and 8 hours away. Or 3 days away. That was it. 2 sisters and me. No one else related to us in our village.
The family across the street had 6 kids. They were lucky. My classmates all had 4 or 5 brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles down the street, lots of cousins. And big brothers. I specifically wanted a big brother. I asked repeatedly and never even received the courtesy of a “We’ll think about it.”
I went to Girl Scout Camp, the oldest, a small family, no boys, no brothers. The first night, after lights out, we all cocooned in our sleeping bags and talked about our families. I talked about my mother, my father, my sisters. Then I kept going. I talked about James, who played baseball. About Michael, who had just fallen off his bike and broken his arm and we were worried it would never heal. I talked about Henry, who was the best speller in school. About little George who would insist on climbing trees and we could never keep him out of them. James and Michael shared a room with a bunk bed. Henry and George had their own room with turtle shells and rocks and books. Andrew was off at college and his room was off limits and we got into terrible trouble when we sneaked in. Every night I told a different story about their adventures, their mischief, their heroism. Colorful, memorable stories. My whole cabin was amazed.
At the end of the week I said goodbye to my tent mates. Years later, at the County Fair, a young woman came up to me.
“You are Nancy Adams, right?” We were at Camp Wood-e-lo-hi together,” she said.
“Oh, right, I remember you.” I said. I almost did. It had been 3 or 4 years earlier.
“Did Michael’s broken arm heal all right? You were so worried about it at camp,” she asked.
Michael?” I answered, confused.
“Your brother? And James and Henry and George and Andrew?” She kept going.
“Oh!!!! Right. Oh yes. Oops! Have to go! Have to meet my parents! Oh dear I am really late! Wonderful to see you! Bye!” I raced away, horrified at the sudden memory of these dear imaginary boys. How could I have forgotten them, the dear rowdy imaginary brothers? How could I have forgotten I told stories about them? How could I ever have thought in a county this size that I could make up such a story and get away with it?
Next week we will pile into cars. We will go to the county fair. We won’t have Michael, James, Henry, George and Andrew. But I will have a tribe of real flesh and blood boys and girls and their boys and girls. And if I bump into that Girl Scout from Brocton, I will introduce her to all of them!