Cousins: Your First Friends
A version of this appeared in The Virginian-Pilot on November 26, 2014.
Our fathers were brothers, yet the four of us weren't close.
We were Thanksgiving cousins.
A girl and a boy in each family, yet we had almost nothing in common. Except DNA, I suppose. And the same destination many Novembers: Our grandmother's house.
We all lived in New Jersey, but my cousins lived near New York City, while we lived in a small town not far from the Jersey shore.
They didn't have to go to church. We went every Sunday.
Their father had been to jail. Ours hadn't.
Their parents eventually got divorced. Ours were till-death-do-us-part married.
Our mothers were great friends. Our dads, not so much.
After the divorce, my aunt came alone with my cousins some Thanksgivings, and the adults joked about celebrating the holiday with the "outlaws."
My girl cousin was a few years older than me and beautiful. She was also a dancer and a gymnast. She once rode on a float in an Asbury Park parade, doing back flips and handstands nonstop for miles. I was in awe.
Afterward, she told me she had to put Vaseline on her teeth so she could smile for that long.
I, on the other hand, belonged to Girl Scouts and 4-H and never engaged in any activity that required me to lubricate my grin. Or even wear makeup.
My cousins were fun and almost foreign. I felt like a bumpkin around them.
When my girl cousin was about 16, she asked whether I wanted to take a walk with her after Thanksgiving dinner to burn off the pumpkin pie and whipped cream.
I grabbed my drab winter coat before she could change her mind. She put on her black leather jacket, and we headed out the front door together. I was so excited I couldn't stop grinning. Or talking.
No sooner had we rounded the corner than she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, and the purpose of our excursion became clear.
"Want one?" she asked.
"I'm only 12," I replied sadly.
"Oh, yeah, I forgot," she said, striking a match and taking a drag.
We strolled the sidewalks of my grandmother's neighborhood where no one knew us to tattle. I asked my cousin about her boyfriends and whether she was going to be in any beauty pageants.
I was sorry when I saw her toss her butt on the ground. Not because she was littering. Because I knew our walk was coming to an end.
"Smoke another one," I suggested helpfully. "I'm not in a hurry."
"Nah, it's cold," she said, stuffing her bare hands in her sleeves. "Let's go back."
A few more Thanksgivings, and our lives went in different directions. She got married on a Memorial Day weekend, and I missed her wedding because I was waitressing at a seafood restaurant.
I saw her only a couple of times after that. Once was at her brother's funeral in the late 1970s.
About eight years ago, my cousin - who's now a grandmother - phoned to tell me my aunt was dying.
"She'd love to see you," she said.
So, in March 2013, I drove north. The years melted away as we laughed and reminisced.
My aunt went to bed early, and my cousin and I had takeout at her dining room table.
It was almost 40 years since we'd shared a meal, yet it felt a lot like Thanksgiving dinner.
