By Kathy Oswalt-Forsythe
When we were children, summer meant that at some point, we would spend time with our cousins. Besides my brothers, my cousins were my first friends, and we all looked forward to being together.
We saw our cousins who lived nearby frequently. We all lived on farms, so most of our play was outdoors. Our mothers insisted that we go “run around outside,” and that was always okay with us. We had big shady yards for wiffleball, croquet, and tag. We had lofts in our barns for straw-fort building, and the various family farms offered countless secret places for hide-and-go-seek. We loved to create survival scenarios, pretending to hunt and forage for our food, building lean-to branch cabins for shelter. Somehow, we avoided the poison ivy that I’m sure lurked in the shade.
Eventually we would break from the intensity of our play, wash the grime from our hands, and enjoy a picnic dinner, but as soon as we had downed a hotdog, chips, and Kool-Aid, we resumed our play until dark and it was time to go home.
Our up-north cousins we saw less frequently, but our closeness today was nurtured by overnight stays and time together at our family cabin on Lake Superior. We arrived at the cabin as soon as the wheat was harvested, and when we were there with our cousins, the nine of us had the run of the place.
Most years, the closest we came to a shower were regular dips in the frigid lake. A bar of Ivory soap bobbed in the waves—a bottle of Prell shampoo, a buoy, rocking and tipping back and forth. We soaped our bodies, lathered our hair with the thick green goo, and dove into the waves, swimming underwater like seals until our hair and bodies were slick and smooth. We eventually resurfaced for good, our ears aching from the cold, our lips shivering and blue.
We wrapped ourselves in tattered old beach towels and sat together, planning our next move. Sometimes it was fishing. Often it was a campfire. Occasionally it was fort and raft building.
We spun records and played games. We read old comic books. We performed in make-shift talent shows.
My cousin Jennifer and I wrote plays – mostly about pioneers and Pilgrims – and tried, without success, to entice our brothers to perform them. Our scripts were detailed, and the rehearsals proved frustrating – mostly for the persnickety-sister directors – and I don’t think one of creations ever made it to the stage.
We were never bored. We were well-practiced in entertaining ourselves and were skilled at staying out of the adults’ way. We were seldom interrupted or directed.
Our own children also enjoyed cousin time, and like our generation, they played outside and learned to find things to do, to have some fun without adult intervention. And at that time, they were free of cell phones and screens. I hope kids today still have that opportunity.
My cousins were and are an important part of my life. I loved them in childhood, but I love them even more today. I didn’t think that was possible. And although our time together is less frequent, it is always memorable.
It’s a Fine Life.
