Frousins

“If she lived here,” my girl speculated, “we’d totally be BFFs.”

They would, I’m certain of it. Those two girls are like peas in a pod. Kindred spirits, her mom and I agreed.  Aside from the nearly identical bodies and sensibility, these girls just clicked the first moment they met almost two years ago in Arizona. 

They’ve only seen each other once since then, a very brief hello after Dad’s funeral just as my girl was being released to go and swim away her tears. That wasn’t a great visit. But last weekend sure was!

There’s something special about cousins, be it first, or once removed or, in this case, second. Her mom and I are two of sixty six first cousins on the Flatley side. My mom and Sheila’s dad are two of the 13 siblings who grew up in the infamous one bathroom house in Brookline, Mass.

When Sheila and I were kids, most of those thirteen still lived in Massachusetts, although a few had strayed to Buffalo, Long Island, New Hampshire, and most notably, CONNECTICUT. We were about 3 hours away from the hub of Brookline when Grammy still lived there; close enough to gather for the big events, but too far for the day to day contact that a BFF would require. 

When the families got together, for Thanksgiving or a reunion or wedding, we cousins automatically broke off into clusters of like-minded cohorts centered loosely around age and gender.   Much like my girl and Sheila’s clicked right into place, so did we cousins. I can’t remember any of that awkward shyness that you’d get on the first day back to school or summer break, we always just picked up right where we had left off. It was like falling into step with a rhythm that had kept its momentum no matter how much time had been spent apart. 

While these girls of ours have email to keep in touch, Sheila and I reminisced this weekend about how we always tried to write each other letters, but neither of us could ever aspire to the greatness of our cousin Kathy’s correspondence skills. She is still the master of the handwritten card, that one. 

There was a long period of time when I fell out of touch with my cousins. I moved south and then west (YES, I am the smart one); I was broke for a long time and thus unable to get back east for any of the weddings where I actually would have been able to (legally) enjoy the open bars.  

Through the magic of Facebook, many of the 66 first cousins are now back in touch, along with some of our spouses, children, and parents.  Although our plans for a reunion were tragically thwarted this past summer, many of the Flatleys turned up for Dad’s wake and/or funeral. It was heartbreaking and surreal to see their faces again in those dark days; everyone had strangely morphed into a resemblance of how our parents used to look, while the next generation ran around with those familiar Flatley freckles and eyes.
 

Getting my family together with Sheila and hers this weekend brought back so many great memories. We fell right into step, just like our girls did, just like we used to do when we ran down to play in the Pomers’ basement after Thanksgiving dinner each year.  

I’ve got a feeling we’ll be pointing our Westy toward Arizona before too long….

  

 

 
ps: don't worry boys, you'll be in the next post when I tell everyone all about the secret beach, revisited