Holidays with my cousins were a lot more like cage-boxing than Hallmark Christmases. I had more than forty first cousins, including numerous budding psychopaths. By the time my aunts and uncles herded them to the scene of of their impending crimes, the elders had had enough of defending themselves and their babies on the ride over, it was every man for himself. God help anybody in the way.

They’d rip through the house under the guise of needing the bathroom or a drink of water, destruction in their wake. All the kids were immediately cast out into the yard or to the barn if it was raining, like demons into swine. Before they were booted out, they stole or destroyed anything in their wake. We always hid our loot, but the evil little devils usually managed to mark something for destruction, even if it was no more precious than a dish or Christmas ornament.  

We’d get a baseball or football team going, all the big kids on one team, so the little ones never got a chance to bat, or worse, got mowed down. They’d go squalling in to their daddies who’d come out long enough to straighten us out in a vague semblance of fairness, often lingering to play a while.

Once the games started, it was chaos. It was survival of the meanest, with little kids shoved down, possibly experiencing even nose. Crazy Larry kept trying to pee on us should we be distracted by the game. One aunt in particular didn’t think her kids ought to have to share at the end of the day.  It was perfectly fine if her kids here grabbed our gifts, nuts, fruit, the best of the Christmas feast, or sometimes whole pies. She heaped their plates with goodies, saying she’d eat what they didn’t.  Her boy, Corwin,would demand, “More chicken(turkey, ham)Mama, more shicken!”  She loaded his plate till he staggered, unconcerned that there was a tribe to feed besides him.

Before the worst of the cousins left, with the help of cousin allies, we’d waylay the evil cousins, reclaiming our loot. Sometimes we’d hang them upside down and empty their pockets. We’d long ago learned Aunt Essie would back them up in retaining ownership of anything they stole, even it was engraved with someone else’s name.

Ah, family. Better get busy. I have company coming. But not Crazy Larry. He’s in the witness protection program.