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.
The stocky little woman leaned on her cane as she picked her way gingerly toward the graves under the mesquites. She lay a few wildflowers on three rock-covered graves, one unmarked, one marked for Joe, and a third for their boy, Johnny. “I’ll be here sleeping beside you soon’s I can, Joe. I’m tired and the folks can get by easy without me now.” She thought back on the last eight years since Joe collapsed one morning at his milking. They’d had more than forty years and six children together. It wasn’t enough.
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I think I’ve mentioned my cousin Corwin was interesting. He was still hauling his bottle around when he started school. His teacher made him leave it at home, so first thing after getting off the bus, he’d get his bottle out of the cabinet, fill it up, and enjoy it along with his after school snack. A hearty eater, he’d grab up a handful of Gravytrain Chunks out of the dog’s bowl as he headed out to play football with his big brothers. As a crawling baby, Corwin had started shoving the puppy out of his bowl and just kind of got hooked on Gravytrain. It added a interest to the game to see Corwin playing football with his baby bottle sticking out of his back pocket. One of his brothers or cousins invariably snatched his bottle and ran, passing it on to whichever kid was new to the game. The chase was on. Corwin carried a grudge to the bitter end and picked up a stick or rock and bash the bottle thief’s head in long after the game of “Keepaway” concluded. His older brothers felt this bit of info was on a “need to know” basis, so new kids had to find out the hard way.
Nutsrok 