Camping with the Cousins

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To get to the campsite, I had to drive down that one road for a few miles until I came to this gate.
Then I had to stop, get out of the car, open the gate and drive through it. Then I had to stop, get out of the car, and close the gate before I continued.
On a cattle ranch, you never leave a gate open unless someone right behind you is also coming through the gate. Once that’s the case, it’s that person’s responsibility to close it.
Unless someone right behind them is also coming through the gate.
This could go on all night.
I drove forever, and I mean forever. Through rocky creeks, through bumpy roads, through Purgatory.
Not really on the Purgatory part. I just like to say Purgatory every now and then.
The truth is, I had no idea where I was going. My mother-in-law organized this campout/cousin reunion and she and my father-in-law just found the spot the other day. It’s so remote, I had never, ever been there in all the years I’ve been on the ranch.
Marlboro Man had gone on to the campsite with the kids and I’d run to town to get more bottled water since the temperature was 109 degrees at 6:30 pm and in situations like that, mothers don’t know what else to do but buy more bottled water. And by the time I was at this spot, my beloved texted me.
“Where are you?” he asked. I think he was concerned I’d taken a wrong turn.
I think I was concerned, too.
That’s when I saw them on the horizon. There they were! I saw a bunch of cars—all of Marlboro Man’s cousins who’d traveled from far and wide with their kids and their tents—and I saw all the kids running around and playing. They were a good mile-and-a-half down the road, but at least I had them in my sights. At least I was headed in the right direction.
I stopped the car and typed “I see you guys!” on my phone. I figured Marlboro Man would look down the road and see my gnarly white vehicle traveling along, leaving a trail of dust behind it.
I drove along, and a few seconds later, Marlboro Man texted back.
“I don’t think so.”
Huh? I thought. What does he mean? He can’t see me? How is that possible? I’m driving right toward them. I see the cars. I see the kids!
I stopped the car again. “Look down the road,” I texted back.
Then Marlboro Man responded, “There is no road.”
Huh? He’s talkin’ crazy! I told myself. I continued on, refusing to be thwarted.
By that time I was close enough to the cars and kids to see that they weren’t actually cars and kids.
“Never mind,” I cryptically texted, refusing to go into detail.
After the whole humiliating “I see you guys!” thing, I persevered.
I eventually found another gate Marlboro Man had described to me, and I went through it. After that, I was almost entirely on my own.
There were hardly any tracks anywhere, as again: my mother-in-law and father-in-law just found this spot the other day. There wasn’t a worn path forged by pioneers on chuckwagons or even modern feed trucks. There hardly any trails, period. And that is a vulnerable feeling.
But at long last, I found it! I knew I’d found it when I saw…
I’m astute that way.
Marlboro Man and Tim had helped set up the campsite, including helping their cousins—all girls, by the way—haul in and set up their own tents. This was cousin Deborah’s tent, which we would affectionately nickname Taj Matent.
My blessed mother-in-law had planned this whole cousin campout back in February, when Marlboro Man’s uncle passed away. All the cousins—who share a great-grandfather—attended the funeral, and she decided they all needed to get together more frequently, just like they did when everyone was young.
Shortly after I got there, the first two kids went into the water. Something about it being 109 degrees.
Before long, a few more had joined in.
Minutes later, almost all the kids were in the creek, wading and swimming and laughing and staying in a cohesive group in order to avoid a water moccasin attack like the one in Lonesome Dove, which all the kids watched while still in the womb, and which they all know by heart.
You know what? All of these kids share a great-great grandfather.
He was Pa-Pa to my father-in-law, but Big Pa-Pa to my husband and all of his cousins.
Kate was Big Pa-Pa’s wife. The grandkids called her Dokie.
I can’t imagine how much joy Big Pa-Pa and Dokie would feel if they could see their great-great grandchildren playing in the creek together.
And I’m sure they’d be proud of these three lads, who avoided getting all wet by offering to be lifeguards.
They had a set number of heads to count. And they just sat there and counted them.
Evening finally turned to night, and 109 degrees finally turned to 90 degrees. Marlboro Man, Tim, and the rest of the men left for home while all the female cousins stuck around and caught up and laughed and told stories.
Meanwhile, the next generation—the third cousins—all got to know one other by playing games and toilet papering each others’ tents.
I didn’t know campers did things like that.
It was fun to watch them bond over camp pranks.
It was also so much fun listening to Marlboro Man’s cousins—Katie, Deborah, Jana, Lori, Blake, Kim, and Holly—tell stories about growing up together. About their parents and grandparents. About Marlboro Man and Tim. I could listen to that stuff all day long. I just love it.
We also talked about cousin relationships.
Basically, it’s like this:
If you share a grandfather, you’re first cousins. If you share a great-grandfather, you’re second cousins. If you share a great-great grandfather, you’re third cousins.
Then there’s the whole once-removed thing.
If you share a grandfather, you’re first cousins. If your first cousin has a child, that child is your first cousin once-removed. If you share a great-grandfather, you’re second cousins. If your second cousin has a child, that child is your second cousin once-removed.
So what I determined is that the kids that were running around are my third cousins once removed by marriage.
There was a boys’ tent and a girls’ tent.
But it didn’t matter. The kids were back and forth between tents all night.
Eventually, around midnight, the little girls called it quits. Initially, Missy and I had planned to leave late after everyone else had gone to bed, and go home to the comfort of our respective air conditioned bedrooms. Because of this, I hadn’t brought anything along: Not a sleeping bag, not my toothbrush, not my Tums. It’s a thing that happened during my pregnancies: I learned never to be without Tums at night. I usually don’t need it. But I can’t sleep if it’s not there, because there’s nothing worse than waking up in the middle of the night needing a Tums and not having one.
As the night wore on, though, Missy had decided that we were both going to spend the night after all. She did not consult me about this. She merely informed me that we were both staying.
“But…” I objected. “But but but but but but…”
“Yes?” Missy asked.
“But I don’t have my Tums.” I said. Tums had became the symbol for all I did not bring to the campout, which was everything. But my mother-in-law had conveniently brought along two extra cots for the girls’ tent, so there was really no getting out of it.
“We’ll get through it together!” Missy responded. And with that, we both headed to the girls’ tent while the adult cousins continued catching up about the old days.
Because Tums had been in the ether all night, Missy and I laid on our cots and had a whispered conversation about the kinds of foods we eat that cause us to need Tums. For Missy, it’s pizza. Not homemade pizza, but take-out pizza. Anything with an acidic tomato sauce. For me, it’s garlic—but only after 7:00 pm. I’m fine if it’s 6:30, but if I ingest garlic after 7:00 pm, I have to have Tums. Then Missy started describing how her pizza-induced heartburn manifests itself, and how she’s learned that if she props herself up with a pillow, it’s fine. And I said that I’ve just learned not to eat garlic after 7:00.
We went on and on like this for awhile, occasionally giggling while we continued to swap war stories about heartburn.
That’s when we heard the little girls in the cabin—all of whom we though were sound asleep—begin to whisper. Then, in unison, they all burst into laughter—deep belly laughter that rang through the night sky.
Missy and I were jolted out of our whisper-fest.
“What in the WORLD?” I asked. “We thought you guys were asleep!”
Missy joined in. “What’s so funny, anyway?”
My twelve-year-old daughter let us in on it.
“We were just laughing because you and Aunt Missy are just like us,” she explained. “You came into the cabin and started whispering and giggling just like we did.”
“Aw,” Missy and I said. We felt young again. We were just like the young ‘uns!
And then my daughter lowered the boom.
“Except instead of talking about lip gloss and music…you’re talking about Tums.”
Then they all started laughing again.
Missy and I went to sleep in a huff.- https://graph.org/Erotic-Penis-Massage-09-18

Edit Report
Pub: 19 Sep 2023 20:24 UTC
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