Cousins Camp, 1960. I'm the one on the right holding the babydoll, of course.

Tonight, I cooked supper to the background music of four children playing, chatting, and coloring in my kitchen. They were not the same four children who did that routinely twenty-some years ago. But they took me back to those days. I experienced the all-is-right-with-the-world peace which comes to a mother when her chicks are tucked in for the evening. And snapshots of previous meals around our table flitted through my mind while I scrambled eggs and made oven-toast.

I think I’m feeling especially nostalgic because next week the original four (plus sixteen) will be with us under one roof for a glorious few days. We are experimenting with a family reunion/vacation in a large rental home. It has always been my dream to have a house where all the grandkids can come for Cousins Camp. Our lovely two-bedroom is perfect for Wendell and I, but it won’t accommodate a dozen cousins.

As you can see from this picture, reunions are a long tradition in our family. I vaguely remember my great-grandmother pictured here in the center. But I clearly recall the rubber doll she gave me for my fifth birthday. (I think it was my fifth) He had blonde hair and blue rompers, and I named him Butch after my great-grandmother’s dog. And when I think of that toy and of the great-aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandparents pictured here, I remember feeling loved. A lot.

I want our grandchildren to feel their roots sinking deeply, too. To know they are prayed for and prodded, applauded and loved by generations who have gone before them. Cousins camp is a small part of that. So, I’m thinking this rented vacation home could possibly be a dream fulfilled. Or, it might be a perfect reminder of why we each have homes of our own.

I’ll let you know.