One of my friends once introduced me to her cousin. SINGULAR. She has one cousin. I can imagine being an only child or having a single parent but I was not able to comprehend “one cousin.” 

I pummeled her with questions, 

Do you mean one cousin in North Carolina? 

Do you just have one cousin on your mama’s side? 

Is this the one cousin that you are closest to? 

Did your family have a big fight and this is the one cousin you claim? 

Is this the one cousin who isn’t in prison? 

Did your family go into the witness protection program and your profile restrict you to a small, one cousin family unit?” 

Her answer, “No, no, no, I just have one cousin.” I thought to myself, well, bless your little heart, how sad and boring would that be. I have (had) 39 cousins. I have many, many more when you factor in my second and third cousins, but I am not going to blindly stab or even make an educated guess at these numbers because my cousins will read this and not be shy about correcting me. Unlike the math whizzes on my daddy’s side, I got the word gene. 

Eight of my 39 cousins have passed on to the other side, the most recent, Sara Nell, leaving this earthly world last Monday. 

My cousin John asked me at Sara Nell’s funeral to write about our cousins – so John Franklin Brewer, my one cousin remaining from my dear Aunt Nannie, this blog is for you. 

Cousin defined quite simply is – sibling without baggage. It’s someone who lives in a parallel family universe, sharing enough of your DNA to be familiar and comfortable, yet strangely unique because of that “other set” of traits running through their bloodline. Many of these “other sets” blurred together for me as I grew up. I clearly remember calling the grandparents of my cousins that had NO relation to me Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma Kennedy and Granny Inman were just as much mine as they were my cousins’ and no one ever corrected me or told me that we weren’t kin. They loved on me as their own. People joke that the southern family tree doesn’t have many branches; my reality has been more limbs than one could ever understand with a root structure that digs strong and deep into the red clay and dusty Sandhills of my Moore county upbringing. 

It is wonderfully messy to be from a big family. As with many things, memories often soften and haze over with age, but my crazy, fond remembrance of running wild in the yards, pastures and forests of my aunts and uncles – savage and beast like in my bare-footed girl child effort to keep up with my cousins is crisp, clear, and joyful. We had the reckless abandon freedom of woods, land, mutt horses, rescue hunting dogs, air rifles, and the unencumbered simplicity of a world without technology. I don’t remember many material toys but I do remember creating whole worlds with a rusty red wagon, some sticks, a pocket knife and my favorite cousin, Tim.

When I saw aunts and uncles roll up our country driveway and cousins pile out of assorted big ole cars or pickup trucks, I ran out into the yard, filled with anticipation. My friends once labeled me as a “fun junkie” and I am okay with that. I come by the label honest, I like a party with good food and drink, music, rowdy dialogue and a bunch of people. I am always open and ready for a good time. That fun fix started in my formative years with my family and tribe of cousins.

My second cousin Artie was sent to the principal for beating up a boy in eighth grade who made an inappropriate comment about my anatomy. Just before he bloodied the nose of the perpetrator, he yelled, “That’s my cousin!”

This year my husband and I were having breakfast and I looked over and saw Dan Cockman, who I know as D. A., I had such a happy rush of possession, that I leapt up from my seat, saying to my husband, there’s my cousin!

When Ellen, Iris and I meet several times a year for lunch, I can’t wait to get there. I drive to our meeting spot, always the first to arrive, so excited to get to see my cousins.

After each of our Dunlap Daughters’ Day parties, I love to look at the pictures. I always laughingly say that the height and boob chromosomal contribution was evidently exhausted before it got to me – my beautiful, tall, busty girl cousins smiling with pride at assorted cameras and cell phones. In those smiles we have been lifted by being together and by our program, bossed, uhm, I mean coordinated by, Lorna and Sara Nell. Obedient to the oldest kids of our clan, we each tell a story on Dunlap Daughters Day. I have held these stories and memories so close to my heart. Stories of my daddy as a young man courting my mama through the lens of his nieces. Stories of riding in the wagon with my grandparents. My all-time favorite being the story about cousins Lavonne and Dianah sharing one bra. These witty, smart, beautiful, amazing daughters of my aunts and uncles are my cousins.

As Dianah wrote about losing Sara Nell, “Oh, Sis, you were my cousin and my friend. I love you and I will miss you.” So hard to believe that we lost another one of us, our cousin.

If I were to summarize my feelings about my cousins in a word, that word would be abundant. Abundant in number, yes, also abundant in love, in happiness, in laughter, in conversation, in caring, in knowing, in interest, in stories, entwined through an infinite genetic and historical strand that started before us and will go on beyond.

I never totally grasped the mantra “it takes a village,” because I always had one built right into my life. They were there, from my beginning, helping to raise and guide me, conspire with me, get in trouble with me, and cry with me, a familial compass of expectations, possibilities, and support. I am grateful to and for – my band of cousins.