Family

Family is family. Blood relations be damned.

After spending the evening at Rainier Days in Oregon, I’m convince of a couple things. One is that family doesn’t seem to count time, as conversations are easily picked up and reminiscing is aplenty. And two is that family isn’t always those you are directly related to, as is the case of my husband’s cousin’s cousins. Yes, I just said that. Huh, perhaps we did belong there last night among the carnie crowd. Growing up in a rather small town, my husband had two cousins and her two cousins and they were pretty much all raised together with his brother and sister. Well, anyway, his cousin was in town from New York and his cousin’s cousins were in town from Seattle, so we all met up in Rainier for the, uh, er, festivities. Mostly it was a chance to catch up and show his cousins boyfriend the Northwest. We ended up walking over to his cousin’s cousins’s grandmother’s townhome on the riverfront from the park where Rainier Days was being held and finished the evening after his actual family had left by watching the fireworks display on her back patio with his cousin’s cousins’s family. Perhaps this is why they just call each other cousins and not cousin cousins… even if it does fit the stereotypical small town of Goble where they all grew up.

(I apparently need more coffee in my system, or perhaps I should’ve slept a little longer. Everything I write today seems rather disjointed and confusing. That, or writing about cousin cousins is too mind boggling for first thing in the morning. Either way, coffee.)