Legacy Writing 365:145

The chances are slim that the players of this story will ever visit this blog, but I’m still changing the names to cover my ass pretend it’s fiction protect the innocent (me).

Cousin Skipper and I lived in the same city. Cousin Midge, her brother Ken, and his wife Barbie were driving through on their way to somewhere else. When Cousin Skipper was a young girl, her widowed mother took her to a far-away state, so she didn’t grow up knowing our family, even though her late father was a sibling to one of my parents as well as to one of Midge and Ken’s parents. Skipper had always longed to know more about her roots, so though I had some misgivings, I agreed to meet them all for lunch.

The first problem: Cousin Skipper was a no-show. I didn’t mind spending time with my cousins, even though they were decades older than me and the conversation went along predictable lines. Cousin Midge rehashed old (imaginary) wrongs. Cousin Ken embellished past exploits of dead family members to make them seem more heroic, noble, or flawless than is possible outside novels and old movies. Barbie asked probing questions about my life even though the answers only caused her distress as she worried for my immortal soul.

It was a blast!

But finally this staid and sober group needed to get back on the road, and we walked outside the restaurant to say our goodbyes. This is when Skipper came wheeling up, hair and makeup a little crazy, and renewed the acquaintance of cousins she hadn’t seen since she was a child. She lit a cigarette and suggested we all go back inside for margaritas, and trust me, in ONE MILLION YEARS, this was not going to happen. So instead we stood outside awkwardly talking.

Then I was moved when Cousin Midge, famous for hoarding a basement full of family treasures and mementos that none of the rest of us were allowed near, took something from her purse and held it toward Cousin Skipper.

“I wondered if you’d ever seen one of these,” Midge said.

Skipper took it and her eyes got wet when she realized she was looking at the announcement of her own birth, written in her late mother’s hand more than sixty years before.

“No,” she said. “I’ve never seen this.” She held it to her heart for a moment then looked at it again as her tears spilled down her cheeks.

That’s when Cousin Midge snatched it from Skipper’s hand and said, “I’m not GIVING it to you!”

I literally and quite audibly gasped, but that didn’t deter Midge from putting the birth announcement back in her purse.

This became a joke between my mother and me whenever I’d admire something of hers or vice versa: “I’m not GIVING it to you!” we’d say, followed by a crazy cackle.

After Mother died, I tried to remember all her suggestions through the years about who should get what, and I’m delighted to say that as far as I know, none of her children or grandchildren argued over stuff–possibly because in times past, she’d given us many of those things that held meaning for us.

However, she did swear she’d given me an engraved silver tray that was a gift to my father when he left one of his jobs. When she found out I didn’t have it, she was sure I threw it away. Anyone who knows me knows this isn’t possible (I do share genes with Cousin Midge, after all).

So to my family, if anyone has that silver tray, I think it’s time you ‘fessed up and let me off the hook.

And Debby wants to know: Who’s hiding the blue willow platter?

I hope Mother didn’t give it to Cousin Midge.