The End of Summer - Tuesday

I'm not sure about you, but what can more nostalgic than a funeral? A reunion maybe, but isn't that what funeral turns into? It did for me. On Tuesday, I drove to Atlanta to celebrate the life of my cousin, Florida Hatcher Cobb, 88 years young.

My great-grandfather had three wives and each wife had two children. Florida was the daughter of his first child and my grandfather the son of the second wife, making them second cousins, I think. Whenever the McCrary's get together we go through the same process, explaining to the next generation or two how each is related and who had what grandmother.

Being with my grandfather's family brought back so many memories including my first reunion in 1964 when I was fourteen. Held at a lake outside of Atlanta, we shared two cabins. No one missed the reunion. I came home with two things, pictures of my mother and her cousins dressed in short shorts standing arm and arm and me with sores under both knees from riding a wood board that was being pulled by a motor boat. To make matters worse, my parents made a quick stop in Destin Beach on our way home and stayed at the Capri By the Sea; a cinder block motel that was right on the beach. It was the first time I saw the Gulf of Mexico. The salt water was not good for the sores on my knees which still today can be seen.

I love my McCrary family. With emails, Facebook and letters I keep up as much as possible. I was honored to plan the 2005 reunion in Chattanooga. I missed the 2000 in Mobile, but had my whole family at the 1995 in Montgomery, AL. We chose that sight because as decedents of E. W. McCrary, my great-grandfather, it seemed fitting to be near his home in Orville, AL, called Crumptomia. A plantation now owned by Mennonites who graciously let us tour the home in '95.

But Tuesday was different. Solemn and yet tenderhearted; we talked a lot about Florida and her wonderful spirit and determination, not unlike her precious mother my Aunt Sissy, which was short for Sister, her family nickname. Everyone had a nickname that had no rhyme or reason. Florida's was Aunt Bobby. I never knew why my Mamma called her that. And so we did too until recently. I saw cousins, and my great Aunt Frances who will be 90 on January 6th. We are planning a party for her in Birmingham but she says no, that she is moving so no party. We say something else. This is the woman who was the president of the United States Post Office Auxiliary in 1979 and flew to a national convention in Denver and took time to visit me and my family while there. She is also the person that took a Greyhound bus and rode all the way from Birmingham alone to come to my wedding.

So it was a few hours of my time there and back...so what? It was worth a million hours to be with my family. I was there for my mother and her father, representing them at my cousin's funeral. I was there for Cindy and Jim and there families as they mourn their mother. I was there for myself to remember who I am and where I came from. I cry at weddings and smile at funerals. Call me odd, but I don't care. I am nothing without these memories of my family.