The Catskill Chronicle

By Janet Waterston

“Hello, it’s your cousin Marylin,” I hear upon lifting the phone’s receiver. Marylin has a list of things she wants to discuss: how was that business trip I took to Connecticut? What are Jude and I doing for Thanksgiving? She and Sherm are spending it with her cousin Iris from the other side of the family.

Later, I exchange e-mails with my cousin Naomi. Learning that my car is ready for the junk heap, Naomi volunteers to help me find a new one with the assistance of one of her fellow teachers who worked his way through college working at a car dealership. Not only are Naomi and Aaron checking out what’s available, but Naomi unbelievably offers me an interest-free loan and assures me she doesn’t care how long it takes to repay it.

I read that as people age – as their parents become infirm or die and their children grow up and start their own families – they gravitate back to their siblings, looking for those with whom they share frames of reference and memories. I know my father, the baby in his family of five children, was bereft when his last two siblings died within six weeks of each other. “I’m all alone now,” he said, acknowledging that, despite the fact that he still had children, he was now without anyone who would remember growing up in the Wasserstein household.

Like me, most of my baby boomer contemporaries come from relatively small families. Our parents, products of the Great Depression and financially cautious, bought the idea of two kids, a house, and a dog. Or in my family’s case, three kids, a house, and a turtle. As close as I have been to my sister and brother and his whole family, my cousins and I have also gravitated back to each other, discovering in our elder berry age, how much we share.

The phone rings. “Hi, it’s your cousin Marylin.” She’s beaten me to a call this Saturday. I was waiting until after her hair appointment and allowing enough time for her to visit a few yard sales. “I found some bird houses for you and Jude,” she tells me, referring to the collection my sister and I have at the country home we share. “What else did you find?” I ask and learn that she bought mirrors to add to a collection like the ones had by Uncle Al and Aunt Edith as well as my parents. I make a note to bring her a couple of mirrors Jude and I have held onto since my father moved into the nursing home.

“Hi, it’s your cousin Marilyn. I have bad news.” In 2003, we learned Ronnie was diagnosed with end-stage cancer. Of the cousins, Ronnie, the oldest by a good ten years, was the best storyteller of family lore. She described my newlywed parents visiting her in the orphanage where she spent weekdays while her single mother worked. She would imitate Grandma holding up her fingers gnarled by arthritis. In a perfect Eastern European accent sounding like our grandparents, Ronnie would say, “Look at these hands. Like a goyl’s.” Or there’s the time that Grandpa was feeling nauseated on the drive home from someone’s bar mitzvah. Ronnie reminded us of my father’s quick reaction, “Here; throw up in this,” as he handed Grandpa one of our Uncle Harry’s old hats that he insisted on giving to his father despite the fact that they didn’t really fit him.

When I visited Ronnie in the hospital, she showed me some of her quilting projects, a hobby we shared. “Make sure you take all my material,” she told me, “I’ll leave a note about that.” Fulfilling her role as the elder statesman of the cousins, Ronnie planned her own memorial, a rather raucous tradition in our family. She chose the restaurant and made arrangements to foot the bill.

In Ronnie’s memory, the family gathered on the north shore of Long Island and passed around pictures, newspaper clippings, and note cards. There is the photo of cousin John doing a magic show in Grandma and Grandpa’s living room. There’s my sister, Jude, a newborn, in the arms of Ronnie, her senior by at least 20 years. I’m sitting with my cousin Marylin and the doll I was given on the occasion of my third birthday.

Someone pulled out the newspaper clippings of the family secret: the time Aunt Rose, Ronnie’s mother, was shot by the son of her boss, a married man with whom she was having an affair. Uncle Harry was quoted in the papers as saying the family couldn’t figure out why anyone would be upset with “a good girl like Rose.” We all wondered what Rose it was that Harry described. Could this be the same Rose who purposely ordered shrimp for dinner while sitting next to the rabbi? I shared the notes written by Uncle Harry to Uncle Al, making arrangements for Harry to have the “use” of Al and Edith’s apartment—without Edith’s knowledge, Harry cautioned. We wondered if this meant Harry and Anne were “doing it” before they married, or perhaps Harry, that old fuddy-duddy, had some practice before his nuptials.

True to Ronnie’s word, she left instructions for me to get first dibs on all her quilting supplies, and there was an envelope of large bills for Marylin “to redo her kitchen.”

From Ronnie’s untimely death, my cousins and I learned not to wait for special occasions to be in touch or get together. There are only so many weddings and funerals. Jude, the food maven among us, researches restaurants, and we meet in Philadelphia, a sort of halfway spot among our east coast homes. One time, John joined us for a short respite from taking care of his wife who was fading from her long struggle with Lupus. John didn’t want to miss the cousins’ gathering, and we wanted him with us to feel our love and concern.

I call Marylin and tell her the nursing home has once again lost my father’s hearing aids. “They went through the laundry and are ruined,” She commiserates and adds, “Is it okay if Sherm and I visit next Sunday?” Jude and I are so grateful that she and her husband are willing to make the trek from New Jersey to Long Island for a monthly visit.

I drove down to Virginia where Naomi and Chuck live. We spent a whirlwind afternoon looking at cars. Naomi announced that, in addition to the loan, she was giving me a gift of some money to ensure that my new used car was good enough to last many years, and bring Jude and me to many family gatherings. That evening, John, who lives not too far away in DC and was now recently widowed, treated us all to dinner. The next morning, I awoke before 6 to begin my drive (in my new used car) up to Sullivan County, wondering if I would beat Hurricane Irene, heading up the coast.

Afterwards, there was a flurry of phone calls among all the cousins to find out how everyone had fared. Marylin’s tongue slurs over her greeting, “Hi, it’s your Cous…ylin.” “Cuzylin?” I repeat back to her and love the sound of it. “Hi Cuzylin. I see you still have phone service. Any damage in your neck of the woods?”

In early spring of this year, my brother succumbed to a virulent strain of multiple myeloma. Jude and I could not have made it through our grief without the support of our cousins. Shortly after Buzz’s death, I was honored at the gala dinner of one of my clients. I didn’t feel much like celebrating, but I couldn’t pull out at the last minute. John flew up from DC to be there with Jude and me. Weeks later, I was down in DC to present at an international conference, and John met me for lunch. He told me about his new lady friend and said I’ll meet her at his 70^th birthday party being planned by his son and daughter-in-law and sister, Naomi. When I arrived back in New York, there was a note card in my mail from Naomi. She’d reviewed her finances and thinks she’s doing really well. She hoped my pride won’t be hurt; she wants to forgive the rest of my car loan.

It’s true. As we age, we do seem to gravitate back to the people with whom we shared our childhoods. I’m so grateful that besides siblings, I have cuzylins with whom to remember, share today, and build new memories for the future.