This weekend, eight score of my cousins and relations gathered in one place. You might surmise that it was by chance, people meandering from one part of the country to another as they do, but I assure you there was a throbbing current of planning behind it. The descendants of Marjorie and Donald Rose decided that their love of family and frolic was reason enough to do so. 

 

I think I can name all of my 83 cousins, though things get messy after that. There are four layers of Roses in town, and in line with what Shakespeare had to say about any other name smelling sweet, some of them come under new labels from Alfelt, Boyce, and Cooper, to Zeno, to point out a few.

 

On the agenda were the essentials, like a Mothesque story night, and tables covered with the creative endeavors of this decidedly creative bunch. There will be humor, which is apropos as Pop pop made his living being jocular. Another night the band will play, not so much to impress anyone, but because many Roses have music as a sixth sense. Some had to work at it, but others simply couldn't avoid it. 

 

There will be food. Grandma was a whiz at feeding her dozen children and their friends, within their modest budget. Plenty of potatoes, and biscuits did their part to fill up the bellies of seven sons, who were all slender no matter how much they socked away. 

 

Wagon wheels were on the schedule, which is a clever way Uncle Frank contrived to get everyone talking from the get-go. If he has any sway in heaven, I am sure he will be peeking in to enjoy the hum. 

 

My own mother is the little girl in the middle, in the white dress. I wonder if she will find a way to let me know she approves of the party.