No Cousins

In a recent newsletter I described my mother’s remarkable Smith family—a group of 50 first cousins, including bakers, musicians, and educators. The odd thing about my mom’s group was that my dad’s side of my family was exactly the opposite—no cousins at all. It consisted of my father Paul and his brother Earl, period.

You can imagine how Paul and Earl were gloated over during each birthday and Christmas, with aunts and uncles but no other cousins around. It helped explain my dad’s close relationships with his aunts, and our frequent trips to visit them.   

Aunt Margaret, whose name my father had trouble pronouncing when he was young and so was known in our family as Aunt Bog, was single until late in her life. During her working years she served as executive secretary to the president of the Kentucky Coal Company. Aunt Bog was proud that every year she had a seat in the company box at the Kentucky Derby, where I imagined her sipping mint juleps and barking out orders.  

Two other relatives, single aunts, were Lucie and Mildred. I asked once what prompted them to move in together. Aunt Mildred smiled and said, “We didn’t move in. We just took care of our father, and when he died, we never left.”

The group of them lived in Lexington, Kentucky, a pleasant town where my father and his brother were born and raised, until their part of the family left for Nashville. Paul and Earl’s dad, my grandfather, was a watchmaker, first in Lexington at Bogaerts and then in Nashville at B. H. Stief, where as kids we could stand on the sidewalk and proudly watch him work in the window. 

Years later, after our own little family migrated to California and my grandparents retired, they moved back to Lexington, where we frequently visited them. It was as close to nephews and grandchildren, I imagined, as some of them ever came.   

Looking back today, my dad’s side of the family seems small, almost sad. And yet, growing up, I convinced myself that it was the exciting, romantic side, while my mom’s cousins, overflowing with energy, somehow seemed boring. It was only after Yvonne and I moved back to Nashville that I discovered how fascinating a Smith can be. 

I have to admit, though, one part of my dad’s family had plenty of color. Sadly, I missed out on it. I wish I could have snagged a ticket and sat with Aunt Bog at the Kentucky Derby.