BLOOD IS THICKER
THAN MOLASSES

Having the family reunion catered would be a disaster, and Cousin Mercy came right out and said so the minute her harebrained sister Augusta suggested it.

“That will be a disaster,” said Cousin Mercy, who knew that half the fun of a family reunion is preparing your favorite dishes for sharing and showing off. But Augusta was stubborn, always had been. After last year, when a handful of cousins got sick at the last minute and couldn’t bring the meats they had signed up to provide and everyone ended up eating extra helpings of crunchy coleslaw and three-bean salad to get full, Augusta vowed that things were going to change when it was her turn to organize the reunion.

The minute their family members started calling to ask what they should bring to the reunion, Cousin Mercy was not surprised at their reactions when she repeated what Augusta had told her to say: “There will be a Mason jar on each picnic table for you to contribute whatever money you feel is fair toward the enjoyment and sustainment of your extended family. So just bring yourselves. And your wallets.” Cousin Mercy was pretty sure sustenance was the word Augusta was looking for, but, again, you can’t tell her sister anything once she sets her mind in a certain direction.

The Watsons had long outgrown being able to have their annual family gathering in a relative’s home. After the twins were born, it seemed every year or two another set of multiples arrived until there was no more room at the inn, so to speak. For a few years they met at the high school gymnasium. But then the principal upped the fee when other families started calling to rent the space and he realized there was money to be made. To prove she was nobody’s fool, Augusta went to the chamber of commerce and researched more economical options. She settled on a state park that promised “a tranquil setting for gatherings of all kinds.”

For years, Granddaddy Samuel had been wishing for just such a location so he and Uncle Seth and the boys could schedule a comeback appearance for their band. They hadn’t been allowed to play since the unfortunate incident of 2003. But if they were going to be out in the woods, surely Augusta would have to say yes.

Cousin Mercy thought moving the reunion was enough change for one year, but Augusta had her mind set on hiring her friend from the beauty shop who “caters.” Cousin Mercy had her suspicions about whether the hairstylist could really pull this off—feeding Watsons of varying ages and food preferences from three states—because all she’s ever known the woman to cook is spaghetti for the Humane Society’s fund-raising supper every spring. It tastes fine, Cousin Mercy admits, but nothing to write home about. Nothing like her own mother can make when you sweet-talk her long enough. But Mama had stopped taking food of any kind to the reunions after that time she overheard someone accuse her of using canned peaches in her cobbler.

“That woman couldn’t tell a fresh peach from a stale rutabaga,” Mama had said. Mama never would reveal who had insulted her, but we’re pretty sure it was her brother’s third wife, the one who went on and on about the time she got her letter to the editor printed in the paper when the town council threatened to install parking meters around the town square. You didn’t dare ask her even to pass the Tabasco for fear she’d talk your ears off about that letter.

So no one really knew what to expect this year. If they were lucky, the food would be good and no one would complain too much about having to put money in the kitty. Hopefully Uncle Mack wouldn’t make a fool out of himself, or cause bodily injury, trying to beat the kids at horseshoes. Last summer at the Fourth of July picnic at the lake, he sent the u-shaped piece of iron sailing smack into Brother Joshua’s new truck. Him being a man of God and all, Brother Joshua didn’t cuss or anything, but you could tell he was peeved.

As the day for the reunion drew closer, Cousin Mercy has to admit she was worried. She had her doubts. But she tried to hang on to what she knew to be true in her heart of hearts: her family always comes through for one another, even if they sometimes butt heads along the way. She suspected that most of them would bring fried chicken or potato salad or, at the very least, a dozen cheese biscuits, whether they had been asked to bring food or not. The cousins who dropped the ball on the meat for last year’s reunion might very well show up with a whole roasted pig to make amends. For like their ancestors before them, Watsons simply don’t feel right about leaving the house empty-handed. It's just the kind of people they are.