Fogland Family Ties That Bind

The connection is primeval, passed down through countless generations of blood kin. It is an unbreakable tie that time and distance cannot sever. Our families can bind us together with a love so strong that even death cannot divide us.

Fogland has always been the cement that has held my extended family together. Family reunions and frequent summer visits kept us close over the years. Turning the pages of the photo album, I can see the passage of time, but the love I feel for those familiar faces never dims, whether they are still among us or moved on to a much better place.

Three years ago at Christmas I received a call from my cousin Dennis in North Carolina with the sad and unexpected news: my ailing uncle had died in his arms. Six weeks later, he called again and told me that my aunt was dead. I was not surprised. They were inseparable. We both knew that neither would rest until they were reunited.

My cousin Dennis is six months older than I am, and he was the older brother I never had. We have always had a special relationship. He protected me.

One of my earliest memories is the day when we went shopping with our dads. We were about five years old. Somehow we wandered and got lost. I remember crying and holding his hand. He held tightly onto me until we were found; and since that day, I have adored him.

Dennis and I lived in neighboring towns but attended the same church. Consequently, we were in the same third-grade religious education class, held in the church basement. He always sat next to me. There was this boy named James who was big for his age and an eight-year-old bully. Well, one day I became his target. He walked by me and said something offensive that I no longer recall. My cousin lunged for him, grabbing his leg; his chair toppled, but he didn’t let go. James flew headlong smacking the hard floor. Dennis opened the metal folding chair and sat down like nothing had happened, though he probably noticed the hero worship in my eyes.

Years later when I was a teen, he intervened again – not to protect me but someone I loved. My boyfriend had left my house and decided to stop by the fast food restaurant where Dennis worked to get a burger. He picked the wrong time. A gang surrounded him and began to verbally abuse him. Then one of them pushed him. Dennis flew over the counter placing himself between my boyfriend and the agitator, shoving him against the wall. The gang fled.

After college, Dennis moved to North Carolina. His father, a schoolteacher, retired; and he and my aunt moved to Florida. When my parents retired, they spent two winter months in Florida every year in a nearby cottage. My aunt and uncle occupied the Fogland summer house when they visited. They fished and swam; feasted on crabs and clams; went on long bike rides, and just sat under the maple tree talking to us for hours. They returned once or twice a year, and when they did, it was as if they had never left.

Eventually, my aunt and uncle sold their Florida home and moved to North Carolina to live near their only son, who was now a police chief. But they continued to spend their summer getaways with us.

Then after an absence of more than 20 years, I saw my cousin again. He and a golf buddy were at Fogland. I’ll never forget the elation I felt when I set eyes on him. I screamed and jumped into his waiting arms. I was 10 years old again. We had one day together before he had to return to his police duties. I was delighted that he was just as spiritual as I was. Both of us had remembered the lessons learned in the church basement, and our love for God had grown. We talked nonstop and reluctantly parted.

We kept in touch by email, but then came the call, and my summers were forever changed. My aunt and uncle would never again spend sunny days with us at Fogland.

Yet, they are still such a part of the place. We reminisce, and they are there … my aunt catching the two tautogs while fishing in the aluminum boat off Fogland Point … my aunt and uncle surprising me with the gift of a beautiful English teapot …  our last day together.

It was Sunday, and we were all sitting in the summer house around the table, ready to devour a clamboil. I decided to read my elderly relatives a little story that I had seen in the church bulletin that morning. My family has learned to humor me and my incessant tales.

“At a church seniors’ dinner, a widow and widower who had known each other for several years sat across from one another, and carried on a cordial conversation. Later, the widower mustered the courage to ask her, ‘Will you marry me?’ Without hesitating, the widow said, ‘Yes.’ They then kissed and returned to their nearby homes. The next morning, the perplexed widower awoke wondering if the widow had said ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ He telephoned her and apologized for his failure of memory. ‘When I asked if you would marry me, did you say ‘Yes’ or ‘No?’ he inquired. The widow replied: ‘I said, ‘Yes’, and I meant it with all my heart. I’m so glad you called. I couldn’t remember who asked me.’”

They roared with laughter, and I swear the summer house shook on its foundation.

Sometimes when I sit alone in the summer house, I can hear them still.  

ABOUT SEA, SKY & SPIRIT: Drawing from the many seasonal faces of Fogland, Linda Andrade Rodrigues paints vignettes about nature and spirituality.