For years, my husband’s family has gathered at Montauk State Park in Dent County, Missouri for a family reunion. This is very close to where his grandparents were born, met and got married, and where his Dad was later born and lived until he was about 10 years old.
I was first invited to attend the reunion the summer after our freshman year of college. Anthony’s little sister and I shared the big bed at the end of the pop-up camper. Each morning, we were woken up as the sun was coming up and we groggily headed to the Lodge, where Anthony’s Dad bought everyone a hot chocolate or cappuccino before we headed to the side of the river and lined up with our fishing poles waiting for the siren to sound, signaling we could throw our lines.
I hadn’t ever really fished before, and I’m not really from a family who wakes up before or with the sun, so it all felt new and unfamiliar. His Dad got poles set up, and coached us through fixing them when string got caught or twisted. As the morning progressed, and fish were caught, the great aunts and uncles would help decide if a fish was worth keeping for the family fish fry, or if they should be thrown back and not counted towards the daily catch.
In addition to fishing every morning, the days consisted of swimming at the swimming hole, touring the local area and listening to the family stories, second and third cousins riding bikes and playing endlessly for hours through the campground, and a big family float trip down the Current River. The days ended with family gathering around one of the cabins, where dinner was shared, and the catching up between aunts and uncles and cousins continued.
At some point, amidst the busyness of that week, Anthony and I were both hanging out at the “Cook Cabin”, where everyone would soon be meeting to eat. Lots of people were gathered as dinner was being prepared, there were crafts happening at one table, and games being played near the seating area. Anthony made eye contact with me, picked up a jar and two forks and nodded his head towards the door. I followed him out, passed a picnic table and car to the top of a steep driveway, where he plopped down on the ground, opened his jar, and handed me a fork as he motioned for me to sit down.
We sat side by side, with our forks, eating maraschino cherries out of the biggest jar of maraschino cherries I had ever seen, and enjoyed a few moments to ourselves. He explained that it was his Mom’s tradition to make Pineapple Upside Down Cake during their week at Montauk, and it was his tradition to find a time to sneak cherries out of the jar while he was at Montauk. We sat outside at the top of that driveway by ourselves for probably about ten to fifteen minutes, but those minutes have stuck with me for decades.
We just got back from a much shorter trip to Montauk, where we gathered with family to bury and memorialize my husband’s grandparents and one of his great aunts. It was such a gift to be back at the place that holds so much of his, and now our story, and to get to introduce our kids to the traditions, the places, the stories, and the people. While a lot of us see each other in smaller groups, and outside of time at Montauk, there was something about being back there together that felt especially special. A place that once felt new and unfamiliar and sort of foreign, has become a place that now feels nostalgic and like a place full of memories and belonging.
Last month, I found my oldest son in the garage with the refrigerator door open, doling cherries out of a Costco-sized jar of maraschino cherries to his little brother and sister. I told them that those cherries were off limits for now,
“What could Dad need all these cherries for?”
