Kim Wilbanks

The Last Sunday Of July

The last Sunday in July always finds me feeling nostalgic. It’s the last day of our family’s big reunion in Cairo, Georgia. It’s the day everyone heads back to their homes, spreading out like a dot of paint in a drop of water.

My husband and I headed north after the reunion this year. We were going back to the mountains of North Carolina rather than to our home in central Florida. It was a much longer trip, but we were happy to be returning to the cool mountain air rather than to the predicted heat wave in the south.

A Sentimental Journey

Our drive through south Georgia took us through pine forests, pecan groves, and green pastures dotted with cows munching away before claiming their shady spot for the day. I hope they survived last week’s heat wave.

We drove through Ochlocknee for the first time, my grandmother’s birthplace, back in 1909. My aunt Lily and uncle Hosea settled on a farm nearby with their daughter, Larave. She had horses.

The bright sunshine and blue skies highlighted fields of crops—soybeans, most likely, and corn. Peach orchards interrupted the fields here and there. Weather-worn barns and farmhouses, and old church buildings stood as a testament to a simpler life.

We drove through Pelham, Georgia, where my grandfather was born. It was he and his siblings who inaugurated the Blanton Family Reunion we had just attended.

It’s funny. Every year when I travel these roads, my heart always feels at home, like it knows its roots are here. Even though I have never lived in the area, it always feels like coming home.

Age Brings Change

I notice that the older I get, the quicker our days at the reunion go by. When I was a child, it seemed to be endless days playing with my cousins in the park or at the hotel swimming pool. This year, it seemed like we had barely arrived when it was time to leave. I wanted more time with these people who are such an important part of my story.

I also noticed how much smaller everything is. When I was a child, the Cairo Woman’s Club, with its brick stairs in the back, seemed huge. The adjoining park was our little world with its streams and shrubbery, perfect for creating forts and spending hours at make-believe, only breaking for lunch or a snack of boiled peanuts.

This year was a milestone year for me. It was the first reunion my two grandsons attended. It was such a joy to have them there. I followed the line of proud grandparents introducing members of a new generation to the family. At one and almost three, they were the bookends of four little boys just learning the ropes. I imagine in a couple of years, they will be the best of buds running around enjoying the annual gathering of cousins.

They’re too young to play together right now, but my oldest grandson, the almost three-year-old, took to the reunion like a pro. Like my childhood self and my kids and probably every cousin in attendance, he latched onto an older cousin and followed her around like a baby duck following its mama. Thankfully, this ten-year-old was the perfect age for such adoration and patiently included him. Ironically, her dad was my son’s and my daughter’s “latch-onto cousin.” If polled, I imagine all of us would claim a “cousin crush”. I know I had one.

Bittersweet Memories

Family reunions bring up bittersweet memories. As new generations form, we remember those who have gone on before us. But the Sunday of BFR, as we call it, is especially bittersweet for me. The two people who shaped me more than any others — my grandfather and my mother — loved this annual gathering. For them, attendance wasn’t an option. They expected it. 

Back in 1984, when I was a newlywed of four months, my grandfather passed on the Sunday of the reunion. He had been ill, so he and my grandmother decided not to make the trip. It was the only family reunion he missed. It was before cell phones, so even though we spoke to him on a landline that morning, by the time we made the four and a half hour drive home, doctors had hospitalized him. He passed during the night.

Two summers ago, my mom entered hospice care at the end of June. She hoped to hold on long enough for one last family reunion, but it was not to be. My brother and my daughter were with me on the Sunday afternoon she slipped away, probably about the time the relatives were getting home and unpacking their bags.

I had a great-aunt and a cousin who also passed during our family reunion weekend. They are always on my mind the last weekend in July. But that is what family reunions are all about—remembering beloved relatives who have gone on before us while enjoying the company of our kin.

One More Bit of Yesteryear

Our last bit of nostalgia on the trip was a stop at a cafeteria in Macon, Georgia. We had stopped there over the years, but the last time, we noted it wasn’t as good. But then, it was on a weeknight near closing. My husband and I grew up going to cafeterias with our families, so we try to stop when we can.

The cafeteria was hopping during the Sunday lunch hour. We arrived a little before noon, so the line was not long. We enjoyed all of our favorite foods: carrot and raisin salad, liver and onions, turnip greens, and custard pie. By the time we left, a line of folks in their Sunday best or their travel clothes snaked through the lobby and out the door. It was a great way to end another Blanton family reunion weekend.

How about you? Did your family have family reunions? How often? Did you go to the cafeteria growing up? What stirs up feelings of nostalgia for you? I’d love to hear.