Behind Me

I hear voices and glimpse fading faces. I know these people are gone. Truly gone. Some left decades ago, yet they linger in the people they created. I fit in the middle of six generations. Two before me, three afterwards. All relatives who've touched my life and left an impression. I think about the vast Foster family lineage and realize that the same number of generations prior to mine stretches back to my third great-grandfather.

I'm submerged by "Ya'll," "Hey," and Ma'm." Cousins nearly collide before me and I wonder if my arms can enwrap them all. I want to freeze frame these days and then elasticize them indefinitely. I cannot create such space and must merely recognize that my mind is storing each memory permanently.

Even for me, a person who dines on cousins constantly, the array of names, connections, and generations is daunting. There's a familiar refrain in this part of the country, "Who are your people?" Easy answer. All of you assembled. Every single one.

It is not enough to plan and attend one reunion. Family overflows and two scheduled events take shape. As I wander the transcendent grounds of Magnolia Vale, I feel the essence of kin whose days have ceased.




Voices carry close to the river. We're watching the water, amazed and unsettled by its force, worried about flooding.



Food quiets most concerns and conversations never falter. On the table is a treasure, a copy of the marriage certificate for our Irish forbears whose union occurred on December 24, 1852 in Larne. We ponder the notation that Jennet was of 'full age' and described as a 'spinster.'

Children, some still toddlers, intermingle with octogenarians whose sparkle is undimmed by decades. It must be those stalwart Irish genes. Do you detect any of Granny Ruth in these Foster first cousins' faces?



New York tones soon intermingle with their Southern versions. Carol and Steve are finally and blissfully descending upon my hometown. I fret a bit that more than three decades of boosterism about this exceptional place, its unmatchable people, and the superb regional dining may disappoint. There's little time for pondering the possible as the river must be viewed in all its splendor before we drive down Silver Street to Magnolia Grill.



I'm deep into buttery grits and catfish ensconced with mushrooms. This is most likely heaven. Around the table, all loved ones. I'm watching the river through the glassed-in porch. I may be a tiny bit delirious. What was that? A tap. On my shoulder? I turn. And scream. And jump up and hug the tapper.


No matter that there are servers and other diners in the room. I cannot/will not be quieted. It is she. My dearest daughter, Caitlin. Just arrived via the Inman Express. Fresh from Portland/Dallas/Baton Rouge. Wearing a bright red sweater and her inimitable smile. I am not speechless but I may have a heart attack. Henry's done it again. Surprised the gullible me. Brought our daughter South to be with her mom and support her presentation efforts. I am humbled by the logistics, undeserving of this grandest of all gifts.

Dottie and Kenny, whom Caitlin has not met previously, nabbed her from the airport and drove her to Natchez. Dottie is smiling at the secrets kept, the 'bundle' delivered. Kenny is ever supportive of these family plans.

My grits portion is commandeered. She's a lifelong convert. It's been a long journey. A Portobello salad is ordered to be supplemented by a glass of white wine and a couple of desserts. Difficult to discern which is better-Mississippi Mud Cheesecake or Chocolate Pecan Pie. Easy solution. Eat both.

Cousin Barbara is smiling. Cousin David, dining in another part of the restaurant, hears my raised voice and investigates. He is relieved and relishes the chance encounter with Caitlin.


Barbara's daughter, Sarah, and husband John, knew of the impending surprise. Fat Mama's is the desired destination.


I've been sufficiently distracted from the anxiety associated with the next day's presentation at the Foster Family Reunion. I know that those I love the most are behind me.