Country Cousins
Fred Malo Jr.
Carbondale
Not having the foresight to get married and raise children, I got exactly what I deserved. I’ve become a 76-year-old with no immediate family.
What I do have is a bevy of first cousins on or near the Camas Prairie in north central Idaho. Each year I travel to the thriving metropolis of Craigmont, population 499, for June Picnic, commemorating the day in 1920, the year my mother was born, when two little towns, Vollmer and Ilo, united to form one little town, Craigmont. The cousins welcome me with open arms.
June Picnic is delightful, a true small town’s version of Mountain Fair. In fact, Mountain Fair’s organizers could learn a few activities from June Picnic. But the highlight of the trip is when the cousins get together for an impromptu family reunion.
The TV set is on, but the sound is off and nobody’s paying any attention to it. Nothing interferes with the storytelling. Country people always seem to be the best yarn spinners. That gene flows freely in that side of my family. All this predates TV, when people entertained each other with stories. Some of the tales are even true. I had an uncle who said, “I never let the truth interfere with a good story.”
When city folk make fun of the hayseeds, implying they’re not as intelligent, I resent it. Some of the smartest people I’ve ever met were from the sticks. “The Beverly Hillbillies,” “Green Acres,” and Dixie Longate give a perverted view of the rural set. I never put much stock in intelligence quotients anyway.
I lived on the Prairie for four years in the mid-70’s, ostensibly looking for a job on a newspaper. What I found was seasonal work for various farmers and perhaps the most fulfilling period of my life. I have more memories of that time than any other.
My parents came to Craigmont for their yearly visit and I was sitting in a lounge chair on a cousin’s patio. “Fred, I’ve never seen you so relaxed,” my mother said. ”Never leave this place” — as she did 30 years before.
For not the first time, I didn’t follow my mother’s advice. Facing a winter with no work and rent, food and beer to pay for, I returned to the Chicago area to resume my toils in the steel industry. The plan was to make some bucks, then go back to the Prairie. Before you know it, I was paying off a mortgage and making car payments. I never returned to stay. Money is like a drug. All it does is make you need more. Every mistake I ever made was for money.
My family’s yearly trips to Craigmont started when I was quite young. Even this year, a cousin called me Freddie. I don’t mind. It gave me fond reminiscences of a more carefree, innocent time.
I’ll continue to return to Craigmont for June Picnic every year as long as I can make it. It’s a reminder that the family I have left may not be immediate, but it is beautiful.