In a restaurant at lunchtime not long ago, I noticed in my peripheral vision some movement across the small dining room. There was a couple waving at me, so I waved back. As I settled in my seat, I turned to Bettye and said, “I grew up with that guy, and his wife is a cousin to a girl who lived next door to us when I was little.
” As I uttered the word “cousin,” a smile began to grow across her face. “You know the cousins of a neighbor from 50 years ago ..
.” she began. I knew she was simply stating a fact for the record.
And I knew the rest of the observation left unspoken – “...
but you don’t know your own.” That’s not entirely accurate. But she’s not wrong.
Bill Perkins I can’t recall how many years it’s been since the day she and I were in Auburn so she could attend a meeting at Draughon Library on campus. While she was in the meeting, I piddled around the library where I’d spent far less time than I should have during my own Auburn days. When I walked into the reference library, a nice-looking young guy stopped to speak to me.
He asked about my family and wanted updates on everyone. We were still talking when Bettye walked up. When I didn’t immediately make introductions, the fellow turned to her and said, “I’m Cary, Bill’s first cousin.
” I don’t have much of a poker face, so I’m sure Cary realized right away that I had no idea who he was. But the encounter left me sheepish just the same. What’s ironic is that I know most all of.
