My Cousin, Samm
I’m the eldest of four, and the only girl. Hamish is 20 months younger than I am, and the twins, Angus and Liam, were born when I was almost four. When I was little, what I wanted more than anything was someone to share clothes with, to play dolls with and to dress up with. I wanted a sister.
As a child, one of my rituals was to read the comics over breakfast. The newspaper was delivered every morning. My dad read the news and business sections, and my brothers might check the sports section for details of the previous nights’ hockey games, but I went straight for the comics.
I’d sit there, eating my peanut butter toast or muesli or oatmeal, and linger over each comic strip. I preferred the ones with a story and a theme, probably because I was too young to understand some of the jokes. When I finished, I’d flip the page and look through the classified section. I was probably about seven years old at the time. I’d scour the section that listed animals for sale and pay keen attention to the puppies, in particular. After I’d carefully assessed which puppy I’d buy if I had the money, I’d turn the page and end up on the personal ads.
Thing is, I thought I was looking at advertisements for prospective sisters and brothers. “Female who likes reading, sports, and long walks on the beach.” Perfect! I thought. I like those things, too!
When I was in grade 10, my cousin came to live with us. Samm grew up in Los Angeles. Her parents were divorced, and she wanted to attend the girls school our other cousin and I went to. I was thrilled. I’d always loved Samm. She was my fun, quirky, hilarious cousin, and having her live with us would be just like having a sister.
On our first night together, we declared each other “custers”, a rudimentary combination of “cousins” and “sisters”.
Truthfully, we didn’t always like each other when we lived together—squabbles over “borrowed” clothes, shower time, petty comments, friends, and so on—but we always loved each other. And when I look back it’s not the conflicts I remember, it’s the good times. The side-splitting laughter. The comforting moments. And the hair-raising or plain stupid or outrageously funny moments that fostered our lifetime bond as custers.
We were obsessed with Law and Order: SVU (as in: could-recite-entire-episodes-obsessed). “Dun dun” was a critical phrase in our lexicon. One spring break, our grandma took us to Hawaii. Our main priority was tanning (our future selves were cringing, I know), and we devised a schedule to maximize bronzing opportunity. A close second was Law and Order. For seven days, we didn’t do much more than tan and watch Olivia Benson, Elliot Stabler, et al. solve the most convoluted of crimes. At the end of the week, we returned to Vancouver toasted to an absolute crisp, fancying ourselves honorary detectives.
Our lives have changed a lot since we lived down the hall from each other in my parents’ home. Samm works in Manhattan. She deals with people who fly in private airplanes, who have personal drivers, and whose homes exceed what I can only imagine in my wildest dreams. She knows the ins and outs of NYC where she has lived for thirteen years – the places to dine and the trendy new spots, the art galleries and the best places to shop. I live in a community with fewer residents than are housed in Samm’s apartment building, one diner and a post office that’s only open three half days a week. Everyone knows everyone and community excitement is the wolf prowling about or a neighbour’s new snowmobile.
Despite, or maybe because of, the worlds between us, Samm and I are close. In the hours we spend on the phone, we listen, confide in each other, share, and problem solve. Sometimes we cry. But mostly we laugh. The kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt.
Three years ago, Samm spent Christmas with us in Beaver Creek. She arrived at the tiny airport in Whitehorse decked out from head to toe in winter gear. It felt like the laughter started before we’d even left the airport and didn’t stop until she’d boarded the flight home.
That Yukon Christmas was colder, more remote, darker, and “smaller” than anything Samm had ever experienced, and yet she embraced it. When we had no hot water for a warm bath, she boiled the kettle with no complaints. When I invited her to cross country ski with me and a friend, she was eager to try (spoiler, there was more laughter involved than skiing). When I told her I’d invited a quarter of the community to Christmas dinner, she spent the whole day in the kitchen cooking and prepping with me. When we found our Christmas tree, she helped chop it down. She tried it all.
I never did get the sister I was dreaming of finding in the personal ads. But I did get someone who celebrates our differences, and who, despite living in different countries and on different sides of the continent, always makes time to connect with me. I got someone whose commitment to personal growth inspires me daily. Someone who is as close to being a sister as you can get.
I got Samm, my custer.
