It took years to make this happen. The last time we all got together (other than one fairly disastrous Christmas—and then we weren’t all together) was in early September of 2001 (before the 11th), and even then we weren’t all together: one of us was missing, and that’s not Everyone, is it?
Even now, frankly, I don’t know how we did it. Some of us threatened, at one point or other, not to come. Work schedules, money issues, yadda yadda. We accepted no excuses, and in the end we all were there, all twenty-four of us: Bill’s dad and step-mother, Bill and his two brothers and four step-brothers, four wives, eleven grandchildren, and one on the way.
It was a great week, anticipated for months. Mark your calendars, the e-mail said sometime in January, I think it was. Mark you calendars for the week of June 17th. We have two houses at Holden Beach, and everyone (Everyone) must be there.
And then, over the following months, were the e-mails with must-brings, and must-haves, and info about the houses, their proximity, addresses, directions. Pack everything in laundry baskets, was one word of advice: that way, when you put your clothes in drawers, you have a place to put your dirty laundry. And could we do laundry? (Vital question). Yes. And did we do laundry? With eleven children? You Bet. 
There was the e-mail with the cooking teams (child-siblings and spouses separated from one another) and clean-up crews and the admonition to Plan Your Meal with your teammates and No Complaining About Your Assigned Night. There was the e-mail from the events coordinator promising water-balloon contests and beach ball volleys and Jello-Sucking-Through-A-Straw. And finally there was the Departure E-mail, with wishes for the safest of travel and anticipated joy.
But with all of that preparation, I was unprepared. No, not like that. I over-packed, to be sure (what else is new?) even though I forgot our bath towels. But I was unprepared for the dawning amazement as I stood on our deck and looked out at the ocean, its green-blue waves falling to white foam on the sand, that this was Ours For The Week. All Ours. This place, these people, this time.
It’s not the sort of holiday I’m used to.
Oh, don’t worry. I’ll spare you the run-down. Already I can’t pull one day from another in my 
mind. Which was the day when Most of the Men went deep-sea fishing all day? And which was the day during which Most of the Men disappeared into the Other, Quieter house to use the Internet connection? Most of the specifics dissolve into the pounding surf, the constant and only musical score for the week. We slept with the door to the deck open and listened all night to that comfort. And during the day we were constantly at the beach or on the way back from it—our feet skipping over the hot sand—or showering sand off our feet or trying to no avail to rinse sand from the lining of our bathing suits or using the outdoor shower or getting children sunscreened or getting children into their pajamas or getting them out of their pajamas again.
My boys spent hours at a time riding the waves or trying to catch waves or asking Yet Another Grown-Up to come out into the surf with them again. Emma Grace, Clare, Maggie and Colleen spent hours being tossed in the new and renewed foam at the ocean’s edge. Shannon spent hours playing in shallow tidal “rivers” or digging digging digging in the sand. The tide grew stronger toward the end of the week, and on Friday I laughed at Mike as I fought the surf to rejoin my boys in the water. Uncle Mike stood in the frothing foam with a niece clinging to each of his ankles and nephew Brendan gripping his hand: “Look, I’m a buoy!” he said.
There were late-night conversations and late-night poker games, there were several sunburns and sunscreen misapplied. There was a baby shower and an exploded blueberry pie; there were water balloons filled and left in a bathroom sink (this, after several boys were Discouraged from heaving them off the deck); there were people who took up jogging and people who pushed the outer limits of a sunburn; there was fish and lasagna and burgers and chicken and must-go, chips and chips and chips and white cake with white frosting and chocolate cake with white frosting and chocolate chip brownies twice and many, many reasons to exercise.
And as I was coming back to the beach house after my walk one of those mornings, I thought about all the people I was coming back to. All of us, there in one of those two houses, for this one week. Bill and Carolyn, who by no small miracle and with immeasurable grace, managed somehow to blend these two families; all of us kids, grown now into adulthood; eleven grandchildren and one on the way. We each of us have survived our disasters, small or large, and been delivered into the reasonable and fragile safety that is the Present. Here we are. Before the next thing that might befall us, before the next inevitable loss, tucked in to these two houses on this exquisite shore, enjoying Right Now.
It was a good time.
