When I was a kid, we went to Boise, Idaho, every summer for a week or two for the big family reunion. It was one of my favorite things — a couple dozen cousins about my age, trips to Lucky Peak, Pine Top, and floating down the Boise River in innertubes. Not to mention grandma’s huge stash of comic books (she raised seven kids throughout the ’40s, ’50s, ’60s and early ’70s, after all). When I got a little older, I also looked forward to the complex metaphysical discussions and debates my aunts, uncles and parents would have.

It got to be a little less fun as a teenager, when a few of my cousins suddenly seemed more interested in being cool than in having fun. And, as a late bloomer to coolness, I was left out. (Not only a late bloomer, but an early peaker — it wasn’t long before I turned into the fat, bald shlub-with-a-paradoxically-great-self-image that I am today.)

During my college years, reunions became less formal albeit more frequent. A few extended family members would get together every time my parents drove me, or my brother, or my sisters, or all of us, to/from college (the drive from Portland, OR, to Provo, UT, passed lots of family members). And in the last few years there haven’t been nearly as many get-togethers. At least for me — I don’t have any relatives on the East Coast. (OK, except a cousin in Boston — but I’ve never made it up to Boston).

But the powers that be have decided that we’re going to start having actual family reunions again, during the first weekend in August every year — to coincide with my grandma’s birthday. (She’s 83 this year!) So, I need to finish packing and get to the airport . . .