Reunion Of Cousins Quotes

I turn around from the window and for the first time I see him... It is Richard, smiling at my surprise. I run to him, without thinking what I am doing. I run to the first friendly face that I have seen since Christmas, and in a moment I am in his arms and he is holding me tightly and kissing my face, my closed eyes, my smiling mouth, kissing me till I am breathless and have to pull away from him.

From "Grimm: Bad Teeth (#2.1)" (2012) Monroe: Yeah, no, totally. I mean, family reunions can be brutal. Our last one, we lost two cousins and a sheep dog. Rosalee Calvert: Okay. Monroe: No one missed the cousins, you know.

You can not figure out love without figuring out death, too, but the effort it takes can knock the wind out of you. Love is the first cousin of death, they're acquainted with each other, they go to the same family reunions.

It has been said that necessity is the mother of invention. In the same vein, desperation is the father of compromise, panic is the sister of slapdash improvisation, and despair is the second cousin of quiet apathy. By that reckoning, dinner was a dismal family reunion.

Plus, I can't look at him the same since I ran into Mrs. Marino at our family reunion. It's not comforting to learn you've made out with your cousin." "Third cousin once removed," I argued. "It's hardly incest." "Life is like a box of chocolates, Lisa," Katie noted around a half-chewed carrot stick. "You never know what you're going to get." Lisa narrowed her eyes, confused. "Did she just quote Forrest Gump at me?" "It's Matt's fault," I said. "She lost a bet and now anytime his name gets mentioned, she has sixty seconds to drop a relevant movie quote." "That's insane." "Yup," Katie piped in, "insanity tuns in my family. Its practically gallops." "Classic." I high-fived her.

That’s just it. She’s in the state of mind that will think the worst of everybody,” Emma said. “And basically, that’s exactly what we’re trying to reverse. It’s a vicious cycle.” “God does the reversing.” It was sudden, I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but after it left my lips it brought me a load of comfort. Emma paused what she was doing and looked at me. “You know, that’s exactly right. Only God can change a heart. I suppose we can help, but it has to be all up to Him.

Compared to everything else going on in the house, Howard drinking chocolate milk in the shower almost seemed ordinary.

My cousin doesn't know my name, so he calls me Marie The 13th. I told him, "Please, call me Mr. The 13th. Marie is my father's name." Family reunions are always awkward because nobody there is related to me. Still, I give them all discounts on BearPaw Duck Farm omelets.

Not a single family finds itself exempt from that one haunted casualty who suffered irreparable damage in the crucible they entered at birth. Where some children can emerge from conditions of soul-killing abuse and manage to make their lives into something of worth and value, others can’t limp away from the hurts and gleanings time decanted for them in flawed beakers of memory. They carry the family cross up the hill toward Calvary and don’t mind letting every other member of their aggrieved tribe in on the source of their suffering. There is one crazy that belongs to each of us: the brother who kills the spirit of any room he enters; the sister who’s a drug addict in her teens and marries a series of psychopaths, always making sure she bears their children, who carry their genes of madness to the grave. There’s the neurotic mother who’s so demanding that the sound of her voice over the phone can cause instant nausea in her daughters. The variations are endless and fascinating. I’ve never attended a family reunion where I was not warned of a Venus flytrap holding court among the older women, or a pitcher plant glistening with drops of sweet poison trying to sell his version of the family maelstrom to his young male cousins. When the stories begin rolling out, as they always do, one learns of feuds that seem unbrokerable, or sexual abuse that darkens each tale with its intimation of ruin. That uncle hates that aunt and that cousin hates your mother and your sister won’t talk to your brother because of something he said to a date she later married and then divorced. In every room I enter I can sniff out unhappiness and rancor like a snake smelling the nest of a wren with its tongue. Without even realizing it, I pick up associations of distemper and aggravation. As far as I can tell, every family produces its solitary misfit, its psychotic mirror image of all the ghosts summoned out of the small or large hells of childhood, the spiller of the apple cart, the jack of spades, the black-hearted knight, the shit stirrer, the sibling with the uncontrollable tongue, the father brutal by habit, the uncle who tried to feel up his nieces, the aunt too neurotic ever to leave home. Talk to me all you want about happy families, but let me loose at a wedding or a funeral and I’ll bring you back the family crazy. They’re that easy to find.

He seemed to study her. "I think I might surprise you." She feared that was definitely what might happen.

She warned herself to let it go. But that meant letting the painting go. She couldn't do that, she thought with a curse. And Laramie Cardwell was practically daring her to come steal it.

You have the most incredible eyes. I feel as if I can look into your soul." Sid shivered. "Don't look too closely.

Austin couldn't help being protective of his youngest brother. While he and Hayes had both worked in law enforcement, Laramie had no experience dealing with criminals. "I hope you're right," Austin said as he watched his family finish their lunches. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that Laramie had no idea what he was getting into.

When are you coming back?" he'd demanded as he'd watched her throw her clothes into two suitcases and head for the door. "When you get some help with your drinking." He didn't need any help. He drank fine without it.

Did I catch you at a bad time?" she asked as a few moments passed without either of them speaking. He mentally shook himself out of his reverie. "Sorry, you looked so..." "Cold?" she suggested with a smile.

Dana can't stand the idea of an ugly tree not getting to be a Christmas tree," her husband the marshal explained with a shake of his head. "We do what we can for it.

Laramie had smiled at Dana. "You just can't stand one of your cousins making a clean getaway.

There is one man," the artist said after a moment. He'd paled. "H. F. Powell." "Where would I find him?" West didn't seem to hear him for a moment. He shook his head as if clearing away cobwebs from his brain. "Find him?" His laugh was more of a grunt. "Six feet under, last I checked.

What would it hurt to have one cup of coffee with him?

It felt like a kiss from a man whose reasons were strictly carnal. And I like it.

Was that designer stubble on his jaw?

This woman would be the death of him.... He told himself he wouldn't be stupid enough to let her steal his heart.

His gaze locked with hers as he leaned into her, his mouth finding hers. She tasted the saltiness of her tears and the cold scent of the winter day on his lips.

Would he love the house as much if his cat burglar didn't come back for the painting? He pushed that thought away, telling himself he was in the market for a house long before he'd laid eyes on the dark-clad figure running along the rooftop. Long before the kiss.

There are plenty of designers around who could advise you on artwork. I'm not the person you want." "Oh, I suspect you are exactly the person I'm looking for.

I was surprised to hear you'd grown up on a ranch," he said. "What is that?" "You don't like cowboy art." She chuckled. "You think they go hand in hand?

If you show up to a family reunion with cousins, aunts and uncles, or in-laws, the best way to connect is to take an interest in them, their lives, their work, and their health. But it has to be real, not for show. Don’t give the impression of quizzing or investigating them—just approach them in a sincere and amiable way. Always make an effort to interest yourself in other people’s lives.

With a rage that surprised even him, Robert swung the club with all his might into the adjacent drywall. The club missed the two-by-fours and plunged deeply between the studs, leaving a dark, gaping hole in the garage wall. He pulled out the club like a swordsman and struck the wall again and again and again. Robert’s screams — intense, guttural and primal — drowned out the sound made by the impact and penetration of each thrust at the drywall enemy. On the fifth stroke, the surprisingly tough club found an intransigent wall stud, and the shaft and head of the club finally surrendered. Rather than bending, it splintered into a jagged mess, rendering the entire club useless. The garage wall, now pockmarked with deep holes, suffered a similar fate. Panting from the exertion and uncontrolled release of emotion, Robert dropped the remains of the club and stared blankly at the cratered wall. He took a deep breath and held it. Anguish and grief were family relations who had invited pain to join them in his home. Pain evidently had an angry cousin. None were welcome. He wished the family reunion to be over.