I first realized what being part of a large family meant when I was eight. We had traveled to the other side of the country for my second cousin’s wedding, a grand family affair, and the first time I was trapped in a suit. I was lost in a sea of people, presumably most of them related to me somehow. But to my eight year-old mind, my only family members there were my mother and grandparents.

An old, colorfully dressed man walked up to me, and expanded my meaning of family by smiling and saying, “You’re on the Johnson side, aren’t you? I can tell, you’ve got our nose. And your ears! You’re classic Johnson.” He introduced himself as my mother’s uncle. I thought he was just some kooky relative (there are a lot of them), until I realized he was right. Even at eight, by looking at the crowds around me, some order came out of the chaos. He was a Johnson, and look over there! That one had Grandpa’s chin, and look at Great-Aunt Maureen. Of course she’s related, you can’t miss those green eyes; Mom and all her sisters have them too.

Since then, I’ve learned much more about my family, both the Johnsons (on my mother’s side) and the Giltons (on my father’s side). My family is absolutely huge, but I can’t imagine life without any of them. My close connection to my extended family has expanded my horizons, and given me a new way to look at the world.

The Johnsons are historians, writers, and government men. Their family tree is constructed of ink and paper. There are stains in the ink, like the great Carr-Johnson name change, documented in police records. (One degenerate ancestor changed his name to avoid his parents’ discovery of his poor driving.) Grandpa Johnson worked for the IRS, and so did his son, John Johnson. Grandma’s uncle was the first member of the family to own the traditional family dog, the Boston Terrier. (Today, owning any dog but a Boston Terrier would be tantamount to blasphemy.) The sheer size of our family makes an extensive family tree; thirteen children for every family make a lot of cousins. It is this extended family that makes our family identity so strong. Holding us together are branches of paper, but this paper is so thick that it can hold up relationships over decades and hundreds of miles.

Grandpa Johnson once showed me the official family tree. It was a book, filled with names going back to the Civil War. He pointed out our farthest known ancestor, and then pointed at the wall. “Do you know whose sword that was? That was your great-great-great-great-grandfather’s sword.” Hanging above my head was History. I had peered into the upper reaches of the family tree, and it had become much more real than just names could ever be.

Ten years later, I fell onto another of the tree’s branches. It was a trip out East to see the family, specifically to see the Family History. There was the duplex my mother had grown up in, and just down the street, look, that was where Grandma taught. We found our way into the Finger Lakes region, and I found myself at the ancestral family farm, saying hello to Cousin Johnny (my mother’s cousin), whom I’d never met. He took us in without asking how long we were staying, and only asked us that night at dinner why we’d made it out all the way out to his house. He gave us a place to stay, gave us a tour of the town, and fed us, all because we were family. Today, we still write back and forth; everyone in the Johnson family watches out for Cousin Johnny, just as everyone watches out for Grandpa John, just as everyone watches out for Cousin Davis.

The Giltons keep their history in their stories and names. With a long history of poor education, Southern trailer-style living, the stories told by Great-Grandma become all we have. Names and stories told over biscuits and gravy make up the Gilton family tree. Our names carry on our family traditions; my first name came from my Great-Grandmother, the current matriarch of the family, and my middle name, Leland, was given to me by my grandfather Leland. That side of the family tells stories while sitting in the family room, sitting on the porch, or riding around the Arkansas backwoods.

Great Grandma Twilla waters and maintains the Gilton family, quite possibly the nicest woman you will ever meet. The Giltons spread news like all good Southerners: by word of mouth, telling stories to hold themselves together. The family mythos is deep; there is a story for every cousin, and every ancestor. The legend goes that the original American Gilton came over from County Tipperary in Ireland, and married a Choctaw Native American woman. He stayed with her for six months, and then left, taking her only horse and disappearing from history. His now-fatherless son took his father’s name, and so began the Gilton family tree. The rest of the tree was similarly created, spun from tall tales and collective belief. Whereas the Johnson family tree is written down and set in ink, the Gilton family holds our own family tree together, by sheer force of stories.

Death brings the Giltons together. Normally our phone calls are just enough, because flying down to Arkansas is simply just not worth it, but my grandfather’s death brought all of us together. As an ex-Marine, a mayor, and the one who made sure that the cords that held the family together didn’t become frayed, his loss hit all of us. But there I saw true Southern hospitality, and developed a slight Southern drawl. There, I learned how to comfort those in need: excellent food and excellent stories. When the family came together, the outside world vanished, and all that mattered were the stories. How is Aunt Kathleen doing, Uncle Michael is an Episcopalian priest now, oh, he’ll be wonderful, Heather I heard about what happened with your car that is simply appalling! A sitting room or church foyer becomes the entire world for the Gilton family.

What surprises me is how distant a family can really be. Many of my friends have never considered themselves part of their family. Their cousins may as well be strangers, even if they live a block away. The world is peppered with stunted family trees, lacking the attention or care to keep them alive. My family hold me together in my weakest points, give me roots deeper than anything else in my life, and give me a peaceful refuge whenever I need it.

I live two hours by airplane from any of my closest relatives, but I feel closer to them than many of my friends whose grandparents or aunts live right next door. Our family holds each other together on both sides, and to my family, just the last name is all you need for a warm welcome and an invite inside for dinner. The extended family can be so much more than just people who share your last name. A family doesn’t have to be an idea from the mafia. A family can be part of your identity, an anchor in an unstable world. I will always have my family, and I will always tell their stories. The family tree has many branches, some of ink, some of stories, but all significant.