Summer family reunions are a tradition on my father’s side of the family, where he has seven aunts and uncles and an army of cousins. Weeks of long-distance phone calls and planning coordinated by his cousins and him generally culminates in a weekend itinerary of organized activities and meals. This year’s was no exception. I have never fully understood why Dad has made these gatherings at Aunt Elaine’s farm house nestled in the southern Minnesota countryside a high priority on his to-do list — until now.

To an outsider, I’m sure the motley crew of my father and his middle-aged cousins appears relatively normal as they chew the fat, crack open cold beers and throw around the Frisbee. But I’m not so sure this family is ordinary. Different faces seem to crop up each year, in the form of new boyfriends or girlfriends accompanying single grandkids. Maybe these dates are being tested. If they can handle the Romsdahls, they’re permitted legal access to the family name. Inside the house, wives, sister-in-laws and daughters scurry to put the next meal on the table, buffet style. Although Aunt Elaine is amazingly able-bodied and capable for a woman in her 80s, this eases the burden of meal preparation for her.

How many families still play horseshoe competitively? How many families can make each other roar with laughter when one of the female cousins proudly models her new men’s oversized briefs she’s just yanked on over her jeans during an outrageous white elephant gift exchange? Things really get out of control when the guys pull up chairs and divvy up the cash for poker and God knows what else.

Board games are also a main staple. I figured “Catch Phrase,” a game where you are timed and have to describe a certain word or catch phrase from a master list, would be a hit with this crowd. Half the hilarity came from just trying to teach this group of 12 how to play. A couple of the more senior adults were not accustomed to the required fast thinking and talking and poked fun at themselves in their foolish gibberish. Once the game was finally underway, we spent more time cackling over the creative ways we choose to describe our words than efficiently following the directions. Enjoying each other’s company was the real object of the game.

Last Saturday morning, however, Dad wasn’t anywhere in sight around Elaine’s. Then mom let the cat out of the bag — after talking about it for almost 10 years and waiting for invitations from his friends and relatives who own lakefront cabins, Dad was actually looking at one for sale not more than seven minutes from the farm. It wasn’t until that evening that I realized what a small cabin by the lake surrounded by his family and friends would mean to him.

Saturday evening, after a refreshing thunderstorm passed, the cool evening breeze lured us outside where we gathered for more fellowship. With some classic rock and jazz blasting from someone’s open SUV, and nothing but the solitary white light glowing from the light pole, talk went deeper. Now we learned what was really going on in each other’s messy, complicated lives. Almost all of dad’s conversations included, “When you buy that cabin …” Everyone seemed excited about the idea of dad living closer to his homeland, at least for part of the year. The cabin is in dire need of some contemporary decor, serious cleaning and repairs, but there are two carpenters and an interior decorator in the family. I can’t think of a better time or reason for a family to come together and work toward a common goal.

Traveling to Minnesota with my parents to visit relatives and friends has always been a part of my life. To me, there is no such thing as celebrating a holiday or Christmas without driving four hours north. The land of ten thousand lakes is practically my second home. I was born there. Owning a cabin in southern Minnesota has the potential to strengthen existing relationships by virtue of spending more time around our relatives.

I don’t know my great-aunts and great-uncles all that well, but there’s always something comforting about these familiar faces. The creases deepen, their bones ache, but their hearts have always been pure gold. We exchange smiles, hugs, hellos and good-byes, and it’s always left me with a yearning to know them better — before it’s too late.

Considering the fact that we are descendants of emotionally reserved, stoic and devout Lutheran Norwegian and Swedish immigrants, the Romsdahls are a rowdy, boisterous, fun-loving bunch. Time spent with them teaches me to embrace life a little more fully, to take myself a little less seriously and to treasure these special times. In following the example set by my father, this extended family is where I will also anchor my roots.