Large families always made me jealous. I felt that I was on the outside, looking in. I was a happy only child, but life was quiet. Those laughing clusters of brothers and sisters looked like so much fun. Warm and cozy.

Just recently I chatted with two friends who grew up in large families. At the end of the evening, I still felt envious. Children from large families have their support systems built in. They have best friends before they step into the world. That brother who dive-bombed you from the top bunk while screaming, “Chicken!” will also be by your side traveling life’s path.

The camaraderie, the teasing, the petty fights, the competitiveness – all are large-family experiences. I always thought that the kids who grew up having to share, cope, and understand the family’s circumstances, fit more easily into society. They didn’t have to learn their way forward – they knew.

My friend, George, one of eight children, was the fourth child in his family’s batting order. “My role in the middle was the peacekeeper,” he said. “Our family of ten lived in a two-bedroom house.” His parents occupied one room, his two sisters shared the other. His folks had converted the basement to Boy World. The six of them bunked down there, played down there, and of course, rough housed down there. It sounded like a gym with beds.

Naturally, two-bedroom houses have only one bathroom. “That was the biggest challenge of all,” George chuckled. “It’s a good thing we were six boys and two girls rather than the other way around!”

“One time I was playing with a friend when his mother called him in for supper. When I asked what they were having, he said, ‘Leftovers.’ I’d never heard the word. Back home, I asked Mom how come you never cook leftovers? She said, ‘We don’t have those.’ I still didn’t know what they were.”

A nearby friend, Barb, joined our conversation and we learned she was the third child of ten, the oldest of three girls. “My brothers played outside while I helped Mom with the little ones. It was fine. I loved babies, and later my older brothers became my protectors, my close friends. Everyone wanted to play at our house – for the fun,” she added. And they also lived with one bathroom!

My late in-laws were both from good-sized farm families. Dorothy O’Brien was the youngest of seven, Ted was the middle child of nine. Dorothy grew up southeast of Lancaster, New York and she made it to the seventh grade before farm work called. Ted grew up on a small Rochester farm, attending school until his father died. To help his newly-widowed mother, he left fourth grade for a delivery job driving a horse-drawn wagon. Both kids remembered many all-vegetable meals, and that their mothers did nothing but work. But they were happy.

I was lucky enough to meet Ada Bennett O’Brien, Ted’s mother. Back then, she was in her mid-90s, whip-thin, still sharp, and a dyed-in-the-wool Rochester Red Wings fan. Wearing her red ball cap, she listened to every baseball game at her kitchen table while sipping a cold Genesee beer. Her bright blue eyes snapped to attention with every hit, her closed fist pounding the table if it was a homer. As I watched her keen devotion to her team, I wondered how much time she had for pleasure as she raised seven boys and two girls alone beginning in her late 30s. Maybe those seven rollicking boys had something to do with her love for the Redwings.

My grandmother, one of seven, died in her mid-20s. However, her older sister, my Great-Aunt Retta, carried on the large-family tradition, rearing nine. My mother, a mere niece, was a favorite. We had a standing invitation for Sunday supper which we managed about once a month. Retta’s nine adult children, spouses, and kids all lived nearby. If the plate count was more than 20, the kids were sent to the kitchen. If the total reached 30, it didn’t matter, sit where you can.

To me, Aunt Retta’s enormous pan of homemade biscuits and homemade strawberry jam were the critical part of her light suppers. We always finished with a sheet cake the size of the front porch. If too many showed up, the pieces got smaller. I happily played outside with the cousins until dark and had to be dragged away to head home.

Every Sunday, I begged my mother to go. But my single mom had no one but me to share chores with, and work took precedence. I missed the noise, the hi-jinks, the good-natured ribbing, and the constant outrageous laughter.

The sound of laughter has surrounded every large family I’ve known. Maybe it’s the reason for my attraction. Plus the brothers. And the sisters. And the homemade biscuits.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren, Pa.