Fading Away

When I was first diagnosed with cancer and was told that my time to live may be limited, I expected to feel despair or perhaps a kind of numbness, but instead, a deep sense of urgency flooded over me.

I wasn’t afraid of dying, but of what I had left to do, what I wanted to leave behind, and disheartened by the thought of being forgotten.

To me, being forgotten is dying twice.

Recently, an acquaintance of mine and an integral member of our local theater community suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Tony was renowned throughout Southern New England as a teacher, theatrical director, actor and reviewer to hundreds of artists, theaters and supporters of the arts.

For 47 years, he was a beloved fixture in our lives with a quick wit, an ever-present ear to listen and a distinctive, spontaneous laugh familiar to those who knew him.

Between the local TV news reports, countless social media posts and conversations with friends about Tony, it’s clear to me that our friend and colleague will sustain a long and much-loved legacy.

Tony’s passing alerted me of how being born inevitably launches our life clock. Time’s never on our side. That feeling caught me off guard, once again. The thought of slipping away from the memory of those I hold dear filled me with sorrow.

I’m not writing about a life void of achievement or accolades, travel and enrichment. I’ve been blessed to have experienced these. But I often contemplate if I’ve had a quiet impact on others.

Did I show kindness or love? How did I make people feel? The legacy we leave is in the small moments: the shared laughter, the comforting words, the strength we offer in times of need—all are more important to me than any award, plaque or trip to an exotic place.

I love my only child, Lauren, my six sisters, their kids and one very special niece, Trish. I hope they’ll remember the small, intimate moments that made up our lives—the ones often overlooked, but never forgotten by those who experience them.

I hope my daughter will remember the way I made chocolate chip pancakes in the morning for her and her friends. How I used to sing or play the piano when I thought no one was listening, just to fill the house with something beautiful. And how I always tried to be present, even when life was hectic.

In order to remember, I’m focused on creating my blog—not of goodbyes, but of memories. I pen stories of my youth, the moments that shaped me, and the quiet wisdom I’ve gathered from others. I write about love, about loss, and about the beauty of fleeting moments.

I’m not writing for an audience, but for the people who will remain—my family, friends, loved ones. I want to ensure the lessons learned and the love given to me and the love I gave to others isn’t forgotten.

What I leave behind is not simply a memory—it’s the essence of who I am woven into the fabric of those I love and those who love me.

There is a kind of immortality, quiet and humble yet infinitely powerful, in writing it down.

I believe the true measure of a life is in the ripples we create, in the change we inspire, and in the love we leave behind.

The good we do lives on, long after we’re gone, passed from one person to the next like a flame that never fades.

Even in death, there’s a profound beauty in knowing that our light, however small, will continue to shine in the hearts of others.

Poetry is not my forte. However, in the wake of Tony’s death, this one wrote itself. Flowing out of my pen without effort. Thank you, Tony, for the inspiration.

Fading Away

In the quiet hush of evening’s glow,
I feel the softest winds below—
A breath, a sigh, as shadows creep,
Whispering secrets that the heart must keep.
The world will turn, as it must do,
While I dissolve like morning dew,
A fading echo, a fleeting sound,
A thread of light no longer bound.
I’ll leave no mark, nor trace, nor scar,
But in the sky, I’ll be a star—
A shimmer soft, too far to hold,
Yet burning bright as I grow cold.
No tears will fall, no voice will rise,
Just quiet skies and silken sighs.
And when the earth forgets my name,
I’ll be the wind, untamed, untame.
In every leaf, in every breeze,
In every moment that you seize,
I’ll linger still, though far away,
In echoes of a distant day.
For life, like love, is meant to flow—
And fading is the way we grow.
So, I’ll vanish, soft, serene,
A fleeting shadow, yet unseen.

Before Video Games

I often wonder if passing on these stories from one generation to the next may warp the illusion our younger generation has of my six sisters and me. Ah, well, truth be told, you can’t change the past; and I wouldn’t want to. As you read further, a heads up: don’t try any of this at home. We were poor kids with nothing to lose while also trying to have some fun.

Most of the cousins on my mother’s side and the neighborhood from which we grew was mostly made up of first or second generation Western Europeans who had the same economic status as we did – poor. Meaning that parents were primarily mill workers, laborers or worked for the State. Kids did not have lots of toys. If you had a bike that was a big deal – and that bike was often shared among family members and neighborhood kids taking turns. First dibs was the only form of reservations.

We went to our neighborhood playground in Crompton where we played baseball, Knock-Hockey, jacks, marbles, constructed stuff out of popsicle sticks, made potholders from little, square metal looms, braided gimp ropes, smoked “punk-sticks” (you’ll have to research that), bought penny candy if we had a coin or two, set off rolls of exploding caps with any rock we could find or just hung around with friends sitting on top of the monkey-bars.

We played games like Simon Says, Red Rover, Kick the Can, Hide and Seek. The teenage kids played with the younger kids. No one was bullied. Everyone just had fun. There were some negotiable situations when the older kids would up the stakes for the losers in a game. They would bargain comic books, or baseball bats, favorite gloves, etc. Not to keep, just to use for a couple of games or a specific duration of time – conditions were agreed upon by both parties.

Roller skating was a common, neighborhood past-time. Certainly not the elegant roller blades or shoe skates that we have today. Skates were metal, usually stainless steel foot/base plates with two wheeled axles front and back. When those wheels metal wheels hit the concrete and you were cruising through the neighborhood – WOW! They made some noise!

Each skate had a raised heel support that housed the foot and secured the ankle to the skate by leather straps and brass buckles. You would slip your foot onto the skate and press your foot against the heel stop and use your skate key to adjust the length of the skate (found underneath). Then, with the buckled straps you would secure your ankles in place. Once the length was right, you would have to use your skate key to adjust the metal toe grips on both sides of the skate until they were tight enough around your shoe to stay on.

If that rubber strip on your sneaker or the leather rim on your shoe was flimsy, that clamp would dig into the sides of your foot while skating. Skate blisters hurt.

Roller skates were useless if you didn’t have a skate key on hand to adjust them. The hexagonal loop on top was used to turn the bolt that adjusted the length of the skate and the tubular end fit on the pin that tightened the toe grips.

We all wore those keys around our necks on a string. If you were a “cool” roller skater, you had a braided, four-strand, rounded gimp rope that you made yourself at the local playground in place of a plain string.

If you lost the key, you would have to get new skates. Fatsky-chansky! Our parents would never buy a new pair if we lost the skate key. Almost all of our roller skates were passed down through two or three older siblings. Which led to the inconvenience of having to borrow a key from another skater.

Wearing those metal keys around your neck was also a risk — they were big and they were heavy. If you fell or were whizzing down a concrete or tarred surface and found yourself air bound and on your landing you were hit in the face with that key – it was like being pistol whipped by Luca Brasi.

Neighborhood kids shared baseballs, mitts and bats; footballs; basketballs (there was ONE hoop in the neighborhood.) I never knew who owned it. It stood off the side of a neighborhood street under a cleared area, surrounded on three sides by maple trees. It wasn’t in or near anyone’s yard or driveway. We all played there and everyone was respectful of each others’ space. Kids waited their turn to play.

Someone had a soccer ball (that no one used for soccer); we used it for Dodge Ball or Freeze.

We were the only family with a croquet set. How we got one, I will never know. It may be because we had the only flat, 1-acre yard in the neighborhood. Which, if playing croquet, is a good thing. I do remember there being many “bending of rules” depending on who was playing and who was winning. Thankfully, no one lost their heads.

We were comic book kids back then. Superheroes. There was always a heated debate over Marvel vs. DC comics and who were the greatest superheroes. We shared comic books until the pages fell out.

We had a crazy game of Kick the Can one day and my sister Susan, in her enthusiasm kicked the can good and hard. Against the power of her foot the can flew straight up, flipped backwards and slit her lip which required stitches. She still has the scar. In those days, you didn’t need video streaming to become a game warrior.

My sister Annie was tiny and very thin. Teams loved calling her over during Red Rover. She would literally run, leap and land on the hands or arms of the opposite team. But to no avail. She would just hang there in mid-air like a ragdoll. She was an easy opponent.

However, Annie was a great hider. Because of her size, she could squeeze almost anywhere and into the most unlikely spots. When playing Hide and Seek, the older kids would be frustrated after a long search for her; especially if it was getting dark and the time to return home was close at hand.

Annie did have a downfall in that game. Those who knew it usually used it to its full extent when necessary. You see, Annie loved bananas. So when the time of desperation arrived, the “It” person would yell, “Hey! Annie! Do you want a banana?” And inevitably my sister, in her little squeaky voice would yell back from her hiding place, “Yes!” Game over.

My sister Marie became an archer at CYO summer day camp (free camp if you belonged to a Roman Catholic Church). I don’t know who gave her the bow and arrow set.

As I mentioned, we had an acre of land and an apple tree stood in the far, northeast section of the yard.

Marie, in her teens, decided that she should test her archery skills. She asked my sister Frieda (two years younger), if she would stand up against that tree with an apple on her head – in order for her to shoot it off. Don’t get me wrong, my sisters are really bright; A-students they were. But they were as daring as they are bright.

The distance my sisters had between them, I cannot recall. I don’t believe it was the same 120 paces required for William Tell, however, it did appear to be a wide gap.

Just as my sister Marie was pulling back the string on her bow, ready to let the arrow fly my mother happened to notice both of them from the window. “Marie!” She cried. And my sister let that arrow fly and a second later, that apple was stuck to the tree with my sister Frieda narrowly escaping from beneath it.

Perhaps this is why we have a greater appreciation for Gioachino Rossini. Sure, he’s Italian, but our admiration appears to go even deeper than that.

If you faced our backyard with your back towards our house, the acre of yard stretched out in front of you. At the far end of the yard was a steep hill, maybe 40 feet at its highest point. At the top of the hill was a steel-link fence that surrounded the Emanuel Lutheran Church cemetery.

We climbed that hill all the time, to peer at the “scary cemetery” as the hill was easy to ascend and a cemetery was always a place of mythical curiosity to us.

The hill nested some large, old trees and was littered with thick, sprawling roots, some of which protruded 2 – inches out of the ground. Getting a foothold on those roots made the climb easy.

My four oldest sisters would roll a  55-gallon lidded, metal drum or barrel up the hill. Once, at the top of the hill, they would put my sister Susan, who was about 6 or 7, into the barrel, provide her with a pillow, then close the lid shut. This had to be done by actually kicking the lid closed until it was securely in place.

They would then ask my sister Susan if she was, “Ready,” and my sister would respond, “Ready” from inside the drum. My sisters would then push the drum down the 40 foot hill.

Because the hill was so steep with those protruding roots, which made for a fast, bumpy, air-born ride for Susan until the barrel finally came to a stop in the middle of the yard. My sisters would quickly pry open the barrel, retrieve my sister and the game would continue until Susan had had enough or a responsible adult immediately stopped them.

How could kids be allowed to play such dangerous games? How could parents or neighbors be so irresponsible? Someone could get killed! Yes. But no one did, thankfully, and having to find innovative ways to play was part of our growing up.

We believed in Robin Hood, William Tell, Peter Pan, Capt. James Hook, The Lone Ranger and Tonto, Superman, Captain America and Wonder Woman. And although our heroes’ actions were daring, their deeds for a good cause. We wanted to be like them. We believed we could emulate them and there was never malice in our games.

I often wonder, “My God!, how did we live to tell it!” And although it was, in fact, dangerous to play some of our games, was it any worse than the violence children are allowed to stream into their bedrooms for hours, today? When those video games become their hero-realities and kids search out guns in their own homes to inflict harm on others? When they can no longer discern dying on screen from dying in reality?

Unlike in a video game, people don’t come back when they die. There is no reset button. Today’s protagonists are malevolent and malevolence is the norm; even cool.

I must admit that summers were the best. Looking back, I wouldn’t change anything. Except maybe the day when I realized I wasn’t a boy, and my mother told me that I could no longer ride my bike or spend time outside bare-chested. I had to wear a t-shirt “because you’re a big girl, now.” Devastating.

We rarely played inside our house or anyone’s house. Even in winter weather outside play was expected. Only in the worst rain or snow storm were we hunkered down in our houses.

Of all of our neighborhood friends, I can barely recall the interior of two houses and even then, only one room in each house.

We did not need to tell our parents where we were or where we were going. We were safe in our neighborhoods. At least, safer than kids are today.

We rode our bikes all morning, returned for lunch, then rode again. Returned for dinner and if the sun was still high, we road out again taking advantage of the summer light. We were gone all day.

When the street lights came on or the Main Street West Warwick Fire Station alarm blared out at 8:00 p.m., every kid knew what time it was. Suddenly, as if an invisible stage director were blocking the end of a scene, each actors leaving the stage and on queue, we were homeward bound.

The Journey

A book was sent to me by old-fashioned snail mail. To my work address. Unusual. The package wasn’t from Amazon (or any other online source). It was from the author.

The heartfelt inscription inside informed me he’d read my blog. (Did he read my narrative as a cancer survivor?) He hoped his book would bring me both humor and lift my spirits.

The book’s slightly over 100 pages. Its subject is commuting – commuting etiquette to be exact. Sound mundane? It’s not.

Working for a large global company or self-employed, a significant amount of the working day is spent commuting. For me, that totaled four decades traveling around the world in planes, trains, boats, taxis and cars.

The author of the book draws from “…41 years of observations, mistakes and recollections I’ve made while taking that daily sojourn we call commuting. Whether it was on trains, buses, planes, cabs or cars. (There’s a chapter on those brave souls who ride a bike to work. And are still alive to talk about it.) Read it. Use it. Share it. Talk about it with your fellow commuters.”

So. Here I am. Writing about it.

Before I delve into my impression of the book, I’m compelled to articulate why receiving this book was so remarkable to me.

1. The author, in New Jersey, actually read my blog which I wrote from my laptop in Rhode Island.
That in itself elicits in me both joy and shock.
2. He signed the book, inscribed a personal note, packaged it, wrote the obligatory address and
return address on the package, paid for postage and mailed it.
3. I’ve never met him. And until yesterday, I wasn’t aware of him, his life, or his book (more on
that later).

As most of you know, this blog is about my life journey. My hope is that what I write will help or inspire others. And, to my amazement, this man “got” that. Which is encouraging.

OK, so now the book.

The title is PLEASE LOWER THAT: A Guide to Proper Commuter Etiquette. When I first saw the cover, I thought, “What an odd, yet intriguing title.” And, after reading the inscription and then the Forward, I was all in – hook, line and sinker.

The book’s 22 Chapters document the author’s many personal experiences of commuting. He offers an informative guide to maneuvering those people-to-people situations that could, and have, culminated into an emotional boiling-point.

The reading is easy and fun with enlightenment, humor, and comical illustrations. I found myself laughing out loud, vividly remembering incidents in which I’d been directly involved.

The author is completely transparent by apprising the reader of his own deviant role in some of these situations. So, I consider him an expert on this subject. And by this transparency, I discovered my own commuter lawlessness which made me feel as if we were immediate comrades.

Ah, but there’s more!

More than an instructional guide for commuters the book is a reminder of our own life journey and how our actions and decision-making impact those around us.

There’s no doubt we’ve become a society of abhorrence.

We’re all broken. The divisiveness is palpable in our everyday lives. We don’t always get it right. However, stepping back, breathing, counting to ten, reading this book – whatever it takes – and exerting more effort into being kind to each other lessens the contribution to this sphere of malice.

When we’re being imposed upon, do we decide to “give it back” to those who provoke us, or do we provide some consideration, exhibit some benevolence, knowing their brokenness is also our own?

There’s so much in this world for which we’re powerless. It’s no wonder we become overwhelmed and lose the perspective that peace comes with one person at a time. We do have the power to control our behavior towards others. The others who are on their own journey, their own commute.

Kindness is far-reaching. We never know how one act of kindness may alter a person, a moment, a year, a lifetime for the better.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, my middle-finger salute to the driver who just cut me off or my deliberate bump to the back of the fully reclined airplane seat in front of me – that’s still there. Perhaps it’ll always be. However, as this author reminds me, I do have a choice. And I would do well to implement kindness in an effort to transform the world around me.

I was truly blessed this week with this gift from author/creative director/copywriter, Ron Wachino. His book was a grace, and a much-needed confirmation of what life’s commute or journey is all about. Ron has many gifts, and I give him my sincere gratitude for sharing his writing, his thoughtfulness, and his generosity. I’m including his website in order for you to see for yourself. https://www.ronwachino.com

PLEASE LOWER THAT: A Guide to Proper Commuter Etiquette. Read it. Use it. Share it. Talk about it with your fellow commuters.

Epilogue: I must also give a heap of gratitude to my friend and “the luckiest man in advertising,” David Wojdyla. I almost removed my blog from my website thinking it was silly and a little self-indulgent. It was David who cheered me on to continue to write and add to it. Thank you for that, David. Without you, I may never have known about Ron or his book. I’d say I’m the “luckiest person in blogdom!”

Kindness is far-reaching – this week all the way from New Jersey.

A Lost Song Found

In 1992, my world came undone. I turned 40, stood at the crumbling edge of a marriage, juggled single parenting with a soul-crushing job, and wore a second skin of exhaustion from nightly, professional theater performances. That year, my father died. Then came the breast cancer diagnosis.

The surgeon’s words were sharp and final: “Chemo and radiation or you won’t see your daughter graduate from high school.” My daughter was ten.

There is a family history. My mother had died of breast cancer in 1973. Since then, I’d quietly chased every article and study about women’s health, cancer, stress, food, and healing. Some of what I found challenged everything I’d been told. I read how prolonged stress, abuse, chronic fatigue, and processed diets could cause cancer. Could these emotions we bury so deeply grow tumors of their own?

There was something in that idea that felt… true. At least for me.

So, I made a decision. I quit my job, finalized my divorce, and threw myself into the creative life I had always loved—music, theater, writing—anything that fed my spirit instead of draining it. I adopted a macrobiotic diet, practiced meditation, homeopathy, and surrounded myself with people who made me feel whole. I changed careers to something softer, kinder.

And I saw a new doctor, one who, during our first visit, didn’t prescribe a pill. Instead, he hugged me. A big, warm, lingering hug.

“Fill your life with people who give you this,” he said. “Every day.”

That hug became my new prescription.

Did you know a person needs four hugs a day to survive, eight hugs a day to maintain, and twelve hugs a day to grow? I didn’t either. But I started collecting them like precious gems. Slowly, gently, I began to feel like myself again—maybe someone I had never truly known.

The most healing part? Learning to see value in myself—not for what I can do, but for who I am.  I stopped trying to fix the world and simply started showing up in it—with honesty, openness, and care.

I wasn’t “cured.” But I was healing. In ways that no scan or blood test could measure.

By 1994, I’d been volunteering at Fenway Clinic in Boston with the AIDS Action Committee. I sat with patients, held hands, witnessed last breaths. One rainy afternoon, I didn’t feel emotionally strong enough to go in. I almost called in a substitute. But then the clinic phoned first—one of my patients, Larry, was close to passing.

I went anyway.

That evening, a new drawing hung on the wall. A charcoal portrait of a man with AIDS. The caption read: “I came here to die with dignity, but I learned how to live with grace.”

I stood frozen in front of it. I was meant to be there that night—not just for Larry, but for myself. I had come to understand: healing wasn’t always about curing. Sometimes, it was about witnessing grace in the hardest moments. And choosing to live in response to that grace.

I never had to suffer through chemotherapy or radiation and I carry one, nearly invisible scar from a hysterectomy. I survived breast cancer, ovarian cancer and currently I live with Stage 2 CLL. Yet I am still here. Still choosing joy. Still gathering hugs.

Cancer, I’ve learned, isn’t a battle to win or lose. It’s a journey that shapes who we become, and what we give. It taught me to look deeper, love harder, and show up even when I’m scared.

Every day, I ask myself one question: How do I win today? Not for trophies or triumphs. Just for the quiet, sacred joy of being here—and the hope of leaving something good behind.

A lost song that returned

There was a time when the music stopped—when fear struck a sour chord and silence felt like the only sound left. But within the quiet, a single note remained. Soft at first, then stronger. The song returned, not as it once was, but transposed into a new key—deeper, more soulful, resonating with hard-won joy. Now, every day is a chorus of meaning, every breath a lyric of gratitude. We are a living anthem—proof that even after the silence, the music can rise again, more beautiful than ever. We now know how to learn the song in someone’s heart and to sing it to them when they have lost it.

A Complete Unknown

A few weeks ago, some friends and I caught the movie, A Complete Unknown, a film about Bob Dylan and his rise to fame between 1961 and 1965. It’s taken me a while to gather my thoughts about this movie because it moved me in many ways.

The film is directed by James Mangold, who co-wrote the screenplay with Jay Cocks, about American singer-songwriter Bob Dylan. Based on the 2015 book Dylan Goes Electric! by Elijah Wald, the film portrays Dylan through his earliest folk music success until the momentous controversy over his use of electric instruments at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival where he was booed off the stage.

The film’s title is derived from the chorus of Dylan’s 1965 single Like a Rolling Stone. He left the 1965 Newport Folk Festival stage after a two-song encore of Mr. Tambourine Man and It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue. Thirty-seven years later, Dylan appeared back at the Newport Folk Festival where he gave a 2-hour performance, sporting a wig and a beard. Yes, I was there and would never have missed it.

As early as 1963, when I was 11 years old, I found myself drawn to Dylan’s music and poetic lyrics as well as his enigmatic persona. There was a part of me that was excited to see this film, although there are over 30 movies, documentaries and recorded concerts of and dedicated to Dylan: I’m Not There (2007) in which 6 different actors are morphed into interpreted characters of Dylan; Martin Scorsese’s, documentaries, Rolling Thunder Review (2019) and No Direction Home (2005); Bob Dylan Speaks (1965) to name a few. Yes, I’ve seen all of them.

And there was another part of me who cynically questioned how another film about Dylan, with this very young lead actor, could accurately capture the soul of the ‘60s.

The movie stars Timothée Chalamet as Bob Dylan, Edward Norton as a remarkably convincing Pete Seeger and Elle Fanning as Dylan’s on-again/off-again girlfriend, Sylvie Russo. I had assumed Monica Barbaro, in the role of Joan Baez (wonderful vocals), would have played a more prominent role in this Dylan film. Outside of the famous Blowing in the Wind, duo, Joan Baez appears as a reluctant lover and a little more than a footnote in this movie – not what I expected from the years of media frenzy around the Dylan/Baez relationship.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I’m utterly infatuated with actor Timothée Chalamet! There, I said it. Not only is he unusually beautiful (yes, that’s the word I want to use) he’s extremely talented. As an actor, Chalamet never plays the same type of character twice, he’s a chameleon on screen, exciting to watch. From Call Me by Your Name; The King; Beautiful Boy; Dune 1 & 2; Wonka and now, A Complete Unknown (which he also produced), Chalamet’s characters are not only convincing but are steeped in dimension. I must admit I’m captivated by him – every time.

Chalamet is much better looking than Dylan, there is no doubt. And he’s mastered the instruments required for this role. Plus, the voice we hear in this movie belongs to Timothée.

Chalamet has perfected the tousled-haired-drooping-eyes-slightly-stooped-posture as well as that detached gaze that makes you wonder where Dylan is. Sometimes deep in thought. Sometimes someplace else. But always profoundly present to his work.

Having met Dylan for an evening, back in the late ‘60s, I was astounded that an actor as young as Chalamet, who never experienced the ‘60s, could so eloquently portray every nuance of Dylan’s persona. It was stunning.

From the many documentaries about Bob Dylan, it is no mystery as to the different influences of music that inspired him. What was emphasized in this film was the heart-rending relationship between Dylan and Woody Guthrie portrayed by Scoot McNairy. It revealed the similarities between both musicians that bind the continuity of this story.

McNairy’s character does not share very much screen-time in this film, but his performance as Guthrie galvanizes the heart of this narrative. McNairy is not the strumming/singing Guthrie we knew and loved but the Guthrie of Greystone Psychiatric Hospital, in Morris Plains, NJ, during the last year of his convalescence. He is unable to speak and has restricted mobility.

It was Robert Zimmerman from Minnesota, who travels to Greystone to visit his music idol unannounced. Pete Seeger, lifelong friend of Guthrie, happens to be at Greystone visiting Guthrie when Zimmerman arrives. When asked why he has come, Zimmerman admits that he just wants to play a song he wrote in tribute to Guthrie. Seeger and Guthrie invite him to make good on that in the hospital room. When he finishes, Guthrie motions approval, Seeger is convinced of Zimmerman’s talent and from that day, with the help of Seeger, Zimmerman moves to New York and Bob Dylan is born.

SECOND DISCLOSURE: I am a diehard enthusiast of folk music. It was my life-line during my high school years and those who performed and/or wrote in this genre were heroes to me. I have always considered Guthrie and Dylan as troubadours of American culture. Also, Leonard Cohen, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Richie Havens, Peter, Paul & Mary and others.

These troubadours voiced patriotic lyrics and songs of struggle, songs of resistance and protest. Lyrics that helped inspire and develop social consciousness. Much of the early music was not commercially acceptable to many record producers. These troubadours offered their audiences a radical proposal to take accountability for creating the kind of America they wanted to live in. Dylan claimed that his music was never of a political nature. Nor did he have or want political affiliations. Considering the impact his songs had on my generation, I have always found that to be an interesting footnote.

After this very long, personal summary of A Complete Unknown, and after much thought, what is most evident to me is that the 1960s were one of the most tumultuous and divisive decades in world history heaped in the music of artists who had relevant and meaningful to say.

The era was marked by the civil rights movement, the Vietnam War and antiwar protests, countercultural movements, political assassinations and the emerging “generation gap.” As a result, some of the best music, most prolific music composers/lyricists and music that has stood the test of time were born in that decade. It was music about change. But there was a hopefulness and a desire for community in a generation compelled to take action. Although those actions might be dangerous there was an undeniable optimism that change could happen.

We took to the streets. We demonstrated, we wrote to Congress over and over again, we stormed university and college buildings, had sit-ins for weeks on end and sang these songs. We did this not by a few hundred, but by thousands and thousands. We were the “flower children” generation. We believed that what this country stood for was important. A country “of, by and for” the people that was worth fighting for. It gladdens me to know that I was a part of that generation – and for baby boomers that era has left an indelible mark on our lives.

On the other hand, the movie also troubles me. Because I believe that historians will more than likely call THIS decade one of the most tumultuous and divisive decades in world history – but for very different reasons.

Today, there’s overwhelming apathy, more hate, more crime, blatant acts of disrespect for the institutions that have held this country together for almost two and a half centuries.

There is this flagrant entitlement to deny facts, truth, science, medicine and more and I am not sure we will ever find our way back.

It makes me think of one of my daughter’s favorite books, The NeverEnding Story, and we, as a country, have been overtaken by “Nothing.”

What is the “Nothing” in The NeverEnding Story? “Nothing” is the lack of imagination. And reluctance to read books. In this case, “Nothing” is denialism of the truth and accountability.

I fear the future because I don’t see us saving ourselves from what we, ourselves, have created over the past five decades. “Nothing” doesn’t rush in. It is unhurried, deliberate and undetected, until it is too late.

I thoroughly enjoyed A Complete Unknown because it made me remember the hope and the greatest music of my generation. But ever since I left the theater, one question has been hanging over my head like an anvil.

Who and where are the troubadours today?

A Christmas Carol

Ever since I could read, Charles Dickens has been my favorite author. I have read all of his works several times.

As a child, my best friend was 75 years older than I. Mrs. Scully (we never called her Bertha. However, her husband was always “Jim”) was a retired school teacher, childless, and both kind and generous to several poor families in our neighborhood, including ours. Mrs. Scully provided food on the table when there was none, rent/a mortgage when it was due, or a new washing machine or refrigerator to families in need.

She taught me how to appreciate the performing arts, poetry, prose, etc. And as a student, she was my benefactor in completing my music education. Mrs. Scully was one of three people who changed the trajectory of my life.

When I was 10, and she 85, during the holiday season, my assignment was to read Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” Mrs. Scully confessed that she never finished the novel. She could not bear that Tiny Tim dies. When I said to her, “But Mrs. Scully, Tim does NOT die,” she stared back at me wide-eyed. That week, after over 70+ years, she finished reading the novel.

Every year after that, during the Christmas season, we joyfully read that story together until the day she passed at 92 years old.

It was not until I was an adult did I realize what a miraculous gift we had given to each other. Maybe that is why I hold the works of Charles Dickens so close to my heart.

Bye-Bye, Miss American Pie

I used to love the Fourth of July. As a kid, the holiday always marked the middle of summer vacation. And a reminder that some of the hottest, swimming-est days were still ahead and to get a move on if everything I wanted to do would be completed before Labor Day.

Independence Day meant that 40 – 50 (or more) aunts, uncles and cousins, from my mother’s side of the family, would descend upon our house and one-acre back yard for a huge feast and celebration. Although lots of cooking and barbequing happened during the day, it was over several days of food preparation for most of the women in the family.

The Fourth of July started early in the morning with most of the cousins and the uncles heading down to the beach, clamming/quahogging to gather bushel baskets filled with shellfish for the clam bake. The older cousins and my sisters either stayed and cooked or did the heavy lifting chores to prepare the picnic tables and seating.

THE CLAMMING KIT: 1 bathing suit, 1 towel, 1 bushel basket, 1 inflated inner tube and a piece of rope about 20 – 30 feet long. I can still see the bushel baskets stuck firmly in inner tubes and the inner tubes tied with a long rope around each uncle’s waist.

The baskets floated on top of water in the tubes so the diggers’ hands were unencumbered and the rope kept the baskets from floating away with the tide. The cousins were separated into groups and were assigned an uncle, and his corresponding inner tube/basket. Each uncle had their special spot for digging.

We would stand with our uncles, feeling the ocean floor with our feet and toes to identify a bed of shellfish. Once it was clear that we hit pay dirt, we would dive underwater and start digging through the sand with our hands, snatching shellfish, bringing them to the surface and placing them in the bushel basket. “Don’t throw them – you’ll break the shells,” or “Hey! Nona moves faster than you, let’s speed it up.”

Quahogs, cherry stones, little necks, mussels, they all made it into the baskets (sorting was for later); sometimes our hands were overflowing with crustaceans. Squeals could be heard, reflecting off the water announcing a treasure trove with uncles shouting to each other, taking credit for the team of cousins they cleverly assigned to themselves, filling their baskets faster than the others.

Sometimes, in my dreams I can see the underwater image of my uncle’s bare legs and feet, his hunting toes digging into the sand searching for a bed of shellfish. His ballooned swimsuit with the rope tied around his generous waist; everything veiled in a sea screen of blue, green and yellow with streams of morning light flickering between everything that moved. Watching seaweed dance on the seafloor. The underwater sound of my own heart pounding in my ears, air bubbles immersing from my mouth, voices sounding far away from above, muffled with excitement and instruction; a result of that strange, silent, ambient ocean pressure against my ears.

We never left until all of the baskets were full or nearly full. The baskets were pulled to shore, lifted into the trunks of cars or backs of pick-up trucks and off we went home. We smelled of salt and sea-air, and other than changing from our bathing suits to shorts or summer dresses. I don’t recall any of us ever taking a shower for the rest of the day! Maybe we got “hosed down” at home; that memory escapes me. But I do remember the taste of salt on my lips and how the salt made my skin feel tight and a little itchy for the rest of the day. It was a wonderful morning. My cousins, my uncles and the ocean.

At home, my mother and aunts prepared an Italian feast including desserts. And as we arrived in the driveway, we could hear them talking (Italians don’t talk, they communicate in high decibel levels), singing, laughing, clanking pots and clicking plates. Picnic tables were set up around the yard and table clothes were being tied to each one. Older cousins toted kegs of beer on their shoulders and placed them in ice that had been chipped from blocks.

Cousin Tony (pianist) and his brother Carl (bassist), set up their instruments in a cemented area that abutted the base of the house – level enough for additional musicians and their instruments. We had music for most of the day into the night.

There was a wide, half-moon driveway that went around the entire back of the house, that separated the cemented area from the grassy backyard. The rule was that you could park your vehicle on either side of the house or on the street, but parking was restricted from the driveway directly behind the house. That area was reserved as the dance floor; which my older sisters and cousins took advantage of as soon as dusk dissolved into evening and the spotlights were turned on. My mother’s family was a glorious, musical one — but that is for another story.

The Fourth of July included games for the kids, lots to eat; two uncles sat most of the day in the corner of the yard shucking cherry stones in a basket filled with chipped ice for anyone who ate them raw. There was a giant pot of clam chowder (clear) which my father made. Kegs of beer and a fireworks display at the end of the day that did not disappoint. One Fourth of July display was epic.

Each year, the firework display was provided by, maintained, produced and orchestrated by a next door neighbor. We shall call this person, Ronnie Shavey; in order to protect the guilty.

Now, in RI, most fireworks that people want to see or fire off are illegal. But, like most illegal things in RI, our good friend Ronnie, probably “knew someone.” Jeez, back in those days, we ALL knew SOMEONE.

Ronnie would come to the celebration fairly early, as he had to set up the display. He was meticulous about the timing of each firework how the display was presented. There were all kinds of fancy illuminations; pinwheels, fire-flowers, Roman candles, sparklers, rockets, boxes (yes, plural) loaded with F1, F2 and F3 fireworks. Some were, perhaps, just short of a Class 4 – however it is not for me to know the veracity of in his stash.

And, I must add that while this was the guy that conducted the display annually, and we allowed him, it is important for me to that Ronnie had an intellect rivaled only by garden tools.

Picture 9:00 PM on a beautiful July evening. People have had plenty to eat and drink. Everyone is selecting their place to observe the fireworks. The music has stopped and with grand anticipation, we hold our breath for the first firework to light the sky. And, as usual, the presentation is just as promised with the obligatory “oohh’s” and “aahh’s” rising from the crowd when appropriate – everyone is having a terrific time.

Now, to this day, no one seems to know exactly how it happened, but a lit rocket inadvertently was fired into one of the five-side-by-side boxes of fireworks. With a resounding thud, the box tumbled over, causing a chain reaction that set fireworks shooting in all directions. In an instant, colorful rockets, pinwheels and fountains were flying into the night sky.

The family, who were moments ago engaged as merely spectators, suddenly found themselves in the midst of an explosive battlefield. Nervous laughter mixed with screams as a shower of sparkles rained down on the crowd, eliciting both panic and astonishment.

Uncles and aunts jumped from their seats, ducking and dodging the unexpected display, their hands waving wildly as they tried to avoid the blazing rockets whizzing by them. Some of them hitting the dirt. One uncle attempted to use a grill cover as a makeshift shield, while his wife hid behind a picnic table. Another uncle who brought his trombone began to match a valve slide sound with each squeal of a rocket!

Meanwhile, the kids were in a state of glee. Their eyes widened as they chased after the sparkling fireworks, attempting to catch them like fireflies. Everyone was in some state of disbelief, hysteria and awe. It was a mini-Armageddon!

As the final fireworks fizzled out, the backyard was left in a state of disarray. The burnt grass was speckled with remnants of spent rockets, and the family members were covered in a dusting of residue.

Then there was dead silence. Even the crickets stopped. But once the shock ended and everyone was aware that we were alive and had all of our limbs, an unforgettable moment of pure hilarity rolled over us. We were crying-laughing or laughing-crying from relief.

And amidst the laughter, memories were forged, making that Fourth of July a family gathering we have cherished and reminisced about to this very day.

After my mother passed away, in 1973, my sister Marie (Bebe) took over the tradition. We no longer had the music or fireworks display, but lots of food and people – with the next generation of family in attendance.

My sister and her husband have a big, beautiful pool which was a welcomed addition to the summer fun. Everyone arrived with a dish of something and the day was filled with food, laughter and family. This was the annual summer celebration that brought us and kept us together – especially after Mom passed.

I have always admired my sister Bebe and her husband Sarkis for not letting it go – that our generation kept it going. She clearly understood the importance of how critical it was to keep the family together. Every year. A tradition.

Sadly, in the last 10 – 15 years, only one of my mother’s nine siblings remains with us. Several of my first cousins have moved or passed away. We no longer have a big Fourth of July celebration.

My older sisters are now into their 80’s. Bebe is caretaker of an ailing husband and can no longer accommodate the big crowds of yesteryear. And the tradition of gathering on the Fourth disappeared into the past.

The generation after us did not take over the yearly family gathering which is now just a memory.
Seems like everyone is just “too busy” to get together as an entire family or it just isn’t very important any more to carry that kind of family tradition. Just a sign of the times and how life changes, I guess. No matter what you try to plan, even immediate members of individual families are off doing their own thing.

Technology has had a hand in this and the recent pandemic has encouraged a separateness that before did not exist. You can’t even strike up a conversation with a stranger anymore as they are too busy glued to their stupid-phones. Or, they use the stupid-phone to avoid connecting in person.

Connecting. I worry for my grandchildren more than anything. Will they know the kind of connection to family that I have known? I doubt it.

I miss those days – those big-family-gathering days. Maybe I hold these “traditions” too dear. Maybe they weren’t as important as I remember. I do remember that those times brought the family and our extended families closer. Bonded us forever. I never felt safer or more loved during those times.

And this is not to say that there are never invites from wonderful family members or friends to gather with them and their families. Thankfully, there are several of them every year. There is always something to do or somewhere to go on the Fourth of July.

But it is the old tradition that I miss most.  Has the world changed so much for those of my generation; especially those with strong ethnic ties?  I often think that it was when my mother passed away the glue that kept the family together disappeared over time. It just evolved into something else.  What is your “else,” I wonder?

Every year, there are postings of families on Facebook, large families, from those that continue a the Fourth of July tradition. I am happy for them. They are building something that every generation who attends will never forget and will hang on to – and will need in times of aloneness and separation.

Those families are creating and maintaining their legacy. I hope I see those postings every year; that they never stop. They bring me back to a happier time and I am grateful for the memories.

How Can A Moment Last Forever?

“How does a moment last forever? How does a story never die?” These are the first two lines of the title song to Disney’s 2017 live-action movie, “Beauty and the Beast.”

The song suggests that love is what we should hold on to, even if it’s not easy. Despite the hard times, somehow memories and the love we remember from them can protect us; helping us to persevere. Love filled memories allow our happiness to endure. Even when the moments have passed and everything else has been forgotten, the love that we remember still manages to exist. These moments become our life story.

I have spent most of my adult life as a storyteller in the performing arts. There may be stories in our lives that could be worth forgetting; that doesn’t make them less a part of who we are. Those “bad times,” can become stories of hope for others and may be the most powerful stories to tell. All stories are worth holding on to. Stories that get us through whatever life’s challenges may be.

Memories are an important part of our personal history, and storytelling can help us preserve and share those memories with others. By sharing our experiences and memories, we can create a record of our lives and our personal history. Those common events in time aid in our connections with others as well.

An example of storytelling that I have treasured throughout my life is when I have been given the opportunity to tell a story about a recently deceased family member or friend. This may be as a eulogy, but more often, it is in a group setting of those that have gathered as mourners.

There are several ethnic and religious communities that practice this tradition. Within the Jewish religion, mourners welcome hearing and sharing stories and anecdotes about their deceased loved one. These stories can be shared over the course of Shiva and into the weeks and months beyond. Christians often practice this same storytelling and anecdote tradition during a meal that follows a formal burial. Storytelling is all about keeping a memory alive. A time alive. A person alive. For as long as we tell their story that memory, that time, that person, in that moment is alive.

For thousands of years, storytelling has been a means to overcome difficult times with a sense of hope. The Gospel of Luke and “The Road to Emmaus” is a good example.

Two men, disciples of Jesus, walking along the road. Both disappointed and disillusioned with what has recently occurred in Jerusalem with the death of their friend. As they walk in silence, a stranger comes upon them. They are unaware that it is the spirit of their recently deceased friend in a body they do not recognize.

The stranger asks them why they are disheartened. And both men begin their story about the man they had followed for several years who was recently convicted of a crime he did not commit and was put to death.

They told the stranger of the good times, the miracles, the meals they shared, the bond that was created among their friend’s followers. And, in the telling, their own hearts were lifted. They spoke with passion and laughter. They forgot their disappointment, their disillusionment and their “hearts were ablaze” with the memory and hope of better times; through their storytelling.

One of the most difficult eulogies I have ever delivered was for a beloved cousin of mine, Nancy. She was more like a sister than a cousin and close to my age and the age of my younger sister, Annie.

Nancy lived in the upstairs apartment of our house with her parents (my mother’s brother, Nicky, and his wife, Margaret) with a baby sister on the way. Nancy, Annie and I spent our whole childhood together.

When the upstairs apartment became too small, my uncle purchased a home in Coventry when Nancy was 9, as was my sister Annie, and I was 10 years old. Annie and I were devastated when Nancy moved.

We loved and missed her so much that my sister and I would walk from our house on Nestor Street to Arnold Road in Coventry. It was not a short distance. A little over 3 miles and a little over an hour to walk, one way. Nancy missed us, too. She would walk half way, and together we would either go to her house or walk back to our house.

You may ask, “Where were our parents?” “Three miles on a secondary highway, small kids and no one watching after you?” I can’t remember if any of us had a bike. Bike’s were a luxury for poor kids, so I am guessing we didn’t.

Back in those days, I am sure there were plenty of disappearing children. You just didn’t hear about them like you do today. And we knew that Nancy walked half of that journey alone no matter which house we decided to go to for the day. It worried my sister and me. I can still remember how we would stand on Tiogue Avenue, at the halfway mark, waiting and watching Nancy walk until the place where the road curved and she disappeared around the bend.

Nancy was funny. Not funny– hysterical. She could always make us laugh. She was one of those kids you should never sit next to in church.

Nancy always tried to figure out how to get into some trouble without getting caught. She was a master at developing several scenarios as excuses “just in case we get caught,” and would make us rehearse them insuring we had the same story.

Nancy had an uncanny sense of rhythm and would practice all the latest dances of the 60’s – she would teach us steps to be sure we were always “cool” on the dance floor. This was important, as there were lots of weddings back then and a live band for dancing.

Not long after Nancy moved to Arnold Road, my Uncle Nicky passed away as a result of heart failure. It was a blow to my aunt and cousins, but my Aunt Margaret, Nancy and Debbie, her sister, remained together at that address. They later built an addition and Debbie moved upstairs with her husband; raising three children. It is Debbie’s home with her husband Danny – even to this day.

Nancy lived with her mother her entire life, never marrying, and we all enjoyed dinners around their table which were filled with so much laughter and food that it was always difficult to leave regardless of the lateness of the hour or how long you had been there.

It was a home filled with love, and Nancy was the center of it. When Debbie had her children, Nancy was the aunt that doted on Little Danny, Brianna and Nicky. Spoiled them rotten and loved them to the moon and back.

Family was everything to Nancy. Not just her immediate family, but the extended family on both her mother’s side and father’s side. She was always creating family reunions, picnics, back-yard barbecues. Anything, to get us all together. And as members of our families began to move away, or pass away, there appeared to be an even greater need for Nancy to get us together whenever she could.

Nancy, like her mother, was an incredible cook. She prepared Italian food that mirrored Aunt Margaret, who was Sicilian. No one made a better meatball, tomato sauce or snail salad. And no one comes close, today. Her home always had something on the stove (typical RI Italian-American kitchen) and there was enough for anyone who dropped in.

On my mother’s side, first cousins have remained close even to this day. But Nancy was one of the most beloved. When she died, it was as if I was 10 years old again, knowing she was moving once more and our lives would be forever changed.

But even as I write this, “my heart is ablaze” with her memory and I am finding myself smiling. I can see her. I can hear her. She is alive again; right now, at this very moment. And, as you read this, she now lives in your heart, too.

“How can a moment last forever?” Tell your stories. Tell them around a table. Write it down somewhere. Video or audio tape it. Begin. You will be happy you did. Those who hear the or read them or see them will be happy, too. And those whose story you are telling? They will throw back their heads and laugh with joy; for they live again.
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The Prankster: A Game The Whole Family Can Play

Telling stories is not always easy. Where do you start? To whom do you tell your story? What opportunity do you have? Will I be judged? Good questions. I don’t know the answers. I only know that if you are compelled, begin.

Maybe it is talking to someone with whom you feel safe. Maybe a daily journal or blog. Maybe a daily video. I only know that through my own experiences of storytelling, the simple act of telling a story of personal experiences gives perspective, helping us to see that our current struggles are not permanent.

Remembering those “goofball” moments has reminded me of my own imperfections; the imperfections that make us human give us the opportunity to laugh at ourselves as well as lift the spirits of others. Our imperfect humanness is a fact. Sharing it instead of running away from it provides that connection. To laugh and rejoice in it.

There were seven girls in my family. Our ages spanned twelve years from the oldest (twins) to the youngest. No boys. One bathroom. Eight women in my house including my mother. Needless to say, my father was swept away by a sea of estrogen. It was no surprise that the poor man drank.

I am confident that conversation around the dinner table never gave him an opportunity to speak; which is why I remember him as quiet and calmly invisible. Never a bad, mean or abusive man, but just invisible among us. Looking back, I am guessing it was probably his survival mechanism.

Growing up, there was a strong sense of hierarchy, education and faith. I can’t remember my mother raising her voice to us or ever spanking us… maybe that happened to my older sisters, but not to me or my younger sister. And while my mother was the Matriarch of the family (not only my family, but our extended family on her side), my older sisters ruled the roost while the younger sisters took their lead and commands from anyone who was older.

You never messed with my older sisters. N.E.V.E.R. and a law and order code was strictly enforced: no lying, no stealing, no fighting, no name calling and don’t do anything that would hurt or disappoint my mother.

Rules or not, my sisters found every opportunity to “punk” (as this generation would say) each other whenever, wherever and however they could. This is a family trait. To this day it is well practiced between us. Practical jokes and pranks are our modus operandi. We wear it like a badge of honor.

Nowadays, there are those “Hover-Mom’s” (you know, the “everyone-gets-a trophy-for-just-showing-up” Mom), would probably look at what we did to each other as “abusive,” “psychologically disturbing,” “child abuse,” blah-blah-blah. But we came out the other end of our childhood as being able to face challenges better, a better sense of self, tougher, resourceful and courageous and never to take ourselves too seriously.

In our house, “I love you” meant taking out the garbage; being part of something bigger than yourself, helping each other, having each other’s back and never having to make a big show of it. If you did something outstanding, there was little said of it within the family – sure you got the nod or the “OK-sign,” but no one drooled all over you to tell you how wonderful you were.

Ours was not an atmosphere of “atta-boy, great job!” That WAS your job: doing the right thing and being the best you could be at all times. That said, anyone within hearing distance that was outside of the immediate family heard an earful of our successes and accomplishments.

It is like that even to this day. I hear more about my accomplishments from people who speak to members of my family, then from my own family members. “You didn’t suck,” is considered the highest of compliments from my sisters. Is this a good or a bad thing? I don’t know. It is how we grew up and so far we are college graduates, all successful careers, fully engaged in our lives, our families, our communities, our work; legally sane and none of us have ever been incarcerated. So far, so good.

My first encounter with a bone fide family prank happened when I was six years old.

My sister Susan was notorious for her twisted deviousness; especially when it came to me, a sister who was five years younger than she. It didn’t help that I looked up to her as if she were a goddess and believed every word she told me.

I can’t help but think that her constant pranking was directly connected to the fact that for five years, Susan was the baby in the family and getting all the attention. Then I was born and shut that down, fast! In a family of so many children, you take your shots when you can.

With seven girls, one can only imagine what it is like when “that time of month” arrives and the chaos full of emotional mood swings dominates a household with a mega-force!

This was the 1950’s, and we still had those big, cumbersome Kotex pads and equally uncomfortable and unattractive garter belts that hooked the front and back gauze tails of the pad under your panties for protection. The female population of my family demanded and stocked a box of pads that was nearly as tall as I was and stood on the floor of the bathroom linen closet.

On a beautiful summer day, I stood in the bathroom with my sister Susan. I had long hair and she was brushing and was preparing to braid my hair that morning. She opened the door to the linen closet to retrieve a towel, and I had been curious about the large box that stood on the closet floor.

In earnest, I asked my sister what it was and what were those “cottony” things. And for one nanosecond I caught my sister’s eye and saw that look. That look that would forever haunt me. That look that I, at that time, was unable to recognize as the silent “MMMMMUUUUHHHHAAAA” (in an imagined, maniacal tone) look. I was too young and innocent to understand that this was a defining moment for me.

“Oh, you don’t know what these are?” She asked in a voice so sweet. “These are the best headbands that you can wear in hot weather. Look, let me show you.” And she took a pristinely clean Kotex pad and placed the thick cotton against my forehead and snuggly tied the two gauze ends at the back of my head.

If that wasn’t enough, she gently brushed my long hair over the back of the tied ends so that it “looked nice.” Then proceeded to tell me, “Now, when you and your friend go bike-riding this morning, you won’t sweat one single drop down your face. This will protect you. And it looks great under your hair in the back. No one can see the tie, just this great headband.” She said this with a completely straight face and motherly tone.

I was so excited that I could not wait to show my friends. Off I went to ride my bike around the neighborhood for the day. So proud of my new “head-band” and thinking how very cool I was, of what I had and was probably the first of all my friends to have one. Oh, and it worked, too. No sweaty forehead or face for me!

Now the three other kids I rode with that day were my age. Two were brothers without older sisters and the other was an only child in her family. All three thought I was mighty slick, too. One of the boys asked me if I could “get him one.” “Sure!” said I, “but I would have to ask my mother first. She has a box of them, but I’m not sure I can just give them away.” In my mind, shrewdly thinking that maybe I should be the only one in the neighborhood this cool.

I was pretty much puffed up by this time and I could swear that even my bike riding and wheelies had improved over the last hour or so.

In those days, neighborhoods were a place where everyone knew everyone. Neighbors watched and took care of each other. People lived in the same houses not by years, but by generations. The only way you could get people to move out of their houses was through the coroner. Which was, at the same time, both a comforting and disturbing thought.

Don’t even think about playing hooky from school and trying to hide out in a neighbor’s hedge. Neighbors would turn you in before the first bell rang in the schoolyard. So, as fate would have it, Mrs. Picard, who lived four streets away, made a phone call to my mother.

Years later, when my mother retold her side of the story, she said that Mrs. Picard was laughing so hard she was crying and my mother could hardly understand what she was talking about. But what she managed to understand was, “Have you seen your daughter this morning?”

As I sped my bike across the neighborhood on that beautiful summer day, free of school or cares or sweat and in that moment feeling the exhilaration of being the coolest kid EVER, I heard my mother’s voice – so loud that it could have been heard in Boston – “Ida!” and then right after that, “Susan!”

And the rest has become family legend retold over and over and over again. Mostly by Susan.

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