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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