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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