Storytelling

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 tub 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 paydirt, 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, steamers, 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, guiding us to a bed of shellfish. His balloony 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, ocean ambient 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 before you arrived in the driveway, you 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 part of 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, fireflowers, 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 what was understood to be in his stash. And, I must add that while this was the guy that conducted the display annually, and we actually allowed him, it is important for me to go on the record as saying 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 scattering in all directions. In an instant, colorful rockets, pinwheels and fountains are shooting up into the night sky, completely taking everyone by surprise; firing out in every direction.

The family, who were moments ago engaged as merely spectators, suddenly found themselves in the midst of a battlefield of fireworks. 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 pure shock mixed with 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 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 all alive and had all of our limbs, an unforgettable moment of pure hilarity rolled over us. I am not sure, to this day, if we were crying-laughing or crying from relief. Maybe both. And amidst the laughter, memories were forged, making that Fourth of July a family gathering we have cherished and reminisced about for years.

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 great addition to the summer fun. Everyone came with a dish of something and the day was filled with food, laughter and family. This was that summer celebration that brought us and kept us all together – especially after my mother’s death. 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 passed away as well or moved away. We no longer have a big Fourth of July celebration. My older sisters are now in 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 large, family gathering each year and it slowly disappeared.

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 that time – those gathering times.

And this is not to say that there are never invites from wonderful 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 “my-family” 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 and the glue that kept the family together slowly disappeared over time it just evolved into something else.  What is your “else,” I wonder?

I see lots of postings of families on Facebook, large gatherings, from those who continue their Fourth of July traditions. 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 and that they never stop. They bring me back to a happier time and make me grateful that I can still remember when my family did the same.

A Fish Called Cancer

A Fish Called Cancer

This past Easter, a group of us from church were asked by our Pastor to provide a short testimonial for several scripture readings that are presented at the yearly Easter Vigil. He asked that the testimonial should reflect on how each person’s scripture reading may have had a personal impact on our lives. My reading was “Jonah and the Whale” – of course it was! I had to provide a testimonial on the big fish. I thought to myself, really? I guess the spirit finally moved me, as the following was my testimonial.

Jonah is asked by God to warn Nineveh to mend their ways. Jonah is having nothing to do with that – as Nineveh is as crazy as down-town Chicago in the 60’s, (too dangerous, ain’t goin’ there)- so he rebels and runs away on a ship. The ship crashes in a storm and Jonah is swallowed by a big fish. Swallowed by a big fish, while running away from God? (Talk about a fish tale). Then, Jonah sits in the belly of the big fish for three days singing songs of thanks that he is alive. (Jonah needs a nice, refreshing adult beverage). The big fish pukes Jonah out exactly on the shores of Nineveh in order for Jonah to complete his original task requested by God. Coincidence? I think not, although a roundabout way of getting there.

In 1992 I had a big, important 6-figure, toxic job. I was in a toxic marriage. I hung out with toxic people whom I called friends. But to everyone else, I was busy, happy and successful. I was involved in my community and in my church. Being involved didn’t mean I was living a life of spiritual growth or even human growth. I was primarily running away in my busy efficiency to conquer the world while conquering absolutely nothing. Holding down the household; dealing with a drug-abusive husband who, as a result, was killing a successful self-owned business; caring for a pre-teen daughter, and attempting to keep a high paying position for which global travel was a requirement. That, while keeping the “everything’s OK” look on my face.
So God decided that it was time for a big fish called cancer to swallow me up. When diagnosed, it was like a shot in the chest (no pun intended as it was breast cancer). And the surgeon made it clear that if I did not undergo both chemo and radiation, I would not see my 10 year old daughter graduate from high school. I left that office shell-shocked and no commitment to a remedial protocol until I could get my head around the diagnosis.

What to tell my six sisters? My mother died in 1973, as a result of breast cancer after undergoing a double mastectomy, so I knew there was too much subjectivity in my family around this issue. My sisters and I still felt the scars of my mother’s passing and I needed to make this decision myself without the influence or pressure of my sisters’ opinions. I spent years, after my mother’s death, researching breast cancer in women; causes; treatment; holistic remedies, life-styles, social cultures, diets, cancer statistics of third-world countries vs. industrialized countries, etc. I remember several articles that jumped out at me about how some physicians and researchers believed that cancer manifests from stress, mental and/or physical abuse, toxic life-styles, highly processed food diets, and chronic fatigue. External factors that cause any, all or more of these when not dealt with through some form of remedial protocol and kept internal, could manifest as a malignant mass in any part of the body; most were discovered in the form of breast cancer. I always felt that particular data point was significantly profound. Why the breasts? Because that is one part of the body that is distinctively associated with females? That women tend to hold the very things that they should talk about, inside? Pushing it down, until it can’t go anywhere else until it forms itself into a cancerous mass? I do not know the veracity of this theory but it is a provocative one that I have held on to as more true than not. In addition, chemo and radiation has proven to slow down or eliminate a primary tumor and slow down or prevent metastasis. However, there are those physicians and researchers who theorize that chemo and radiation actually kill those properties fighting against the cancer, attempting to rid the body of it. Those with certain cancers should build up their immune systems, naturally; the concept that the immune system has the ability to recognize and eliminate developing tumors in the absence of external therapy. Yet, another provocative theory I have hung on to.

Two important incidents happened to me in the following two days after my diagnosis that were critical to my remedial decision making and the fact that I am still alive today. The first happened in a small card shop as I was picking up birthday, anniversary and get-well cards for the month. I had a pile of cards in my hand and was not paying much attention to anyone around me; I was deep into selecting cards. While choosing a card from the rack, I clumsily dropped all the cards in my hand; about 15 – 20 in total. Cards and envelopes flew around my feet and scattered around the floor. I suddenly noticed a woman picking up my mess with me. As I apologized, laughing at my clumsiness, we both stood up together. As she gave me the cards she had retrieved, her hand grasped mine; firmly, but gently, continued to hold on to me. Now, as I was a bit surprised, I gazed directly into her face and noticed that she had the whitest hair I had ever seen, a thick braid that hung across the front of her shoulder to her waist and she had the bluest, brightest eyes that appeared to laser right into mine. As she firmly held my hand she said, with a warm and confident smile, “Your mother says, ‘you are going to be alright.’” I had a frightened, visceral reaction and, again, dropped all the cards on the floor, and when I looked up, the woman was gone. I ran after her, out the door, looking both ways to try to catch her but she was gone. I ran back into the store to ask the store owner if she had seen the woman who just ran out. “What woman?” the owner asked. “You are the only person that has been in this shop for the last 30 minutes.” To this day, that experience still haunts me and I have a hard time logically explaining it. But in my heart, I know who or what was made present to me that day.

The second incident happened at the Fenway Health Center in Boston. At the time, we were still at the height of the AIDS crisis. I was a hospice volunteer at the Fenway and one of my clients was near the end. It was a few hours after receiving my diagnosis and I felt as though I did not have the fortitude to support him through his transition, should he be making one that night. However, I reluctantly took my shift and as I entered the Health Center, a very large, new piece of artwork hung on the wall directly facing the door I was entering. It was a charcoal sketch of a man with AIDS. The caption read: “I came here to die with dignity; instead, I learned to live in grace.” It moved me to my core.
In my life’s clutter, and my own inability to make time for the things that were truly important, I believed that God did not really focus on me. He had bigger fish to fry. But these two incidents made me realize that no matter how busy God is, God still had time for me. I knew God was leading me. It was time to clean up my cancerous life, and find the life I was supposed to be living. It was like being dropped on the shores of Nineveh.

So the journey began: I quit my job, I divorced my husband, I dropped those toxic friends. After my first, post-diagnosis visit, my general practitioner gave me a big, long hug and said, “fill your life with people with whom you can do this–all the time.” While he meant “hugging,” he also meant support, encouragement and inspiration. He was a great physician and I will always be grateful for his healing prescription.

I took some advice from a long time friend, Diane. For many years, she experienced a complete breakdown of her immune system. She became so ill, that you could see through her teeth. Her failing health was due to years consuming highly processed foods and bad eating habits. She was never a heavy person, in fact, she was always on the thin side. She was my roommate while in my first year at New England Conservatory. To give you an example, as I had witnessed it myself, she would down 2-one-pound bags of peanut M&M’s and at least a six-pack of coke every day. Just junk –and she never showed a pound of it, but that kind of food consumption ravaged her body over time. With the help of several holistic physicians, a drastic change of diet and creating a more sustaining life-style, she healed. She is healthy today. When I discussed my diagnosis with Diane, her advice set me on my own trajectory towards healing. I adopted a macrobiotic diet for 5 years, drank Essiac tea, practiced meditation, homeopathic remedies, surrounded myself with positive and joyful people and activities. There were so many people who prayed for me. I had cards, letters, and spiritual support from around the world. I focused my prayers on being healed, not on being cured. Healed into living a life of simple service to others every day without an agenda or expecting anything in return, to give thanks when my eyes opened in the morning to see another day and to always be grateful for what I have. Four years after my diagnosis I was cancer free. I never received one day of chemo or radiation.

Many have asked me, “What was your cure?” They want me to give them the pill, the recipe, the secret. But I am unable to. It was a combination of so many things. But I know that at the top of that list was a nudge from God to “clean it up” and the power of prayer; prayer heals. It may not heal the way we expect or want, but heal, it does. God’s call is just a listen away, once we unclutter ourselves from the noise. His eye is truly on the sparrow.

The story of Jonah is the only book in the Bible that ends in a question: “Can God not have mercy on His children wherever they are, even you?”

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 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 in a gathering of mourners 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/our 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 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. The three of us spent our whole childhood together. Growing up, our house was the center of family gatherings for my mother’s side. Every Sunday there were droves of people, music and food at our house on Nestor Street, in West Warwick, RI.

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 then we would either go to her house or walk back to our house, together.

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 always had half of that journey alone no matter which house we decided to go to for the day. It worried my sister and me and I can still remember how we would stand on Tiogue Avenue, at the halfway mark, and watch Nancy walk back home until the place where the road curved and she disappeared around the bend.

Even as a kid, 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 every time.

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 Scilian. 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 available to whomever 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?” Go on… 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 it 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. Sometimes 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. Let’s 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 to not take ourselves so 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. It 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. Looks like we are OK.

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 is. It didn’t help that I Iooked 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 over the years is 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!

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 megaforce! 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. 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 like that under your hair in the back. No one can see the tie, just this great headband.” 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.

Back in the days, neighborhoods were a place where everyone knew everyone as well as watched and took care of each other and, God forbid, no one ever moved away. The only way you could get people to move out of their houses was through the coroner. Which is, 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 suddenly 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.

When Video Games Didn’t Exist

Stories are a way of transmitting knowledge from one generation to another. They are an important part of oral tradition, and they help people understand their history, culture, and identity. Through storytelling, we can pass on important lessons, values, and beliefs.Shared storytelling can help us learn from each other. When we encounter a difficult situation, relating to our past experiences can help identify what worked well and what didn’t. This can help us and others develop new strategies for coping and handling future challenges. 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.

We did not have much as kids. The great part was that most of the cousins on my mother’s side didn’t either and the neighborhood from which we grew was mostly made up of first or second generation Western Europeans who were in the same economic category. 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. Each 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. Believe me, there were many skate blisters in those days! Roller skates were metal, when those wheels hit the concrete and you were cruising through the neighborhood – WOW! They made some noise!

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 and that’s how you wore your key. 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.  Most of my friends had hand-me-down everything, including toys.  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 still don’t know who owned it, or if it was free standing or nailed to the side of a shed or who put it there, as it wasn’t in anyone’s yard or driveway. It stood off the side of a neighborhood street under a cleared area, surrounded on three sides by maple trees. Everyone played there and everyone was respectful of each others’ space. Someone had a soccer ball (that no one used for soccer); we used it for Dodge Ball or Freeze. I think that 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. She contacted that can against the power of her foot and the can flew straight up, slitting 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 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, and 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. 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 towards my sister Frieda’s apple (and head), 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 were for the sake of good. 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 worse than the violence that 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 and people don’t come back as they do in their streaming video game? There is no reset button. That is malice and this is a different world, today – malice 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. That 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 remember 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, out again. We were gone all day. And then, when the street lights came on or the 8:00 p.m. West Warwick Fire Station alarm went off on Main Street, every kid knew what time it was and where they were supposed to be. Suddenly, it was as if an invisible stage director were blocking the end of a scene – and all the actors simultaneously left the stage and were homeward bound.

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