1960: It was the year Roy Orbison released his hit "Pretty Woman". Mom really loved that song and I can still (in February 2007) remember her asking me to dance with her one evening as she played the record (on the Victrola, in the living room... of course, we were home with the kids and not with the beast... she was in such a great mood that night!).

Then... it was the 21 December of this year. Phone rings... it's Mama. CYNDI was born. I still recall, it was a cloudy day. Early in the morning. When the news came, I stood out on the front stoop imagining my baby sister coming in to the house. When she came "home", Mom showed me how to give her a bottle and change her diapers. She got the bedroom off the kitchen. There was a bed in there along with the crib. Already, I felt protective of my Mom, felt she needed rest. I took the bed in Cyndi's room. John had the bedroom, formerly shared, to himself now.

I can still recall thinking how wonderful that Cyndi should be born (conception c. March 1960) in such "modern" times. These "60's" were, to me, so far advanced over the 50's. Well, I'd been born 5 years ago. These were so much better, medically and technologically. Or, so to my 5 year old way of thinking.

This was also the year I began kindergarten at Union Grove School. The school's gone now. There isn't even an indication that it ever existed.

1961: August this year, I completed 6 years on this earth and began first grade at Union Grove School. John completed 4 years in October. Cyndi completed her fist year in December. By now, she's "Daddy's little Princes" and John is still crying all the time. General turmoil begins now. Not that there was any particular "peace" before this. There was always some reason for someone in the house to be abused and beaten... verbally and/or physically. But this seems to be when it really began in earnest.

1962: I reached the age of 7 years this year. I'm off to school at St. Patrick's Elementary. Miss Kilgour. She insisted upon perfect diction and elocution: Sue:SEE-yoo, hue:HEE-yoo, again:ah-GAYN. I still recall day-dreaming curing class one day, pretending my pencil was a rocket or missile. As it "launched", Miss Kilgour had asked a question of the class. I hadn't heard it but, because my hand was up (the missile's launch was a success) I got called on. I broke into a burning sweat of embarrassment! I had to ask tha the question be repeated. I don't recall it it ever was.

This year, I received my first brand new tricycle. It was my escape from the ranting and raving at the house. I was packing a Pan Am flight bag and pedaling down the roads to Oma's. I wanted out and away already. I don't recall specifics today, but the violence at home must have already begun in earnest.

Mom would tell the story of a poor little boy who would look out his window every evening at a hour on a distant hill. The house had golden window. The little boy yearned to go to that house to see who lived there, believing those people had to be better off. One day he left home and traveled all through the night to reach that house. But when he arrived, the windows were plain glass! As the sun rose behind him, he looked across to see his house in the distance. Now his windows were gold!

I wanted to get to that other house and I didn't care about the windows.

One day, Charlie O'Mara's mom substituted for Miss Kilgour. Mrs. O'Mara usually taught 5th grade. I was so taken by Charlie's good fortune to have his Mom all day that I wrote my Mom a note, asking her to come teach so we could be together all day. I put the note between the storm and front door of the house, knocked and ran to hide. Mama came out of the door, read the note and stood, looking for me. A breeze blew her hair and skirt. She looked beautiful and yet, so alone. I ran to her. She hugged me.

She and I used to sit on the front lawn and make clover chains, look at shaped in the clouds and just talk with each other. Those times were peaceful.

By now, at the age of 7, I was already sitting at the kitchen table with Mama and Gail D'lessio, playing Scrabble and drinking iced coffee with them. I really loved those times.

1963: President John F. Kennedy was assassinated this year. Odd, I still remember watching the news coverage on what was then our "new" "console" black and white television. 1 Hill Street.

Sonny Fox, Wonderama, Sandy Becker, Soupy Sales.

I'm 8 years old and being challenged: I've already been caught smoking and I'm already inhaling. Sneaking off to the "woods" on the north side of the house or sitting on the "rocks" or the roof of the water sheds to have a smoke. S. gave me one of Wilma's non-filtered and made me smoke it at the kitchen table, in front of them (Mama, Wilma and him). I Managed quite well! This was also the year he gave me several shots of whiskey to belt down. Of course, I got bombed and he laughed at me. This was the point at which I swore to never get drunk again. Little did I know.

This is my first recollection of the Christmas Night beatings. The tree was down on the floor, ornaments strewn all over the living room and into the kitchen. The yelling! The pounding of things hitting the walls. Mama begging "Please stop. You're scaring the children!" Her pleadings only made it worse. It would only escalate from here.

JFK was dead and I was wishing I'd been too. I started spending more time in "the woods" and in "the rocks" but only when I knew S. wasn't there to beat Mama.

This was 3rd grade. Sister Jean Miraim. She threatened to fail me this school year if I didn't stop biting my finger nails and if I didn't learn my multiplication tables. On the last day of school, I presented long nail on fingers which I counted, behind my back, as I got frilled in multiplication... I passed!

1964: I am 9 years old. John is 7 years old. Cyndi is 4 years old. There is a "Kennedy Half Dollar" in circulation. This is my point of reference for events of this year. This is the year I truly snap from "Child and Sibling" to my Mother's "peer". This is the year when I cease to have brother and sister and they become "the Kids". This is the year of my most vivid memories. This is the year when the true terror, misery and Hell began. What I don't understand today is how John, at the age of 7, and Cyndi at the age of 4, could have managed to wipe the horrors of this year so completely from their memories. I remember 1959 and 1962. Why don't they remember 1964?

We were still at 1 Hill Street. I don't' now what sparked the fight on that night. Then, I never did. Cyndi was in her room off the kitchen, John and I were in our bunk beds. Mama came into our room to wake us, grabbing blankets and pillows. She just kept telling us, calmly as always, to get up, that we had to leave. It was very dark. We made out way to the living room and stood, waiting to get out the door when S. came from the kitchen and told us to get back to our room. He was a madman, spitting mad! Mama told us to go to the car. He told us to go to our room. Finally, he told us to sit down on the couch. John (typically) started to cry. S. grew madder (not "angry"..."MAD"). He told Mama that she'd better get out of his house but she wasn't taking "his kids" with her. She made a move toward us and he hit her, knocking her to the floor! He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her across the bare wood floor, across thee living room, into the hallway, into the bedroom. The bedroom door slammed shut. The house was full of pounding and slapping. Mama's voice came through the walls into the living room:

"PLEASE? PLEASE DON'T KILL ME! PLEASE! THE CHILDREN!"

And the pounding and the slapping continued.

I bolted from the couch, out the front door! I stood, frozen, on the front lawn, staring blankly, transfixed, straight ahead. All I could yell, with all my energy was

"HELP! SOMEBODY CALL THE POLICE. HELP! SOMEBODY CALL THE POLICE! HE'S KILLING MY MOTHER!"

I kept repeating that same line. I had nothing else in my 9 year old brain. I can still recall Gail D'Lessio coming to her bedroom window to ask me what was "wrong". I kept repeating those same lines until mom came to the yard to get me. Gail asked her what was wrong and Mom, true to keeping the "family business" in the house, somehow allayed curiosity and brought me inside. I tend to recall her telling Gail that I'd had a nightmare. As I went to sit back down on the couch, waiting to be the next recipient of the wrathful blows, the words came through spit and foam: "Take your damned kids and get out of my sight!" With that, Mom went to get Cyndi as John and I went to the door. I waited at the front door until Mom came. I knew better than to trust that creature who had suddenly turned our "escape" into his opportunity to throw us out. Mom put Cyndi in the back seat of the white Chevy station wagon with John. I got in the front. Mom got in, started the engine and we drove off... into the cold darkness of the night. We left that pit of Hell behind us, but we had no place to go to. We drove to what was, in 1964, a dead-end road in the Town of Newburgh. There, at the end of the road, in the woods, Mom brought the car to a stop. She checked on Cyndi and John... asleep by bow, and she and I settled-in for a night of watching... both of us worried that, at any moment, we'd be discovered and forced to return. Mom ran the heater and the radio on and off during the night. Sometimes we sang along with something played on the radio. I remember her looking at her key ring at some point, and saying "At least we don't have to worry about money. I've got 50 cents right here." It was a JF Kennedy half dollar. It wasn't much, even in '64. But we really weren't without money. The morning came. It was time to move before we were discovered. Mom started the car. A policeman came to the window! He asked if we were OK. Mom assured him that we were perfectly fine... just doing a "camping sleep-out" and we were on our way back home. It worked. I took a breath. Mom sighed and we were on the road... to more torture. Mom brought us to Oma's (her Mother's). I sat on the radiator in the living-room and the kids (I no longer say them as my siblings... there was no "father" and I'd watched over them all night, now I shared the responsibility for them.) got more sleep. Mom, Oma and Opa went to the kitchen and closed the door. A little while passed and Mom came to get us back to the car. (Years later I learned that Oma and Opa put us out, telling Mom that she had to go back to her husband! They didn't want to know what had happened that night and they wouldn't offer refuge. In essence, they threw us all right back into Hell!) Even to this day, 43 years later, I can still see the house as we drove into the drive-way. My heart still pounds in terror as I recall how filled with fear I was, thinking that "he", S., might be in there. In my memory, there in no colour. The world was shades of black and grey. I can still remember thinking: We were going in there to die... he was hiding, waiting for us to come in, the he'd kill us... Mom first. He wasn't there, thought, when we got in, Mom and I first, leaving the kids outside in the car with the engine running - just in case - everything was as it was that night... a mess. Mom and I searched to be certain we were alone and when we knew we were, we went out to bring in the kids. I got John and Cyndi cleaned and changed and into bed, (we were all exhausted) and when Gail came over, having seen the car in the drive, I went to my room, got into bed and laid there, awake, ready to bolt again at a second's notice. I'd be just that way for the rest of my life. Mom had coffee with Gail. I heard Gail tell that the tea kettle whistled all through the night and that one of S.'s co-workers came to get him for work that morning. It's strange, but I don't remember S. coming back. I don't remember how it all ended. My 9 year old brain shut down. In retrospect, this was the year where all the true violence began. Mom had been married to S. for 10 years now. Apparently he believed this "sealed the deal". She was his "possession", to do with and to as he pleased. This was also the beginning of a 4-year reign of terror every holiday. Each New Year 's Day would be the same: evergreen boughs and needles on the floor, bits of glass ornaments scattered everywhere. There'd been a fight the night before. It was the culmination of several days' worth of arguing. It was violent. It was brutal. It was to become, for at least the next 4 years... "normal".

1965: As if this farce, this morose reality was incomplete, on the morning of 19 July, yet another victim of the morbid circumstances was brought to "life" (conception c.November 1964... Anniversary fuck?). Certainly, a poor taste, even tasteless joke. On this day, Joe was born. He was to bear the brunt of another horrific play against Mom. Joe was born, blonde-haired, blue-eyed... unlike those of us who preceded him (brown hair, hazel eyes). There was no doubt that the gene pool harboured such a child. S. had blue eyes. On his side of the "family" there were others of the same composition. Mom's family had come from Germany. On her side too, were "Aryans". But S. would ferociously take every advantageous moments possible to brutally (and violently) accuse Mom of having had an affair with a letter-carrier whom she had known from here childhood. (Today, as in years past, although I know this could not be possible, for many more reasons that I care to enumerate, I must now admit that I could only wish that she had and that that man had treated her with kindness, tenderness and respect - even in only for the duration of some brief interlude. But alas, I know too well, it was impossible.)

Of this year, I remember precious little, save, Joe was originally named Robert Christopher. We'd been given a choice between that and Joseph Daniel. S. thought Joseph Daniel would be nice because Joe would be known as "Jodi", after some young character in a Disney film about a boy and a deer. The rest of us favoured Robert Christopher. When it came time to register the birth, Mom had told the registrar "Robert Christopher". However, soon after, she changed it to Joseph Daniel saying "I don't want to stand calling my children and have to call 'Bobby'." No matter what he was named, Joe became another "kid" for me to raise. I was 10 years old. Mom brought him home, into the room off the kitchen. (I don't recall exactly, but I believe Cyndi shared the bedroom with John for a while.) I, instinctively moved back into "the baby's room" and there, I'd change diapers, get up in the night to prepare baby formula (heated and tested, on the wrist, for temperature), feed the baby, burp the baby and put the baby down for sleep. When Joe reached the age at which he began recognizing words and people, when someone would ask "Where's Mommy?" he would look up at Mom. When asked "Where's Daddy?" he would look at me. And all the while, S. would spend every spare moment he had... at his "Mommie's". When he'd brought the photo of Joe to his "mommie", she told him "Don't' you ever bring anything that ugly into my house!" There was the love. There was the basis for all. In the years to follow, S.'s entire family would accuse Mom of having had an affair and essentially claim no relationship to Joe.

Meanwhile, I was, the 10 year old "paternal parent" of a new-born, had only just completed 5th grade, my 4th year in Catholic school, having ben taught by Mrs. O'Marra - Charlie's Mom. Imagine: Catholic school and home-life being what it was. Of note, this year also brought Mom's brother a son... Steven. Also the 4th child, he too was blonde, blue-eyed, following 3 of brown hair and hazel eyes. Apparently the letter-carrier was covering quite a large "delivery area" - they lived in New Windsor!

1966: John turned 9, Cyndi turned 5, Joe completed his 1st year and was still identifying me as his father... and I was still attending the children. I was in 6th grade, Sister Marie Anthony, the principal of St. Patrick's School was my teacher.

1967: Death. Gene and Fran's "Golden Boy", the duplicate of the "Golden Boy" I was bringing up, was taken out of the general fracas of life this year. Steven (and Joe) was about 1,5 years old. Death and a baby. Parents burying children. The chronology was wrong. Even at the age of 12, I was aware of the "error" in "life cycles". But the event that has never faded from memory, even after 40 years, is the day of the funeral: The entire family had gathered at the funeral home. S. and I were to arrive later, for reasons never discussed. It was when we did, that an indelible mark would be made on a developing psyche: As S. put the car in "park" and turned the engine off, he turned to me and, in the voice of an Army Staff Sergeant (his position in military service to the Korean War) he instructed me: "I'm bringing you here against my better judgment. Your mother insisted that you be here. But I'm going to tell you right now, I don't want to see you crying in there. Do you understand? If you cry and embarrass me, I'll take you right out and really give you something to cry about. Do you understand? Not one tear! Not one sound!" With that, we went inside. I can still visually recall walking down the centre aisle, between the neatly arranged folding chairs. Directly ahead, a tiny white coffin, surrounded by hundreds of white flowers. It was open. As I approached, the little figure of a doll-like body came into view. Stoically, I took my place, standing in front of the box containing my little cousin and as I looked at the lifeless corpse, I kept comparing it to the little baby whose diapers I'd been changing, whose bottles I'd been warming, whose feedings I'd been attending to. As I looked at the motionless little cousin, I watched for the chest to rise, taking in a breath. In my mind, the thoughts volleyed: he's napping, he's dead. From my gut, a sob welled-up. My stomach and chest cramped as the cry tried to work itself up and out. The tears began to fill my eyes. Suddenly, my thoughts turned to the "warning" I'd gotten in the parking lot. As if doused, my sorrow and sadness was gone and my entire being was washed-over by fear and terror! One tear and it would be worse for me than it was for Steven. He was dead and could feel no pain. I would be taken "home" and brutally beaten (again). I swallowed a palpable sob and, as if by some miracle, the tears pooling at the bottoms of my eyes, drew back. I shuddered, but I never cried, I never shed a tear, I never showed any sadness. It was the beginning of what would rule my emotional being through the rest of my life.

It was 1967. I was just 12 years old, John was 10. Cyndi was 6 and Joe was just turning 2. And the realties of Death were mine. This year in school though, Sister Anna Bernard took a liking to me somehow. She an I shared an interest in science and I enjoyed the privileges of staying in the class-room during lunch when the rest of the school was out in the slush-filled parking lot/playground. I got to work on science projects and the likes, I got to "talk" with her. Maybe that was a part of what kept my mind and spirit together back then. I didn't tell anything about my "home" life. I wouldn't dare! Besides, I learned to dissociate. There was a "me" at home and there was another, better adjusted "me" for the world. The two never met and never shared common moments. They didn't even know they existed. This was the year I particularly took to the "Jewishness" that Mom had told me was her ancestry and, so too, mine. And in a conversation on the subject matter, a conversation held in the hallway of St. Patrick's School, the question of "Jewish language" came about. No, not Hebrew... Yiddish. I was asked what language was particular to Jews. I replied "Yiddish" and was only half-heard by the 3rd grade teacher who either sufferede from hearing loss, attention deficit or simple stupidity. She heard "Y'bitch" and in her own delusional paranoia, formulated the notion that that is what I'd said and that I'd directed the comment at her. Her accusations brought every boy in the 7th grade "up on charges". Sister Marie Anthony gathered us all in the auditorium and asked the "guilty party" to confess. If he did not, all the boys would be punished. I, of course, was unaware of what was transpiring and so, was as ignorant as the rest. One day, I was called out of class to the principal's office to be confronted by my parents who had likewise been summoned. When the "charge" was made against me, I was immediately dumbfounded. I explained the situation to the very best of my ability and yet, was held incredible by this nun. When accused of using vulgar language, disrespecting an adult and lying, I couldn't believe the situation as it developed. However, this was the first time (and to be the last) that S. actually took a position of defending me. As his temper mounted, Mom took me out of the office and I was to learn, much later, Sr. Marie Anthony received the blows of an irate "parent". S. put her in her proper place and, using the very vernacular of which I'd been falsely accused of having utilized, brought a point to the table. I was told he called this old nun a "frustrated old bitch". Perhaps that had much to do with the fact that the following year was to be the last that St. Pat's Elementary would educate any member of my family. Of course, when I arrived at the house that evening after school, I received punishment for being responsible for inconveniencing my Mother and for S.'s loss of a half-day's work. I was scolded and sent to my room without supper. Alas, oh well. Things were back to "normal".

1968: Death was on a crusade and I, it seemed, was the enemy. Not to be destroyed, but to be taken and help captive. Robert (Bobby) Kennedy was assassinated this year. Mom got John and I dressed in suits and brought us both to Saint Patrick's Cathedral, New York City, to attend the wake. Opa died this year too. This was also the year in which we moved from 1 Hill Street to a "custom built" house in 61 Coach lane, in the newly developed "Meadow Hill". Opa's death brought all the more experience in controlling and internalizing emotions. At his funeral, I recalled an old superstition that claimed: Kissing the departed before burial would help lessen the pain of missing them. So, after everyone else had left the room, I gathered my wits, walked solemnly up to the coffin, said my "auf wiedersehen Opa.", bent over and kissed my beloved Grand-father's cheek. SNAP! Static electricity! A "shock" on multiple levels. I scurried out and away. Years later, I must admit, I missed my Opa terribly, but there wasn't any particular "pain" associated with it. Was it the kiss? Or was it siply the result of so many years of stifling all emotion? I don't suppose I'll ever truly know. Bobby Kennedy's wake brought bitter-sweet moments. For reasons still not known, John and I were called to stand beside the (closed) coffin for several moments. In my mind's eye, I still see a wrinkled hand, gently patting the deep-grained wooden lid, and in my heart I hear the voice of an old woman, softly and lovingly whisper: "Bye-bye Bobby..." For all the time I'd stood there, the prevailing mood was somber and stoic. I was more nervous, being in the midst of so many people, not able to withdraw, not being able to hide from view and true to what I'd become... unable to outwardly express any emotions, due to repeated threats of S. to inflict bodily injury, should I embarrass him with a tear, I remained the "good little soldier..." But as the words of that woman filled my mind and the vision of that aged hand lovingly patting that coffin filled my mind's eye, the want to cry, to at least allow some silent tears of compassion flow, filled my little body. I clenched my teeth and with every bit of conscious energy and strength I had, I literally "swallowed" the urge, the want, the need, the tears, the sorrow, the compassion. I remained silent and composed. Although S. wasn't there, I'd saved myself from a moment that would have been, in his determination, a justifiable cause for yet another beating. The pain of sequestering human emotion was physically and mentally excruciating. But the relief came in knowing that I would not be reprimanded and beaten. I was, for this situation, successful. As part of this event, I recall walking along 5th Avenue amidst the many people, en route to the wake and of the general presence on the streets of The City, staying close to Mom and keeping pace with her. Two "true New Yorkers". At one point in our journey, John had fallen behind by about half a block. Mom noticed his absence and she and I both turned round to see him, politely as he'd been taught to be in our suburban ghetto, repeating "Excuse me." as he tried to maneuver his way through the throngs who either ignored or otherwise disregarded him. I, being the responsible "father figure", dropped back, grabbed hold of his hand and, in typical "City fashion", instructed him to pay no mind to the others and to keep pace with Mom and I. A "parental save". When we arrived back at Hill Street that evening, the house was a-buzz! The wake had been televised and John and I had been recognized by the local viewers. Even S.'s "mommie" had seen us - but her reaction was not one of admiration. Hers was the question: "Why did they want your kids?" All I remember is having enjoyed the day in The City that was "Home" to my Mother, having enjoyed the time spent with her in a place that she loved, having been away from Newburgh (a place I loathed), and having successfully stifled a potentially emotional display. I changed out of the suit I which I'd been dressed, into clothes for playing outside. The day, the events, were over. It all simply drew to a close. This was also the year we left the little one-storey ranch-style house in Stewart Heights. A brand new "bi-level" or "raised ranch" had been built further out in the town. "Meadow Hill" was a brand new development. The parents had purchased a "lot" at the very end of the boundary, the new house was finished. We relocated some 5 miles further into suburbia... into some oblivion. But, at the time, I can still recall thinking. How fortunate our little "boxy" ranch-style house in Hill Street was. It would be open to the air for a while and hopefully be able to purge its walls of the violence and terror that prevailed and reigned within for so many years. Hopefully, it would be able to serve a peaceful family as a place of calm, tranquil "home".On a brighter side, a small but significant portion of this year, I was in my last year of education at St. Patrick's Elementary. This year, boys were permitted to wear shirts of pastel colour instead of the otherwise mandatory white. We were no longer required to sport the school neck tie, but still had to don a suitable conservative tie as part of school attire. In al of this, changes and adjustments, my islands of respite were Sisters Margaret William and Anna David. Very young, very full of life and living, they were able to make school a destination worth having. 8th grade was a pleasure. These nuns were so unlike those with which we'd become familiar. They wore veils that looked more like hair-bands with a length of fabric attached, and the hem-lines of their habits were noticeably shorter. They made learning an experience of fun. For one class on a topic I don't now recall, we spent a day in Downing Park instead of the over-crowded class room. And for the "Lawn Fair" at Mount St. Mary's that Spring, Sister Anna David certainly shocked more that the school administration: A fad that had taken hold I this era of "The 60's" in which glass bottles were dipped into oil-based paints that were floated in a bucket of water. The paint adhered to the glass resulting in a swirling, free-style pattern of colours. These "decoratives" were then used as candle holders, vases, &c. They could provide a bit of income, offered for sale at the "Lawn Fair". But quantities of bottles were needed. I asked Oma if Gene's Tavern (their bar in 3 South Johnston Street) could donate empty liquor bottles to the cause and she agreed. So one bright day, Sr. Anna David got use of the convent's old station wagon and at lunch time, she and I went to "the bar" to retrieve the empties. Without hesitation of any kind, Sr. Anna David walked briskly into the bar, her habit flowing with her pace and as she passed the customers seated, drinking their beers, she calmly and assuredly returned every "Good afternoon Sister" with energy and gusto. She had to trepidations about being in that place. On the ride back to the school however, we did get in a few laughs over some of the shocked expressions on the faces of some customers as a nun walked in the door. Still, it was quite a bit of fun... and it must have made quite an impression that I should keep it's memory co clearly... 39 years later.

1969: Desmond Decker was on the charts with a reggae-style hit called "Israelites". The war in Viet Nam was in action. I was 13-going-on-14, out of protective custody of Catholic elementary school and dumped into the vastness of public junior high school...South Junior High School to be exact. That was really what, I would have to say, was the beginning of a great many things gone amok in my life-time. It was "new", it was "big", it was "freedom". It was changing rooms for different subjects and scrambling through halls and corridors to get to classes. It was being able to get lost in a crowd. It was "disappearing" when I wanted to... when I needed to. I was buying my own cigarettes at the corner store now! I was keeping-up with the latest music. I was still so withdrawn that I could have imploded, but I was actually working on getting free of all that history! But, escape wasn't to come. Considering, the "lighter" side of this year was walking out of school on "Moratorium Day" (in protest of the Viet Nam war), getting "caught" and getting paddled on the butt by the principal, no, I can't say that things "improved". They did become progressively "something" however. This year brought the parents' first "legal separation". It was wonderful to have the source of so much violence and turmoil out of the house. But as it is with any "peace", a price had to be paid... It was afternoon. Mom had been getting ready to go to her evening job. She asked me to sit beside her on the sofa. Almost with an air of timidity she began: "Your father won't be coming back in the foreseeable future... I'll need a little help keeping things together here, around the house. I don't like asking you and you're absolutely free to say 'no' and I'll completely understand but would you mind taking on some of the responsibilities?" (why do I remember this - almost verbatim?) Of course, I'd tried to protect my Mom all my life. Now it would be easier, with the source of so much agony gone. It was an honour to say "Yes". Yet, this is where the "natural order" of "family structure" completely dissolved. In my attempts to keep some semblance of "normalcy" in the home, I forfeited my proper place amongst my siblings. In the blink of an eye, I became "father", "head of household", the one who doled out punishment for transgressions, the one who prepared us all for school in the morning. As I tried to get myself presentable for school, I made lunches for John (12 years old), and Cyndi (8 years old), combed and braided Cyndi's hair (the great and fun part of mornings), made certain the house was as neat and clean as possible, Joe (4 years old) was good and then I'd wait for Mom to come home from work at her night job. Although it lasted for only about 3 or 4 months, it was an irreversible turning point in all out lives. The ramifications and repercussions were irreversible. I learned to cook and clean for a family of 5 and nightly, I'd go to bed wondering how a 13 year old could get a job to help support that family. It was the Year of "Woodstock". Mom wanted so much to go - that's the way she was. She and I were supposed to take off and live our dreams of freedom. S. absolutely forbade it. So, Mom did what she could... Interstate 84 passed by the backyard. It was a "festival" all its own and right outside the back door. Cars parked along the shoulder, kids from all over, right there. Many mornings, Mom would wait until S. left for work, then she'd go to Dunkin' Donuts and bring back dozens! Coffee on, she'd go to the chain link fence and serve donuts and coffee to the would-be festival-goers. Often, she'd take telephone numbers and messages to deliver to parents and loved ones. It was the "Age of Aquarius"... it was Mom's delight. We lived in 61 Coach Lane, Desmond Decker sang "Israelites" as Cyndi and I entertained with our high-energy dance maneuvers in the living room. It was 1969... I lost my Mom and got a "Very Best Friend" - I lost my siblings, got 3 kids and S. waltzed about the world free of responsibility for anything.