CHAPTER ONE: All Things Must Pass, All Things Stay the Same!

"For last year's words belong to last year's language. And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning." TS Eliot, "The Little Gidding"(1)

It makes no difference where I start, because after all these years I know one thing for certain: it always comes back around, always, always, so I might just as well begin the way I did nearly four years ago, a month or so before the pandemic hit. I might as well tell you that I was in something of a meteorogical crisis at the time.

This is what I need you to see first:

Me simply gazing out the window at the frozen lawn. Me. Standing there at the window, feeling frozen, both inside and out.

Ironically, it was a day in early February, 2020. When there was absolutely

NO SNOW. Not a bit of it. Just a crust of ice.

The sun was throwing long strips of sunlight across the yard.

I was horrified, no, maybe the word is shocked. Because as I unlocked the door to let my sweet little Poco

outside to pee, I noticed that a horde of robins had settled on the lawn, over by the meadow. They were, like the song suggests,"bob bob bobbing along," Pecking at the grass. Their rust-colored breasts were the brightest color of the drab winter palette on that gray day.

[Hey did you notice what I just did? I talked about the sunlight spilling across the yard in the first sentence of that paragraph and then, in the last sentence of that paragraph, I said the day was gray.]

I was going to say it makes no difference whether or not it was sunny or gray, as this is all just a pile of words anyway. Or a row of words. Or perhaps a giant, eternally sparkling, infinitely spiralling circle of words, collapsing in on itself. Like a dark black hole.

But actually, now that I think about it, it makes a HUGE difference what the weather is.

It matters to my mood. A sunny day

starts a smile blooming inside me, as if a spring daffodil fills my chest. On a sunny day, I am quite certain that pennies are going to fall from heaven, or at least from the blue blue bluebird sky! On gray days, and there are plenty of them in the Northeast where I live most of the time, I feel emotionally sloppy. Soggy.

For my sister Holly, however, a sunny day can actually be devastating. Just now, she texted me quite out of the blue blue [sky,] saying: "The cold light of January is so damn bright in my face, reminding me that the holidays are over, reminding me that we have to start anew. Ugh. The cold bright light of January makes me want to take a nap." I wrote back to her: "I'm sorry you don't like the light, Holl, soon enough it'll be gray again!"

Anyway, it used to be that robins with those pale red breasts

announced the lovely joy of spring. But those days are over. On that day, in early February of 2020, just a month before you know what, I found the yard full of robins to be rather a rather frightening sigh, I mean sight.

"What the hell? It’s February for God’s sake, and there hasn’t been any snow since December and now the robins are here?!"

I remember saying those words to myself. Those exact words.

Well, at least I think those were the words that I said to myself. They certainly were the words that were in MY MIND.

Or perhaps I wrote them down somewhere, in a journal or a blogpost or a story, or maybe all three. I also wrote these lines:

"Where did winter go? Why has the snow -- so soft and gentle -- stopped falling? The only thing we get now is that 'wintry mix,' mostly freezing rain that forms a thin white [crunchy?] crust on the lawn."

[NOTE TO SELF: Your FIRST READER and husband, Richard K, says you need to "kill all adjectives" in your writing. He is quoting no less an authority than Mark Twain. So, I guess "crunchy" is out!]

I'm afraid I do use too many adjectives.

I'm also afraid that at some point in this multi-vocal, quasi LOCO narrative I will have to address

climate CHANGE, or more accurately, climate degradation, which is why we have a wintry mix rather than snow. But I am not going to address it. Not here. Not NOW. Not TODAY.

Ironically, it was this very same February day way back in 2020 that I began writing a story about a woman named Leah.

There are many resemblances between me and Leah. In Leah's case, however, the ground is frozen. But also. There is plenty of snow on the ground. Seven to ten. Inches. To be INexact.

"No matter that she is wearing her powder blue bathrobe, Leah decides to go outside without her emerald parka on. Bootsy, her beige Cockapoo,

barks and follows her out the door."

"The next thing Leah knows she is lying down on the ground in the white powder. She does a spread eagle. A snow angel. She feels the icy cold snow on her bare neck and head. She holds that position and stares into the grey clouds. In a moment, she is on her feet again, hurrying back into the house. Bootsy scampers after her. Trembling, and rubbing her icy fingers together, Leah sits down on the sofa. Opens her laptop. Her fingers are chilled and stiff as she sets them on the keys and begins typing."

So there I was, without any snow, writing a story about a woman named Leah, who was surrounded by seven to ten. Plenty. Of snow. And who herself was writing a story.

I invented Leah for a very simple reason. I needed her help to tell a story. Not long ago, I began writing a novel about my great grandfather, Pasquale Orzo, and his mother, my great great grandmother, Filomena Scrivano, who lived way back in the 1800s in southern Italy in the richly historied region of Calabria. Why bother telling their story? Because my great grandfather was illegitimate, a word I detest. My grandmother (his daughter) and all of her sisters suffered terrible shame because of their father's situation.

Oddly enough, Scrivano means "scribe" in Italian. At some point, I will explain why I believe that Filomena selected me to be her mouthpiece!

[I had been writing the Leah story for many many months before my long-time writing buddy PEG, who was reading the long-winded LEAH story quite carefully said, quite casually, to me: "Claud, did you realize that if you rearrange the letters in the name LEAH it spells

HEAL?"

I thought that was quite funny

It had NOT occurred to her, PEG, or to ME, Claudia (who is so much like LEAH) that the name LEAH had been selected by my carefully edited subconscious....

"Oh God Peg," I said, dissolving in laughter (I think she and I were sitting together at the counter that day drinking tea.) We often dissolve in laughter over our writing]

But I digress.

Anyway, you get the picture. About Leah. And Me. More or less. (Pictures, by the way, have way more information than 1000 words. One thing I will say upfront: you cannot hang a story like this one I'm writing on a wall the way you do a picture, or a painting,

like this one,

one of two I painted for my sister Holly's new bathroom.)

But I digress. Again.

As I said, (or have I?)

It is now 1:37 in the afternoon, and I am going to stop writing. It's important, very important, to pace yourself. Writing-wise. It's also vitally important to keep track of TIME, because otherwise, time has a way of slipping away, or collapsing in on itself. Like a dark black hole. [Scratch that adjective "dark."]

Just yesterday (the day before the last day of the year 2023) I read an article about TIME. According to some physicists, TIME is "only an illusion."

I laugh out loud at that notion because at this very moment, at 1:39 pm, Poco, my black and white Havanese,

is standing at the door barking. She knows it's high TIME to go outside. Into the frozen lawn. Because as most of us know by now, and no less than The Washington Post confirmed yesterday, "The climate future arrived in 2023." Winter, except for the wintry mix, has all but disappeared.

********

A few weeks before Albert Einstein died, in April of 1955, he wrote a letter to a friend in which he said: "For us who are convinced physicists, the distinction between past, present, and future is only an illusion, however persistent." Einstein firmly believed that there is no such thing as TIME.

This is not a new idea. And it has long been debated. To me, it's a rather silly notion, to e n g a g e

in long-winded academic debate about. TIME.

Whether or not it exists?

Oh come on! Be real!

That same article, which I read yesterday in Smithsonian magazine, says the debate among scientists and philosophers dates back to before Socrates. Those learneds (most notably Einsteing) think that TIME, and CHANGE, do not exist. To these so-called 'eternalists,' the universe is simply "the set of all moments at once. The entire history of the universe simply is."

Other scientists and philosophers argue that TIME is real. The debate goes back and forth, as all debates do, and probably goes nowhere fast.

I was thinking about this debate, and the idea that time might just be an "illusion," just now, this afternoon, about 2:07 pm, when I put Poco on her leash and we walked down to the country store, for eggs. And to get today's mail.

There, behind the counter making sandwiches, was the wife of the owner. Joanna. Who used to make meatball grinders, turkey sandwiches and all sorts of hot entrees. Each and every day. Mostly for men (and women) working construction or doing landscaping. Many of these laborers would stop at the country store for lunch.

But about a year ago, Joanna disappeared and no one knew why or was brave enough to ask.

Today, Joanna is back. I am shocked. She has aged twenty years in the one since she disappeared. She is shrunken. Grey. Her once vibrant red hair is now far more pale than the robin's breast. She is missing one of her front teeth.

To be honest, I wasn't sure what to say to her.

“How is your dog?” I said finally, attempting a smile. She has a Jack Terrier.

Named. Jack. Of all things.

"Oh, my little Jacky?" Joanna said. Her smile, minus one tooth, made me squirm. "He's just fine. Such a good little boy!" We talked about our dogs a bit more. Thank God for dogs!

As soon as I could gracefully get away, I exited the store and walked home. I opened the front door and at that moment, I realized I was holding my breath!

I quickly got Poco settled, and then sat down at the kitchen counter. I opened my journal and wrote down EXACTLY how I was feeling. Honestly I was feeling a bit terrified.

"How can TIME possibly be an illusion? That idea is preposterous. After all, we get old. My GOD, just take a look at Joanna. What the hell happened to her!?

I don't care what the scientists say. I don't need an expert to tell me what I already know: life proceeds, no doubt about it. We get old

and/or we get sick and we die. Anyway it is all so...scary and unpredictable."

I decided that I needed to put on my pajamas, even though it was only 4:05 in the afternoon. Then I went back to my desk, opened my laptop, and called up the story about Leah.

"It is still the same morning. Leah has traded her powder blue bathrobe for her exercise clothes. She is working at home today, putting the final touches on a recruitment brochure for the University of Massachusetts. She reads the content through and then she stands up and looks out the front window. Her iPhone says it's 12 degrees outside. But the thermometer hanging on the back porch says it is seven. [Hey, Claudia, is it the front window or the back porch? Note to self: Decide!]

"She asks herself, 'Is that why I feel so frozen inside?'"

"Leah is thinking again about Noni Natalya and dinner last night and what her grandmother asked her to do. Leah inhales. How can she possibly find out the true story of her great grandfather Pasquale and his mother? 'It's a crazy, nutty idea. Totally impossible,' she says, shaking her head and returning to the sofa, where she writes. She has her laptop propped up on a pillow.

"She reads the brochure for the final time. Then she emails it to her boss and the office copy editor.

"Leah gets up and fixes herself a cup of turmeric tea with honey and milk. Then she returns to her laptop and tries something that she does sometimes when she's feeling like she needs inspiration. Or she needs reassurance that she's still a REAL writer. After all, she spends 50 plus hours a week composing boring drivel at her University job.

"'But I can still write short stories,'" she whispers. She pulls up a fictional short story at random. It’s called “Silver River.” It gives her chills to sit and read what she wrote exactly three years ago.

Moon.

To start, Gina is lying there, a fallen angel in a foot of fresh snow. It is deep in the middle of the night. She has wandered out to the darkest reaches of the backyard, out to the furthest row of white pines. Parked as she is in her white parka, in the white snow, she is almost invisible.

She is watching the sky. Waiting. There are stars galore, the sky is splattered. But she is waiting for something more. That email she got early this morning was crystal clear: 'Tonight will see the first full moon

to coincide with the winter solstice in 6000 years. The last time this happened, Moses went up to Mount Sinai for the Ten Commandment stones. Don’t miss this once-in-ten-thousand-lifetime event. The moon will be so gigantic, so bright you won’t even need car headlights tonight.'”

Gina is watching the horizon, just above the pines. Her attention is drawn by the soft glow of light gathering above the dark curtain of trees

a few feet away. The top edge of the tallest pine has a halo. She goes up onto her elbows. Steadies her gaze. Suddenly the crisp edge of the moon is sliding up behind the tallest pine, the branches outlined. Black fingers. She falls back into the snow. The flood of silvery moonlight is even more exquisite than she had imagined it would be.

She takes in one long slow breath and holds it and suddenly sadness overtakes her and her eyes close. Gina’s breath comes blowing out in one long steamy explosion. She sits up. Peels the gloves off. Sets her hands flat in the snow. Her fingers go numb as she squeezes the snow into a freezing mess in each hand. Warm tears pool and now the moon is almost fully visible and now, holy cow, it is a mighty white disc showering light onto the snow.

Gina? Are you out here honey?

"That’s where Leah stops reading. She covers her eyes with her hands, and soon, her hands are wet with tears. Leah wrote that short story about Gina when she was still living with Brandon, the man who shattered Leah's heart. They talked about getting married and then, only a few months after getting engaged, Brandon (a computer programmer by day and an electric base player in a band on the weekends) blew Leah apart one night, telling her that there was another woman in his life. That young woman had just joined his band as a singer.

"Sniffling, Leah gets up from the sofa, goes into her bedroom where she does some yoga. First. A few sun salutations. Then. Tree pose. Cat and cow. Plough. Fish. Crow. Spinal twist. Finally. Triangle. As she does triangle, she whispers the Sanskrit word for it: trikonasana. Over and over again she whispers because she likes the sound of this word so much.

"What Leah doesn't realize, at least not yet, is that a triangle is a symbol full of meaning. 'The triangle symbol (∆) is a shorthand notation commonly used in physics to indicate CHANGES or differences.' Also, 'the triangle has been used as a symbol of spiritualism and enlightenment since the dawn of human civilization.'

"Leah undresses and takes a very hot shower. In a few minutes she is dressed in wool pants, her emerald parka, heavy socks, a hat, mittens and boots.

"'Come on,' she calls to Bootsy, her caramel-colored Cockapoo. She leashes him and soon they are out the door and headed for the dog park. Leah is not sure why, but somehow reading the short story about Gina has made her feel better. She's not sure why but she thinks she can see her way FORWARD, out of her frozen condition.

So, just for the record, the word FORWARD suggests movement in TIME, i.e. CHANGE. The Greek letter delta (δ, or ∆), means "difference."

The (∆) TRIANGLE --trikanasana -- that Sanskrit word that LEAH loves saying as she is doing her yoga, that is the symbol used in calculus to indicate CHANGE. Aren't you glad I took CALCULUS (2) in college?

*****

The reason for creating the Leah character? I decided soon after I began writing the "FINDING FILOMENA" novel that I needed an outer story to set up the inner (Filomena) story.

Well, so, the Leah story solves that outer story, problem. I think.

TIME. Will tell, as they say.

Meanwhile, I never really explained what my meteorological crisis was, four years ago.

In simple terms, I was blocked. Emotionally. I felt thoroughly frozen, like my crusty lawn [I was hoping I'd get to use that word crusty at some point!]

My therapist Mary kept saying that my problem was that I refused to feel all of my feelings.

Oh, and she said that I didn't love

Myself. Enough.

Perhaps she was right.

Well, so, I have solved both of those problems too. You might be surprised if I told you that it was, in the end, quite simple. (I was going to write the word "rather" before the word "simple" but my FIRST READER husband RICHARD, told me this morning that I really need to "kill" the word "rather," along with all the adjectives. I do listen to him. And I do use the word rather

rather too much.) Anyway, all I needed to do to solve my meterological crisis

i.e being FROZZZZZZEN

was to.

step.

back.

in time,

to meet my ancestors! Almost immediately, I began hearing from both my Mom, DENA, and my dad, Ric Ricci. Soon enough, I encountered others. Grandma Mish, Grandpa Claude. Grandma Albina and Grandpa Angelo. And before I knew it, I had met Filomena Scrivano, my great great grandma, who was born EXACTly 100 years before me, in 1852. She is my dad's great grandma, his bisnonna. And my bisbisnonna. More recently, I met Filomena's illegitimate (boy oh boy do I hate that word illegitimate) her son, Pasquale Orzo, my great grandfather. Just for the record, Filomena's beloved son was a legitimate person, no matter what that damnable priest or his miserable municipal minions living back then, back in backward Paola, in Calabria, thought at that time.

While writing about Filomena, I also met the man she fell in love with, Giovanni Massiero, the guy I INVENTED TO father my great grandfather. Fi, my nickname for my great great grandma, calls Giovanni, G for short. He is a poet, with a head full of reddish golden curls. I hope you will enjoy his poetry!

As for the rest of it, you will simply need to read on!

As for the debate over TIME. And all that about CHANGE. And the CLIMATE.

I'm not going to worry about any of that.

Or if I have to, word word worry about it,

I have decided that I will do the worrying and sorting out

at some other TIME,

like say tomorrow,

that is, if there is a tomorrow, GOD WILLING, if we don't destroy the planet

first.

*******

NOTES

Here are ALL THE NOTES YOU COULD POSSIBLY HOPE FOR, OR NEED, BUT PROBABLY WISH WEREN'T HERE!!! The nice thing about a work of fiction is that in general THERE ARE NEVER ANY GD footnotes.

However, as this is not only a work of fiction, but also, a work of non-fiction and journalism, as well as a (fictional) memoir, oh, and perhaps also a kind of self-help book, well, so, in this case, footnotes are needed. [I was going to use the word "sadly" after "in this case" until RICHARD first READER said to me, "You don't need to modify everything, it's like you're trying to apologize for everything, it's your parents' defensiveness, they never could assert themselves, they always tried to apologize for themselves." Holy shit Batman. Anyway, the nice thing for you, the reader, is that you don't need to read any of these footnotes [Note, there is no modifier!] LATE BREAKING NEWS: IT IS 9:36 AM ON THURSDAY JANUARY 6, 2024 AND IT IS actualllllllly SNOWING!

Here we go with the notes:

(1) "'The Little Gidding' is the fourth and final poem of T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets, a series of poems that discuss time, perspective, humanity, and salvation. It was first published in September 1942 after being delayed for over a year because of the air-raids on Great Britain during World War II and Eliot's declining health. The title refers to a small Anglican community in Little Gidding in Huntingdonshire, established by Nicholas Ferrar in the 17th century and scattered during the English Civil War."

"Within the poem, the narrator meets a ghost that is a combination of various poets and literary figures. Little Gidding focuses on the unity of past, present, and future, and claims that understanding this unity is necessary for salvation."

(2) "Calculus is the study of how things CHANGE [my caps not MIT's!] It provides a framework for modeling systems in which there is CHANGE, and a way to deduce the predictions of such models."

And now, from MIT, comes something called "Calculus for Beginners." I offer it here, in mostly its entirety, at the end of this story, but I really don't recommend it to you. You will see why the moment you start to read it! So, like I said, you don't need to read it but if you want to try, go right ahead! Oh. I should say up front that I think this itty bitty calculus book was probably almost certainly spit out by an AI creature, ie IT WAS GENERATED BY CHAT BOT. But of course that's not a reason to be prejudiced against it...is it?

0.2 What Is Calculus and Why do we Study it?

Calculus is the study of how things change. It provides a framework for modeling systems in which there is change, and a way to deduce the predictions of such models.

Q: I have been around for a while, and I know how things change, more or less. What can calculus add to that?

I am sure you know lots about how things change. And you have a qualitative notion of calculus. For example the concept of speed of motion is a notion straight from calculus, though it surely existed long before calculus did and you know lots about it.

Q: So what does calculus add for me?

It provides a way for us to construct relatively simple quantitative models of change, and to deduce their consequences.

Q: To what end?

With this you get the ability to find the effects of changing conditions on the system being investigated. By studying these, you can learn how to control the system to do make it do what you want it to do. Calculus, by giving engineers and you the ability to model and control systems gives them (and potentially you) extraordinary power over the material world.

The development of calculus and its applications to physics and engineering is probably the most significant factor in the development of modern science beyond where it was in the days of Archimedes. And this was responsible for the industrial revolution and everything that has followed from it including almost all the major advances of the last few centuries.

Q: Are you trying to claim that I will know enough about calculus to model systems and deduce enough to control them?

If you had asked me this question in 1990 I would have said no. Now it is within the realm of possibility, for some non-trivial systems, with your use of your laptop or desk computer.

Q: OK, but how does calculus models change? What is calculus like?

The fundamental idea of calculus is to study change by studying "instantaneous "change, by which we mean changes over tiny intervals of time.

Q: And what good is that?

It turns out that such changes tend to be lots simpler than changes over finite intervals of time. This means they are lots easier to model. In fact calculus was invented by Newton, who discovered that acceleration, which means change of speed of objects could be modeled by his relatively simple laws of motion.

And so?

This leaves us with the problem of deducing information about the motion of objects from information about their speed or acceleration. And the details of calculus involve the interrelations between the concepts exemplified by speed and acceleration and that represented by position.

[HUH?]

[So, Hey. If by some miracle you are still reading, didn't I tell you that you didn't need to?]

Q: So what does one study in learning about calculus?

To begin with you have to have a framework for describing such notions as position speed and acceleration.

Single variable calculus, which is what we begin with, can deal with motion of an object along a fixed path. The more general problem, when motion can take place on a surface, or in space, can be handled by multivariable calculus. We study this latter subject by finding clever tricks for using the one dimensional ideas and methods to handle the more general problems. So single variable calculus is the key to the general problem as well.

When we deal with an object moving along a path, its position varies with time we can describe its position at any time by a single number, which can be the distance in some units from some fixed point on that path, called the origin of our coordinate system. (We add a sign to this distance, which will be negative if the object is behind the origin.)

The motion of the object is then characterized by the set of its numerical positions at relevant points in time.

[STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP YOU NEED TO STOP READING!!!]

The set of positions and times that we use to describe motion is what we call a function. And similar functions are used to describe the quantities of interest in all the systems to which calculus is applied.

The course here starts with a review of numbers and functions and their properties. You are undoubtedly familiar with much of this, so we have attempted to add unfamiliar material to keep your attention while looking at it.

Q: I will get bogged down if I read about such stuff. Must I?

[YOU MUST BE BOGGED

DOWN BY NOW. NOW JUST STOP READING!

OR AT LEAST SKIM SKIM SKIM SKIM

THIS IS ME, CLAUDIA THE REAL AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK SAYING: JUST STOP READING!]

[OR AT LEAST START TO SKIM SKIM SKIM SKIM!!!! Or as the AI author says below: SKIPPPPP IT!!!] I would love to have you look at it, since I wrote it, but if you prefer not to, you could undoubtedly get by SKIPPING IT, and referring back to it when or if you need to do so. However you will miss the new information, and doing so could blight you forever. (Though I doubt it.)

Q: And what comes after numbers and functions?

A typical course in calculus covers the following topics:

1. How to find the instantaneous change (called the "derivative") of various functions. (The process of doing so is called "differentiation".) 2. How to use derivatives to solve various kinds of problems. 3. How to go back from the derivative of a function to the function itself. (This process is called "integration".) 4. Study of detailed methods for integrating functions of certain kinds. 5. How to use integration to solve various geometric problems, such as computations of areas and volumes of certain regions. There are a few other standard topics in such a course. These include description of functions in terms of power series, and the study of when an infinite series "converges " to a number.

So where does this empower me to do what?

It doesn't really do so. The problem is that such courses were first designed centuries ago, and they were aimed not at empowerment (at that time utterly impossible) but at familiarizing their audience with ideas and concepts and notations which allow understanding of more advanced work. Mathematicians and scientists and engineers use concepts of calculus in all sorts of contexts and use jargon and notations that, without your learning about calculus, would be completely inscrutable to you. The study of calculus is normally aimed at giving you the "mathematical sophistication" to relate to such more advanced work.

So why this nonsense about empowerment?

This course will try to be different and to aim at empowerment as well as the other usual goals. It may not succeed, but at least will try. And how will it try to perform this wonder? Traditional calculus courses emphasize algebraic methods for performing differentiating and integrating. We will describe such methods, but also show how you can perform differentiation and integration (and also solution of ordinary differential equations) on a computer spreadsheet with a tolerable amount of effort. We will also supply applets which do the same automatically with even less effort. With these applets, or a spreadsheet, you can apply the tools of calculus with greater ease and flexibility than has been possible before. (There are more advanced programs that are often available, such as MAPLE and Mathematica, which allow you to do much more with similar ease. With them you can deduce the consequences of models of various kinds

[blah blah blah blah blah]

Oh No No No Bisnonno How Could You?

Dear Bisnonno Pasquale,

I am meditating this morning, when once again I AM FLOODED WITH YOU!

All of a sudden, while chanting the "OHHHH" sound that corresponds to the heart chakra,

I have an even deeper insight into your son Francis' death.

I keep chanting the "OH" sound, which reverberates around my heart, and all of a sudden I open my journal and start writing: "Wait...GUILT...of course you felt GUILTY!

"You let your son, only seven, and your grandsons, ages four and three,

PLAY NEAR A BUSY STREET? MY GOD BISNONNO

HHHHHHOW COULD YOU? HOW COULD YOU?"

THIS WAS A BUSY STREET -- right across the street from a baseball field -- WHERE THERE WERE SO MANY MANY CARRRRRRRRRRRRS GOING BY!"

I feel like I am shrieking onto paper.

And then I open my mouth and I SHOUT OUT LOUD:

"WHAT THE HELL, WHAT POSSESSED YOU TO DO THAT?

WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?"

I stop shouting. I realize that I am angry, angry at you, Bisnonno,

and ANGRY AT ME

BECAUSE I AM YOU AND I AM ME TOO

and perhaps I/you are also angry at your wife, Bisnonna Caterina, and your daughters too, none of whom were watching out for Francis!

How could all of you stand by while Francis played in a place where he could get hurt?

I START SHOUTING OUT LOUD AGAIN:

"MY GOD WOULD YOU GIVE THEM CIGARETTES TO SMOKE?

WOULD YOU LET THEM PLAY WITH OPEN FLAMES?"

OH MY HEART MY HEART MY HEART OH MY ACHING HEART!

I BLAME MYSELF BECAUSE I AM TO BLAME I AM TO BLAME I AM HIM HE IS ME and we are

crying our heart out

our heart,

which is split open like an apple

(Bisnonno Pasquale Orzo, age 53, and his only son, Francis, age 2 and 1/2.)

Bisnonno, your precious son never never ever needed to die this way

BISNONNO, WITH ALL DUE RESPECT, I WOULDN'T DREAM OF LETTING MY PRECIOUS RONEN,

OR MY DARLING GRANDDAUGHTER DANI GO ANYWHERE NEAR THE GODDAMN STREET WITHOUT HOLDING TIGHTLY ONTO THEIR HANDS OR STANDING RIGHT BESIDE THEM!!

BECAUSE I AM A VERY VERY RESPONSIBLE

GMA. Grandma.

Sigh.

I stop writing. And shouting. My chest hurts. It burns and aches. I am sweating profusely!

Am I making myself sick FEELING ALL OF THIS ANCIENT EMOTION?

So I STOP. TAKE A BIG BREATH. LET IT OUT. ANOTHER BREATH. In, and out. And then I start to turn this heartbreaking situation around. I take charge of my emotions. I relax. I start meditating again. I focus on the mantra my husband taught me: "Free myself of ego, fill myself with LOVE." I ask for guidance to help me use my energy to turn the situation with Bisnonno arould. I am asking for inspiration to help me heal my ancestors!!!!

After I finish meditating, I write this:

"Bisnonno, we will make you clean again. We will mend your crushed heart. We will take the sin away, wipe away the guilt. WITH ONE SWIFT AND POWERFUL SENTENCE, WE WILL, ALL THESE YEARS LATER,

ERASE THE BLAME

WE WILL MEND YOUR BROKEN HEART. WE WILL END YOUR GUILT AND GRIEF.

And then over top of these words; I pick up a rainbow array of colored pencils and I draw this in my journal: an image of his...broken...heart.

I finish journaling.

I vow that I will stay calm the rest of the day!

******

I move to the sofa. My chest burns. I have PTSD regarding any and all chest pain. Even though my cancer occurred 21 years ago, like all trauma, a visceral memory of it is buried deep in my tissues. I still recoil from any reminders of the illness, which occurred in 2002, when I was diagnosed with lymphoma -- a tumor the size of a cantaloupe sat in the middle of my chest.

That's one reason why I chant the chakras each morning! To keep my heart chakra, and my lung chakra, and all the other energy centers of my body, clear. I've been doing this chanting for 21 years!

My new acupuncturist suggested that whenever I have chest congestion, I should cut a large onion into pieces, lay them on a cookie sheet and put them in the oven at 300 degrees. "Let them start to sweat," says Emily Kasten. "And when they do, put them into an old pillowcase and set that on your chest."

I do this now. Almost right away, the burning in my chest eases.

Later, still resting on the sofa, I edit this post. IMMEDIATELY after I finish editing, I open my email, AND THE VERY FIRST EMAIL IS from worldwide meditation expert Jack Kornfield. He is inviting me to listen to a podcast in which he will talk about human suffering and heartache. I am shocked when I turn the podcast on, because I feel like he is speaking directly to me this morning, as I feel myself locked heart to heart

with my great grandfather, trying to help him heal his 94-year old tragedy!

“Love, when it meets suffering," says Kornfield, "changes into a different quality of heart, which is compassion. It’s that quivering of the heart, when we feel in ourself or others, when we feel their struggles and their difficulties. It’s the resonance with them and the natural upwelling up of ‘How can I help?’”

Kornfield, who is a Buddhist monk and a PhD psychologist, constantly advocates for compassion and love and peace. The solutions to all the world's struggles "lie in the human heart," he says. He stresses that we must honor all of our feelings and struggles, even when "our hearts are broken open" by them.

Later on the podcast, he leads a meditation in which he suggests that I imagine a Divine spirit arriving to help me deal with my heartache and suffering or the suffering of others. One of those beings, he says, might be Mother Mary.

Of course! I recall now all of Perdita Finn's work with The Way of the Rose, and the Virgin's monthly addresses to worshipers in Woodstock. Maybe the key to unlocking healing for my ancestor is to pray to the Virgin Mary!

Ironically, Kornfield is speaking this morning with a really bad cold. He speaks so directly to me today, as I am feeling sick, as I am feeling so deeply my great grandfather's ancient pain and guilt, grief and suffering, that I am moved practically

to tears.

The End and the Beginning

December 26, 2023

Hi Donna,

So cousin, is this how it ends? With the story that follows here? Or is this perhaps how it begins? Or maybe the story wraps around on itself, and comes full circle!

After all the pages I’ve written, I realize today exactly where this story has been carrying me! In the beginning I was writing our great great grandmother's story, telling how Filomena Scrivano gave birth to Pasquale, our great grandfather, out of wedlock, in 1870, in southern Italy. But now, in the end, I know that I am supposed to write about the fact that "Bisnonno" Pasquale Orzo, our great grandfather, suffered unspeakable, unfathomable grief at the end of his life!

And it was not only Bisnonno who suffered.

There was the severe trauma suffered by his grandson, Robert Ricci, your dad and my uncle. Uncle Bob was just a little four-year old boy – my granddaughter Dani’s

age! -- on that agonizing day in August of 1929. My dad, Richard, was only three, young enough that he was blessedly spared any memory!

It was the afternoon of August 16, 1929, to be exact.

Perhaps the sun was shining -- an orange ball hanging in a deep blue sky. Perhaps it was very hot outdoors. Yes, it was muggy on that day in Bristol, Connecticut, at 295 Park Street, on the front porch where Bisnonno was sitting.

Sit sit sit sit sit down here now Bisnonno, please sit here with me, with us. We are going to sit together for as long as it takes to tell the story. No one should have to suffer this alone! But you did suffer alone for so many years.

“I no longer want to live.”

Is that what you said to me, or am I just making that up? I swear I heard you say it to me yesterday morning!

I know that if what happened to you in 1929 happened to me today, I would say it, “I no longer want to live. I no longer want to live.” Over and over and over again…

Non voglio piu vivere!

And so Bisnonno, is it any wonder that you had a stroke a year later? A stroke that kept you bedridden. A stroke that kept you from speaking for the last ten years of your life!

So, let me ask you this: after the stroke, was the pain lessened?

All this time I’ve been writing this year, I thought I was telling a story about your mother, Filomena. I thought it was my job to tell a story that would repair her reputation. Relieve your mother of the shame she had, giving birth to you out of wedlock back in Italy in 1870.

And also, I would try to relieve the sadness when she had to give you up shortly after you were born!

So yes, perhaps that was true to start!

But now, in my heart of hearts, I know now that I am supposed to tell another story too.

Because you see, the story of how the Orzo name came to be, back in Paola, in Italy, in 1870, that is one sad story.

But the other story is how the Orzo name came to die, at 295 Park Street in 1929!

And that story is so much sadder!

Now I know for sure. Part of the reason for my story is to explore your agony at the end of your life! And if that psychic Perdita Finn in Woodstock, New York, is right, telling this story will cure all of us descendents who inherited your pain and trauma through our DNA!

****

Francis. That was your son's name. But did you call him Francesco? Or Franco for short?

He was your only son, he was the tenth child for you and bisnonna Caterina. Nine girls and then, a miracle: in September of 1921, a little boy was born! Your last child.

“There must have been dancing in the streets!” You wrote that, Donna. And I agree. I can just see the family, the older sisters, and Caterina and Pasquale, the whole family, all crowded around the new baby boy in the cradle! You must have felt such a bounty of joy!

And then the disaster. When he was seven.

He was only seven years old and he was your only son and you saw him get hit by a car.

(Here is the only known photo of Great Grandpa Pasquale and his son, Francis Orzo.)

You were sitting on the porch perhaps with Bisnonna, perhaps you were using your elegant Fedora hat to fan yourself in the heat. Where was the rest of the family? Were your daughters sitting with you too?

Francis, who was with my Uncle Bob and my dad, decided that he wanted to get Bob some chokecherries to eat

from a tree across the street, near Muzzy Field -- a baseball field where in 1919 Babe Ruth hit a homerun! Francis walked between two parked cars heading for the chokecherry tree. In an effort to protect Bob, little Francis turned to tell him to wait there. Did he say it in English: "Stay there, Bob?" Or in Italian, "Stai li!"?

He wanted to spare an injury to Bob and also, to my Dad.

But in so doing, he wasn't looking where he was going, so Donna wrote, “he backed out into the street, where a car hit and killed him in view of my father and likely the family, watching on the porch!”

“Francis was rushed to a doctor’s office close by on Main Street, but died within a few minutes of arrival as a result of a fractured skull.”

Looking back now, Bisnonno, how long did you hold Francis there, in your arms, kneeling in the street? Did you carry your son to the car? Did you sit there weeping, holding him so tightly in the back seat? Who drove the two of you to the doctor's office?

What horrors went through your mind and heart? Did you scream out loud when the doctor told you what you already knew, that Francis was dead.

I know, I know. I am asking way too many questions. I am playing the role of the nosy reporter -- I once did that for a living, you see, asking the questions that reporters ask to try to ferret out the emotion, the truth, the story, and all its gory details.

The truth is I don’t really want to know any of it!

Except that I believe that Perdita Finn, the psychic, may be right, we as a family need to know, so that we can deeply immerse ourselves in that day, in that unfathomable tragedy, in order to clean out the wound that has festered for the past 94 years! As Ms. Finn claims, we can talk to our ancestors and render miracles with their help.

But can we actually help to heal our ancestors?

****

It is quite odd how all this hit me this morning, the day after Christmas, 2023.

On Christmas Day, my daughter Lindsay who lives in Colorado called me to share a very scary story. At Christmas dinner at her home, her husband’s 92-year old great aunt, a beloved relative, almost died while choking on green beans and steak. Lindsay’s sister-in-law Carly saved her aunt’s life by performing the Heimlich maneuver. Lindsay said, "Mom, it felt like it went on forever!" That same sister-in-law rode in the ambulance with her aunt. Thankfully, Aunt Rosi survived.

But everyone was extraordinarily traumatized. Me included – no matter that I was 2,000 miles away. Yesterday morning when I sat down to meditate, visions of that elderly woman choking kept flashing in my mind. And each time they did, tears sprung to my eyes. Then, when I began my morning chanting --

I was chanting OMMMMMMMMMM, the sound that soothes the heart --

when suddenly, with absolutely no warning

I was there with you Bisnonno in the street on August 16, 1929!

I stopped chanting. I was having trouble breathing. Ever so slowly I got up from my meditation bench and walked at a snail's pace down the hall. I collapsed on the sofa.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asked.

I couldn’t answer. I just shook my head. I was with Bisnonno, and with Francis. With four-year-old Uncle Bob and my three-year old Dad. I was so overhwhelmed with sadness that I just sat there on the sofa, speechless.

“Could you…bring me a glass of water?” I croaked finally. I was there in the street kneeling, collapsing in grief over the body of that seven-year-old boy.

Why was my reaction so intense? Perhaps because on Christmas Day, I had celebrated with my beloved grandchildren, one of whom is an amazing boy of nine. The joy I felt on Christmas Day with him and his little sister of four was still flooding my bloodstream.

And here now I was face to face with the reality that in the blink of an eye, an ancestor of mine had lost a precious little boy. Bob and Francis “were both one month shy of their September birthdays. Francis would have been eight years old and my dad, five years old.”

I tried to keep myself from thinking how I would feel were it my grandson, injured. Is it any wonder that I was having trouble breathing? It took all of my energy NOT to imagine my grandson!

I spent the next hour writing very very slowly in my journal. Using different colored pens and pencils to put down on paper what I was feeling.

Oh Bisnonno, I was with you when, as Donna wrote, you kept going into the street where Francis died, you kept staring at the bloodstain. As if somehow that could change what happened to your son.

Sometimes with grief this deep, we keep revisiting the event, we keep repeating what happened in our mind, over and over and over again. We do this because we are trying so desperately to make sense of it. To understand it. To accept what we can never accept.

Death of all kinds is hard.

Death of a loved one is heartbreaking.

Death of a beloved child?

No words. No words. There were no words for the never ending sorrow that lasts forever.

Some 84 years later, Donna accompanied her 89-year old father, my Uncle Bob, to the place where Francis died. "My father said that he and his grandfather stared at the bloodstain in the road for what seemed like months.”

“…my dad shook his head at the memory of that awful day as if to make it not so. Although he never verbalized it to me, I believe it is possible that dad spent years with that tragedy as a shadow that followed him.”

Of course he carried that shadow because shadows like this are not easily erased.

And here now, in 2024 we are still staring at the shadow, at the bloodstain. We still feel the desperate pinch of sadness that began on that desperate August day that little Francis perished.

******

Is it possible that the reason I have never heard you speak to me before, Bisnonno Pasquale, is because all this time, down deep, I knew I had to keep this bottomless well of sadness a secret? Because it was too painful to bring it to light?

This isn’t the story I bargained for, is it? But I think this is the story that I was supposed to tell all along.

So is that what this book is going to do? Somehow erase the shadow, or at least make a space to contain it, because in a real sense, that shadow has followed all of us through the years and we didn’t even know it!

****

One very nice thing about telling a story, about writing it down, is that you can always add more! You can make the story go forward by adding a new ending. You can, by extending the narrative, find joy and redemption in the end, despite the pain.

So please now, per favore ora, sit down here with us dear Bisnonno Pasquale, sit here with us as we see the family that you gave birth to!

Sit with all of your grandchildren -- I know two of them, my Aunt Bette and her sister, my Aunt Cathy! Sit with your great grandchildren and all of your great great grandchildren and all of your great great great grandchildren

way too numerous for me to count at this moment!!

See how you filled the world with children? Does it help to see this? All these adults and children and babies?

There is Evie, Donna's granddaughter, who is five. In my family, we’ve got Ronen who is nine. We’ve got that little spitfire Dani who is four. We’ve got Monte (which means mountain in Italian) -- the little cherub who is one and lives in Colorado.

And there are more! There are my sister Karen's red-haired, blue-eyed grandchildren: Lily, who is four, and Scarlett, who is nine months! There are my cousin Lisa Kiely‘s grandchildren -- triplets -- and there are so many more I don't know...YET! Before this book is finished, and with the help of Donna and my sister Holly and so many other relatives, I will write down the names and ages of all of the children that I can possibly identify.

All of these children, dear Bisnonno, are descended from you! It gives me goosebumps to think that you have populated a small town at least, all on your own (okay, you had Bisnonna’s help.)

And all this time I thought I was just writing your mother‘s story. All this time I thought my task was to dispel the shame she passed down -- the shame that was nothing compared to the pain of this powerful story!

The End and the Beginning

December 26, 2023

Hi Donna,

So cousin, is this how it ends? With the story that follows here? Or is this perhaps how it begins? Or maybe the story wraps around on itself, and comes full circle!

After all the pages I’ve written, I realize today exactly where this story has been carrying me! In the end, I am supposed to write about the fact that dear bisnonno Pasquale Orzo, your great grandfather and mine, suffered unspeakable, unfathomable grief at the end of his life!

And it was not only bisnonno that suffered.

There was the trauma suffered by his grandson, Robert Ricci, your dad and my uncle. Uncle Bob was just a little four-year old boy – my granddaughter Dani’s age! -- on that agonizing day in August of 1929. My dad, Richard, was only three, so young he was blessedly spared any memory!

It was the afternoon of August 16, 1929, to be exact.

Perhaps the sun was shining -- an orange ball hanging in a deep blue sky. Perhaps it was very hot out. Yes, it was muggy on that day in Bristol, Connecticut, at 295 Park Street,

on the front porch where bisnonno was sitting.

Sit sit sit sit sit down here now bisnonno, please sit here with me, with us. We are going to sit together for as long as it takes to tell the story. No one should have to suffer this alone! But you did suffer alone for so many years.

“I no longer want to live.”

Is that what you said to me or am I just making that up? I swear I heard you say it to me yesterday morning!

I know that if what happened to you in 1929 happened to me today, I would say it, “I no longer want to live. I no longer want to live.” Over and over and over again…

Non voglio piu vivere!

And so bisnonno, is it any wonder that you had a stroke a year later? A stroke that kept you bedridden. A stroke that kept you from speaking for the last ten years of your life!

So, let me ask you this: after the stroke, was the pain lessened?

All this time I’ve been writing this year, I thought I was telling a story about your mother, Filomena. I thought it was my job to tell a story that would repair her reputation. Relieve your mother of the shame she had, giving birth to you out of wedlock back in Italy in 1870.

And also, I would try to relieve the sadness when she had to give you up!

So yes, perhaps that was true to start!

But now, in my heart of hearts, I know now that I am supposed to tell a different story.

Because you see, the story of how the Orzo name came to be, back in Paola, in Italy, in 1870, that is one story,

But the other story is how the Orzo name came to die, at 295 Park Street in 1929!

Now I know for sure. The real reason for my story is to explore your agony at the end of your life! And if that psychic Perdita Finn in Woodstock, New York, is right, telling this story will cure all of us descendents who inherited your pain and trauma through our DNA!

****

Francis. That was your son's name. But did you call him Francesco? Fran? Or Franco for short?

He was your only son, he was the tenth child for you and bisnonna Caterina. Nine girls and then, a miracle: in September of 1921, a little boy was born! Your last child.

“There must have been dancing in the streets!” You wrote that, Donna. And I agree. I can just see the family, the older sisters, Caterina and Pasquale, the whole family. all crowded around the baby boy in the cradle! You must have felt such a bounty of joy!

And then the disaster. When he was seven.

He was only seven years old and he was your only son and you saw him get hit by a car.

You were sitting on the porch perhaps with bisnonna, perhaps you were using your straw hat to fan yourself in the heat. Where was the rest of the family? Were your daughters sitting with you?

Francis, who was with my Uncle Bob and my dad, wanted to get Bob some chokecherries

from a tree across the street, near Muzzy Field. And so Francis walked between two parked cars. In an effort to protect Bob, little Francis turned to tell him to wait there. Did he say it in English: stay there, Bob? Or in Italian, stai li!?

He wanted to spare an injury to Bob and my dad.

But in so doing, he wasn't looking where he was going, “he backed out into the street, where a car hit and killed him in view of my father and likely the family, watching on the porch!”

“Francis was rushed to a doctor’s office close by on Main Street, but died within a few minutes of arrival as a result of a fractured skull.”

Looking back, bisnonno, how long did you hold Francis there, in your arms, kneeling in the street? Did you carry your son to the car? Did you sit with him in the back seat? Who drove?

What horrors went through your mind and heart? Did you scream out loud when the doctor pronounced him dead?

I know, I know. I am asking way too many questions. I am playing the reporter that I once was, asking the questions that reporters ask to try to ferret out the emotion, the truth, the story, and all its gory details.

The truth is I don’t really want to know any of it!

Except that I believe that Perdita Finn may be right, we as a family need to know, so that we can deeply immerse ourselves in that day, in that unfathomable tragedy, in order to clean out the wound that has festered for the past 94 years! As Perdita Finn says, we can heal our ancestors.

****

It is quite odd how all this hit me this morning, the day after Christmas, 2023.

On Christmas Day, my daughter Lindsay who lives in Colorado called me to share some scary news. At Christmas dinner, her husband’s 92-year old great aunt, a beloved relative, almost died while choking on green beans and steak. Lindsay’s sister-in-law saved her aunt’s life by performing the Heimlich maneuver. Lindsay said, "Mom, it felt like it went on forever!" That same sister-in-law rode in the ambulance with her aunt. Thankfully, Aunt Rosi survived.

But everyone was extraordinarily traumatized. Me included – no matter that I was 2,000 miles away. Yesterday morning when I sat down to meditate, visions of that elderly woman choking kept flashing in my mind. And each time they did, tears sprung to my eyes. I had to keep stopping. Then, when I began my morning chanting, suddenly, with absolutely no warming

I was there with you bisnonno in the street on August 16, 1929!

I stopped chanting. I was having trouble breathing. Ever so slowly I got up from meditation and walked slowly down the hall and collapsed on the sofa.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asked.

I couldn’t answer. I just shook my head. I was with bisnonno. I was with five-year-old Uncle Bob and my dad. I was overhwhelmed and I could barely speak.

“Could you…bring me a glass of water?” I croaked.

I had no warning, I was there in the street kneeling, collapsing in grief over the body of that seven-year-old boy.

Why was my reaction so intense? Perhaps because on Christmas Day, I had celebrated with my beloved grandchildren, one of whom is an amazing boy of nine. The joy I felt on Christmas Day with him and his little sister was still flooding my bloodstream.

And here now I was face to face with the reality that in the blink of an eye somebody had lost a precious little boy.

I tried to keep myself from thinking about my grandson, injured.

Is it any wonder that I was having trouble breathing? It took all of my to NOT imagine my grandson.

I spent the next hour writing very very slowly in my journal. Using colored pencils. Writing down my feelings. Very very slowly. Putting down only a few words, trying to spell out the emotion I was feeling.

Oh bisnonno, I was with you now, I am here with you now, because when it comes to some kinds of grief, there is no time! There is only eternal sorrow. Sorrow that lasts more than one lifetime. Sorrow that lasts forever!

When it comes to unspeakable sorrow, you keep returning to the episode, over and over and over and over and over and over never stopping forever

to the little boy backing up into the street between two parked cars, that boy, bleeding, lying in the street. I’m trying NOT to imagine this but I can’t stop myself. Because yesterday was Christmas and I spent Christmas with my nine-year-old grandson and his four-year-old sister!

And that's the other thing. With sorrow like this, there is no end to the repetition. When it hit me yesterday morning I realized sometimes we keep repeating things in our mind over and over again. We repeat it because we are trying so desperately to absorb it. To understand it. To accept what we can never accept.

Death of all kinds is hard.

Death of a loved one is heartbreaking.

Death of a beloved child?

No words. No words. Never ending now o wow ow wowow ow sorrow that lasts forever.

Sometimes we go over and over and over them over and over and over them because some broken hearts never mend some memories never end isn’t that a song? And all these long long long years later

Donna, you wrote this: on that August day in 1929, both Bob and Francis “were both one month shy of their September birthdays. Francis would have been eight years old and my dad, five years old.” Some 84 years later, when you went to the old Park Street house with your dad, who was almost 90 years old, "he said that he and his grandfather stared at the bloodstain in the road for what seemed like months.”

“…my dad shook his head at the memory of that awful day as if to make it not so. Although he never verbalized it to me, I believe it is possible that dad spent years with that tragedy as a shadow that followed him.”

Of course he carried that shadow because shadows like this are not easily be erased.

And here now, 94 years later, we are still staring at the shadow, at the bloodstain. We still feel the desperate pinch of sadness that began on the desperate August day that little Francis perished.

******

Is it possible that I never wanted to tell this story? Is it possible that the reason I have never heard you speak to me before, bisnonno Pasquale, is because all this time, down deep, I knew I had to keep this bottomless well of sadness a secret? Because it was too painful to bring it to light?

This isn’t the story I bargained for, is it? But I think this is the story that I was supposed to tell all along.

So is that what this book is going to do? Somehow erase the shadow, or at least make a space to contain it, because in a real sense, that shadow has followed all of us for all these years and we didn’t even know it!

****

So the nice thing about telling a story, writing it down, is that you can always add more. You can make the story go further. You can even find joy and redemption in the end, despite the pain.

So please now, per favore ora, sit down here with us dear bisnonno Pasquale, sit here with us to see the family that you gave birth to!

Sit with all of your great grandchildren and all of your great great grandchildren and all of your great great great grandchildren

way too numerous for me to count at this moment

See how you filled the world with children? Does it help to see this? All these adults and children and babies?

There is Evie, Donna's granddaughter, who is five. In my family, we’ve got Ronen who is nine. We’ve got that little spitfire Dani who is four. We’ve got Monte (mountain in Italian) the little cherub who is one and lives in Colorado.

And there are more! There are my sister Karen's red-haired, blue-eyed grandchildren: Lily, who is four, and Scarlett, who is nine months! And there are so many MANYMORE! There are my cousin Lisa Kiely‘s grandchildren who are triplets and there are so many more I don't know... Before this book is finished, and with the help of Donna and my sister Holly and other relatives, I will write down the names and ages of all of the children that I can possibly identify.

All of these children, dear bisnonno, are descended from you! It gives me goosebumps to think that you have populated a small town at least, all on your own (ok, with bisnonna’s help.)

And all this time I thought I was just writing your mother‘s story. All this time I thought I had only to dispel the shame she passed down -- the shame that was nothing compared to the pain of this powerful story!