My family tree is sparse. What I know about previous generations I learned by hiding behind the sofa when I was supposed to be in bed while the adults sat around the kitchen table reminiscing. I have more Intel from my mom’s side of the family because she and her sister’s were storytellers without knowing it. I wonder sometimes if this influence has something to do with my love of writing, and making up stories.
My Latin family had secrets, exotic and mysterious ones, and the only way to learn them was to resort to tactile maneuvers while the girls—my mom and her sisters–poured sweet wine into their tumblers while listening to an eclectic selection of albums, the combo set the tone for the story hours. Telling stories preceded dancing, which meant the LP’s dropping down on the Magnavox were the mellow sounds of my dad’s collection. It was probably Eddie Fisher, Patsy Cline, The Four Tops, and Dean Martin, anything pleasant that didn’t get the foot taping or change their mood. A ritual went along with our annual family reunion dinners, rowdy drinking music during dinner preparation, Glenn Miller and Artie Shaw during dinner, and then after, background music during their memory weaving. Much later, there would be more wine, and dancing music.
More »
