Imagine a jigsaw puzzle, or rather imagine a handful of puzzle pieces on a blank slate. That describes my childhood memories. Each piece because they are so few is special. I often revisit this puzzle because it gives insights into myself, my family, and the world around me.

Welcome to The Memory Project. In 2019 I recorded a memory for each family member and share it on their birthdays.

March 5

Molly

Poor Old Ireland

Molly was a true friend and ally.  She was a year younger than me but that didn’t make a difference. She was smart enough to hold a conversation and she caused me no trouble. The topic of one such conversation was ‘poor old Ireland’.

I can’t recall the year but St. Patrick’s Day was near. Mom was busy cleaning and Irish music streamed from the oversized record console: The Wearing of the Green, I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen, A Little Bit of Heaven fell upon the sea one day.  Songs that were more sad than happy.

Molly asked me, “Do you believe in poor old Ireland?”

My concept of Ireland at the time was formed by those songs, by a sense that we were Irish, and by the decorations for St. Patrick’s Day.

She continued, “Mom says it was sick but got better” and asked she asked me again, “Do you believe in poor old Ireland”? 

She clearly personified the Poor Old Ireland.  It never occurred to me whether or not to believe in Poor Old Ireland. I believed in Santa Claus. At Christmastime we decorated the house with cutouts of Santa Claus and there we were, near Saint Patrick’s Day, decorating the house with cutouts of Ireland.

Could Ireland have been sick and got better? We talked about it. It made sense. That would explain the shape. It looked sick. Like a blob of green finger paint.

 And it looked like it got better.  The Ireland hanging on our window had two big white eyes. It held a pipe in a smile that stretched from Limerick to Kilkenny and the Northern provinces were covered by a green hat with a shamrock on it.

Do I believe in Poor Old Ireland?

Sure, Moll, I believe in Poor Old Ireland.

***

March 25

Mom

Wiffle Ball and The Rosary

Wiffle ball was the finest expression of Mom’s inner fire that illuminated and eliminated any shadowy remnants of sadness. The Rosary fueled that fire.

 

As pitcher, umpire, and boss Mom directed the game.  Her rules were final but flexible: a batter was allowed as many strikes she allowed; invisible base runners ran as fast as the runner behind them; first base was the azalea except for Mary Kate who could run to the magnolia -  because her friends lived there.

 

         Mom exaggerated the motions of major leaguer pitchers. She leaned forward to read a signal from a catcher who wasn’t there.  Then she stood straight and slowly raised one leg and wound one arm like a windmill. Around and around that arm went until she decided where to place the pitch.

 

         She pitched fast to good hitters. She told very small batters to hold the bat over the plate so she could hit it with a pitch.  If you were sassy she would “strike you out so fast your head will spin.”

How did she do it, (this not yet 40 year old widow with eight kids?) It wasn’t all sun dappled days of Wiffle ball. Days turned to nights. Seasons changed. Life went on. To keep those shadowy remnants of sadness in check Mom sometimes gathered us to say the Rosary.

At first I hated the Rosary.  Family Rosary was so sad that it was frightening.  I remember being in a circle of raw emotions feeling like ‘this is the plan? Magic beads?’  

As time went by I began to realize that the Rosary wasn’t sad and frightening, life was sad and frightening. The Rosary helped. As we passed around a long chain of green marble beads from County Knock, each one of us taking our turn to lead the prayers, and I felt peaceful and safe. 

Eventually I understood that yes, this is the plan, magic beads.

It still is.

***

 

May 1

 

Kevin

 

           Kevin was the first baby I remember. He was born fat and squirmy. A few years later he was wiry energetic with a short fuse, nothing like the pensive erudite that we know and love today.

When did it happen? When did the hyper-active boy start to become an intellectual?  Maybe it was…

***The day kevin read a book***

The day Kevin read a book started like any other Saturday except that Kevin missed breakfast.  Somebody said that he was reading in bed.  Mom said to leave him alone and let him read.  We carried on with our Saturday morning routines.

Then the whispering began. Somebody told somebody that Kevin was reading a real book, not a comic book. Eventually the rumor reached Mom who said to leave him alone and let him read.

In a little while it was confirmed.  Someone risked Kevin’s explosive temper and interrupted him.  The message went from sibling to sibling: ‘Kevin is reading a real book, Treasure Island, and he is already on page 30.’

Oh I remember the day clearly.

Kevin was far too young to read a real book. How could it be true? Kevin can’t read a book. Maybe he was pretending, or worse - maybe he was lying. We took the case to Mom who said to leave him alone and let him read. 

Hours passed. Kevin missed lunch, but not peacefully. There was one of him, supposedly reading a book, and there were a bunch of us, curious and suspicious.  He was repeatedly interrupted by siblings with mixed motives.

“He is on page 57!”

“Now he is on page 73!”

We reported his progress to Mom who said to leave him alone and let him read.

I doubted it. I thought he was too hyper to sit still long enough to read a book. I decided to check it out for myself.  It may have been the fifth or even tenth time somebody barged into his room.

 “What are you doing?” I challenged.

 Kevin immediately screamed back at me.

“I’M READING A BOOK! WHY IS EVERYBODY BOTHERING ME!”

I coolly continued my inquiry “Oh yeah? what’s it called”

“TREASURE ISLAND! GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”

Unfazed I continued. “Oh yeah? what page are you on?”

“ONE HUNDRED FIFTY SEVEN NOW LEAVE ME ALONE AND LET ME READ!”

So I walked over and checked the title, Treasure Island, and I checked the page number, 157.  I was convinced. 

Soon everyone was convinced. Kevin was actually reading a book.  The tone in the household changed. We rallied around Kevin and his project like we were supporting an Indy 500 racer. We’d ask ourselves about his progress but not dare interrupt. If he got up for the bathroom or a snack we’d quietly make way.

He finally emerged for dinner Sunday night and said like it was nothing that he read Treasure Island and it was ‘pretty good’.

I was proud of my little brother.  I would never waste time reading a book, especially on a weekend.

***

May 25

Patrick Kelly,

Entomologist, Historian

Sometimes you learn more from your next older sibling than from anyone else.

 When I started first grade I couldn’t read but I knew every creepy crawly critter that lived in and around the big house on Roumfort Rd.  There were ants: red black, carpenter, wolf spiders, daddy longlegs (not true spiders) different types of bees, flies, hornets, wasps and beetles. Somehow Pat knew to dumb it down for me.  He didn’t say millipedes or centipedes, he called them thousand-leggers and hundred-leggers. I knew every living thing that might be found in a dark corner, or under a rock, or in the bark of a log or flying through the air and I learned it all from Patrick

But that’s not all I learned.  Even at a very young age Patrick had an expansive view of world history. He understood the great struggles of mankind. With little plastic soldiers he taught me about World War II. He separated a pile of them by color explaining, “The green ones are Americans. They win.  The gray ones are Germans. They all die - you can be the Germans.” Pat introduced each soldier and his function: the machine gunner, mortar launcher, radio man, grenade thrower, belly crawler, and the flame thrower.  I set up my Germans. As they were obliterated by the Americans I added drama by flipping them in the air, spinning them across the floor and smashing them with heavy objects.

 He understood the suffering of oppressed peoples.  I suspect that Patrick was behind little Molly’s anxiety for ‘Poor Old Ireland’ because I remember him telling me, with that same matter-of-fact manner of speech that he uses today, “Did you know that Ireland is the most distressful country the world has ever seen?” I didn’t know what ‘distressful’ meant but I knew it was bad when he said, “It’s true. They’re hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.”

He understood the sacrifices that move us forward. Patrick taught me about the American Civil War.  He put on one of two little soldier costumes. It was a blue overall with an American flag on the shoulder. There was a little blue cap with an emblem of gold colored plastic bayonets.  He explained that Civil War was a great and bloody war, it was fought to free the slaves, and that the North wore blue and the North won. 

Then he showed me the little gray suit … with its little gray cap …each emblazoned with a Confederate battle flag.

It wasn’t enough that I fight and die in hand to hand combat.  This was a great cause! I had to die dramatically.  He decided that bayonet was the way to go.  After teaching me all about the bayonet we played at the great and glorious struggle between North and South. I died many great and glorious deaths, because it was a great and glorious war.

Happy Birthday Pat! If nobody wants your history lessons anymore…your bee colony might listen.

*** 

June 20

Jimmy

Obsessed with Adventure!

Admit it! Some of Jimmy’s obsessions were absolutely loveable.

When Atari 2600 arrived on Christmas Day we thought that we were too old for games but we were wrong. The family room table, witness to thousands of hours of board games was transformed with a television set… wired to a game console…wired to joysticks.  More than the Christmas Tree, more than a warm fire, more than Christmas dinner, this bizarre machine grabbed our collective attention.

And Jimmy was obsessed with Adventure.

Play it here:  https://my.ign.com/atari/adventure  be sure to choose full-screen mode turn up the volume and dim the lights. 

Can you resist exploring the entire maze?

I think not.

But, it wasn’t just the tedious, maddening, repetitious nature of moving the square thing through its quest that drew in Jimmy.  Our brother had a great sense of humor!  He loved the dragon attacks.  He would go out of his way for dragon attacks, then laugh hysterically, then do it over again.

Why?

Because Atari 2600’s Adventure had the silliest looking dragon in the universe of video. Jimmy played countless hours that winter saying things like “here comes the duck!”, “watch out for the duck!” and crack up laughing every time the ‘duck’ ate the square thing.

 ***

            June 25

Dad

 and the real meaning of Christmas

Christmas was so near that a new word was needed.  It was Christmas Eve-Eve. Everything was almost ready and my behavior was almost as good as it could be. A kind of tension existed between the explosive excitement for Christmas Day and the reverence for what it means.

In the peaceful living room that balanced the near chaos of the family room and the near order of the rest of the house Dad sat by the fire listening to a Christmas record and holding a sleeping child. I don’t recall the year but it may have been his last Christmas Eve-Eve.

When I left the family room to pass from chaos to order, he said ‘sit down with me for a while’. And so I sat there in the dark, with my back to the warm fire watching him watching the baby.  The record ended with Silent Night, after which he said ‘This is the real meaning of Christmas’

***

 

 

September 12

Me

A note from Molly

“...I always felt that Bren & I had a very unique place in our family of 8 siblings. Bren was the “youngest of the oldest” and I was the “oldest of the youngest”. So we sort of formed a natural and unspoken alliance being “stuck in the middle of 8”! Bren was made fun of for his Chinese eyes and webbed toes and just being the overall “runt” of the older litter of boys. I felt I had to be more responsible and a “little mommy” to my younger sister and brothers. Therefore we found ourselves helping each other through the craziness of family life on Roumfort Road. Bren, you helped me step outside my comfort zone and take chances and be spontaneous. My first walk to the movie theater was with you. You showed me the way down Rat Road and thru the thicket and overgrown tracks (way before this was “beer haven”). I felt so adventurous trekking thru the forest and crossing a busy street to get to Market Square. I felt safe with you. I remember that you encouraged me (probably with teasing) to do my 1st flip off the High Dive. Not the diving board, but the high rocks. I’m sure nobody clapped or cared but I felt proud and daring. Bren, your adventurous, fun, “ben-shur” spirit is a huge part of who you are and it has always been selflessly shared by you. Your enthusiasm for life is contagious and there is never a dull ordinary moment with you! Enjoy your birthday”

Thanks Moll!

*** 

 October 8

Introducing…

Dan

At seven years old my world was small and Mom and Dad were such a big part of it that the last months of waiting for the new baby filled up significant portion of my total awareness.

It was a fascinating summer. Mom let one or sometimes two of us sit with her as she watched baseball so we could put our hands on her belly and feel the baby kick. And there was always ice cream.

Dad was an adventurer, always full of surprises.  He’d pile us into the car to without telling the destination.  If we crossed the green cage-like Falls Bridge then we were headed for the zoo.  If Mom pointed out the gleaming gold Joan of Arc statue then maybe we would see the Liberty Bell or visit the Franklin Institute.

When Mom went away to have the new baby Dad once again piled us in the car.  We didn’t cross Falls Bridge. We didn’t see Joan of Arc. We followed the familiar school-worn path up Germantown Avenue and pulled into a parking lot.  Somebody figured it out and said that we’re at the hospital.

 We were visiting mom!

Sort of. Dad slowly drove the station wagon around the back of the hospital and counted the windows. At a prearranged spot we were unloaded from the car and our gazes directed several stories upwards to a little window where Mom presented our new brother.

Happy Birthday Dan!

 

***

 

October 9

Mike

and Floyd

The raccoons were always there. At least that’s how it seemed.  They were certainly there before because I remember Dad caught two in a big trap and released them on the trail of Wissahickon Creek. Either they came back, or he didn’t get them all because they were there after.  He was gone but they were there, still living in the hole in the ceiling of the garage.

At first they were like ghosts, rattling trash cans in the night, offering a rare shadowy glimpse.  That was until Mike named and trained them. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album was well into its epic run on the charts and snagged Mike along the way.  He named the big one Floyd.

The raccoon training started with unattended food left late at night. By degrees the food was left earlier and more attended. Soon Floyd was showing up at dinner time. He especially loved fried chicken – everybody loved fried chicken.

I was nervous the first time I fed Floyd by hand. Mike was there to steady me.  We sat on the back porch with a half-eaten fried chicken breast.  It was early evening but there was still plenty of light. Mike spotted Floyd and signaled for me to be still.  Floyd smelled the chicken and gave us a good long stare.  Mike signaled for me to slowly hold out the chicken in my hand. Floyd walked carefully across the driveway and stopped at my feet to give me a sniff.  Mike had told me earlier to be absolutely still.  He couldn’t tell me again because the game was on.  I slowed my breathing and tried to be still.

Then Floyd reached up to sniff the chicken, resting his little hands on me for balance.  I felt his whiskers on my fingers as he gripped the piece in his teeth and waddled away.

Thanks Mike! It was worth the risk of rabies!

***

 

November 4

Mary Kate

 as “Wendy”

Born in waning weeks of the sixties Mary Kate always had one winged foot in the Age of Aquarius. As a little girl she lived in two worlds: our world and her own world of make believe. 

This memory is from a Wiffle Ball game when Mary Kate was in her Wendy phase. That is to say she dressed like Wendy, she answered to ‘Wendy,’ and to see her skip by fluttering her hands you might almost believe she could fly.

The bases were loaded with a combination of real and invisible runners. I had a runner on 3^rd but my duty was to defend 1^st. Wendy was at home base. I watched form the doomed azalea wondering whether runners advanced if she ran to the magnolia tree. She wore a blue pajama dress with no shoes and stood about as tall as the yellow bat that she held above her blonde head.

Mom was lobbing well aimed arcs.

“Ball one!” called Mom, “Just hold the bat.”

“Ball two!”

The next pitch hit the bat above Wendy’s shoulder and dropped to her feet.

“FAIR BALL!”

And with great excitement Wendy checked back into our world and fluttered up the 3^rd base line.

“SAFE!” ruled Mom as she retrieved the ball.

“But I have a runner on 3^rd” I yelled

“Quiet,” she commanded

Wendy, now fully part of our world, rounded 3^rd and tagged 2^nd.

“SAFE AGAIN!” ruled Mom as she worked with the next batter.

Now there were two runners on 2^nd: one taking a lead towards 3^rd, and Mary Kate, eagerly staring down the 2^nd base line threatening to steal 1^st.  I was wondering where my runner on 3^rd went and how to field the next hit when…

“FAIR BALL!” … the game went on.

 

***

 

I hope you enjoyed a year of Kelly birthdays.  I have two bonus stories to share.  The first is what started this project. I was considering what to give Molly for her 50^th Birthday.  I sent her a memory, written in a fragmented style because memories are fragmented.

The Princess

 The Disney Sunday Movie having ended,

It was time to go to bed.

Youngest to oldest was the rule.

 

Danny, quieting his is fascinating kicks

Seemed to be sleeping soundly

In Mom’s belly.

Kevin, in Mom’s arms, was headed for a bedtime diaper change

And Mary Kate, forever at Mom’s side, toddled out too

 

That left five of us.  In age order  - Jim, Mike, Pat, myself

and Molly...who was next in line for dismissal.

But Molly wasn’t only younger

From time immemorial (7 years) we were told that she was a princess.

 

So up went the princess

Onto her Daddy’s back.

And with much exaggeration

He spun wildly around

Making a noise like a fire engine

Feigning to not know which way to go

Unable to find the family room door.

 

And clinging so excitedly her Daddy’s shoulders

One would expect her look forward

But no, as they raced away, the curly blond head whipped around

Throwing her brothers

A wide impish grin - missing a tooth or two

 

And we rolled on the floor laughing

Cheering in our hearts:

She’s not a princess!

She’s not the princess!

She’s our princess!

 

 ***

Memories are collections of snapshots. Sometimes they are random.  Sometimes they tell a story. Sometimes they need a little bit of help telling a story. This story from some of the earliest snapshots in my collection and needed so much help that it was disqualified for Mike’s birthday.

Mike – Part deuce

Mike was sitting on a bed playing with three small plastic animal toys.  I was standing in my crib watching.  He had introduced them to me before. There was a gorilla which I thought was Mike because it had a person shape and Mike was making it talk. There was a hippo, which I just thought was funny, and there was a crocodile which I thought was me because it crawled on its belly like me and because it had a long tail which Mike said was full of poop like my diaper.

I wanted the crocodile so I reached my hand through the bars of my crib and cried for it. Mom appeared and said it was nap time.  Mike left.  Mom knew that I was crying for the animals and put them by the window where I could see them.  But that wasn’t enough.  I wanted the crocodile so I kept crying. 

Then I pooped.

Then I kept crying.

After a little while Mike appeared -  maybe to give me the crocodile? – no, he held his nose and left. So I kept crying.  Then Mom appeared and changed my diaper.  But I kept crying for the crocodile. 

Then Mike appeared again and gave me the animals.

Finally, I had my crocodile and could have my nap.

Thanks Mike