Billy Flanagan, Tommy Feeney; names embedded in my mind; as well as Carmella Vasenelli too – although Carmella, once she got in high school, changed her name to Marie, less ethnic, though ethnic wasn’t a word we even knew. So did Sissy Brenchley. She changed her nickname to Teri. But in fifth grade we didn’t care what names our friends called us. It just wasn’t important.

In all my years of growing up, being ten was my favorite. Not quite knowing what a sweater girl was, crooked teeth and a no-style hair do, I was at my top! It was probably the last year I felt tall. Considered short now, and only looking forward to shrinking, tall was a feeling I didn’t fully appreciate. I was smart, had lots of friends, loved art and wasn’t afraid of anything, except sometimes my mother. She was a feminist, which in those days meant the domineering wife. Not such a hot thing to be.

My mother had a brain tumor removed in 1947. I know this for sure because she always tapped her head and said “metal”. It was remarkable she recovered so well, but as a result, she was one of those optimists. Our family was extremely healthy or perhaps it was due to her attitude in life. If I had a cold - be glad it wasn’t pneumonia. Fall down and bruise a leg - could have been both legs. She spoke using proverbs - “There’s a silver lining in every cloud” and “A bird in the hand is worth two in a bush” . I hear myself repeating those same old proverbs, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”, I guess.

Summers were an eternity. I would pace myself - boondoggling in the park in the morning, swimming in the afternoon and lots or reading. The Boxcar Children series in particular was a great read. I imagined living in a boxcar with a bubbly stream winding its way thru the “front yard”. I’d sweep the area clean with a makeshift broom created from tall grass tied to a stick. Oh…..and sticks, sticks were ever so important in decorating the old railroad car; tables and chairs and beds were abound in my imagination.

I also colored with my best friend. We would lie side by side coloring our own page and when completed - with bated breath - we’d present to each other our self acclaimed masterpieces… it was my first introduction to competition. The hours of sharing, the closeness of my friend, the encouraging words all formed a piece of who I am. To this day, the scent of crayons creates a rush of memories. The giant yellow and green box with an overwhelming assortment of lustrous colors - all sharpened to a uniform point. Heart be still.

When adults asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I was going to be a commercial artist, I said. They just stared at me. I’m not sure they knew what that was, in fact, I’m not sure I knew exactly.

Life was swell then, but it changed drastically for me the next year.

My mother made a horrible decision. I had to switch schools! Even worse, going from a public school to a Catholic was terrifying. My carefree, fiesty personality was gone completely, along with my friends, my confidence and I think in retrospect, my brain. No thinking required; yes sister, no sister.

It wasn’t totally bad - after all, I met my wonder husband there and still have fond memories, but they don’t invoke the same warmth as when I was ten and free.

Now that I’m many years older, I sense I’ve become more like the person I was starting to be in fifth grade. So now I wonder, did Billy Flanagan ever become a fireman?