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This tale is a history, a fable, a prayer of those gone before me, now gathered with care. The diaries and pictures and letters enclosed deciphered my kin and what they supposed.

Those who are living, their stories intact, Those gone before us, who knows what was fact? So I presume who they were by looking at me, our blossoms and thorns twining through this same tree.

Our shadows and secrets for so long passed down, those thistles and thorns now replaced by a crown. It was back in the thirties my parents did meet, then married, had children with ten little feet.

I am the youngest, this teller of tale, unearthing my family, removing our veil. I wrote of my brother, my sisters and me, recording our past, with hazed memory.

Futures are clouded by sins of the past with history rewritten by those who come last.

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Through bloodlines, through love, through bad luck and tether, not matters one whit what binds us together. Those gone before are a part of us still, a dram of our blood, a slice of our will.

They watch over us with wonder and trust and guide us from birth til we too turn to dust. Front Matter 0.

Faded Snapshots 1. Torn Pictures 2. Home Movies 3. Post Memoir 4. To Stephanie Moore: who directed her students with grace, gratitude, and courage.

Writing a book is not a solitary event, and this one would not have emerged without my friend and teacher, Stephanie Moore. Years ago she taught me to dance, then she taught me to write.

Thanks to my Monday night writing class who gave me their attention and feedback a page and a half at a time.

And thank you to my brother, sisters, and a few friends who generously read my drafts, helped me arrange and rearrange this book so it was not so confusing: editing my commentary, encouraging me, and nudging me to get to the point.

When the student is ready, the teacher appears. I came away from that work with an ability to see myself, a honed perspective of life, and to not make the events in my family mean anything, that they were simply what happened.

This memoir would have a different feel without his teachings:. Nor is it about you—or your value. Written to my brother, his wife, and my sisters, upon what I thought was the final draft of this memoir in Dear Larry and Marian, Carleen, Betty, and Claudia.

It startled me to hear anyone say anything good about Mom, to hear her spoken of in such a friendly fashion. Reconnecting with Marceline a year ago, I invited her and the five of you to my home.

I wanted to know more about Mother. Thirty other relatives got wind of the get-together and showed up on my doorstep, arms loaded with food and soft drinks; it turned into a wonderful weeklong party.

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Four generations—brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, children, and grandchildren—sat in a double circle in my living room. I asked everyone in turn to say how they were related to Mom, along with a memory or story of her.

That night I wrote the tales told and read them aloud in the morning. Chronicled throughout are diaries, letters, and clippings stashed for years in your garages, attics, and closets.

My own memories and assumptions are cluttered in between. I often felt your pursed lips and folded arms over the line.

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The day I received your edited copy, I was afraid to unseal the manila envelope. I circled it for an hour, tapping it with my fingers each time I walked by the kitchen table, waiting for the courage to open it.

I also laughed when I saw you crossed out all the swear words. I thank you for your generosity in allowing me to print something so personal as your diary; it tied the story together.

I love you, I love that you are my brother, and I appreciate your support in writing our stories. You loved my writing and asked me if I was ever going to write fiction.

You soften my edges, reminding me by your example of another way to be. I love you dearly. Carleen, thank you for being our mother when Mom was unable, to not only take us in and provide food and shelter, but to give us love, laughter, attention, and family.

Your home and heart were always open, and I might not be here today if not for you. Thank you.

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Betty, thanks for putting up with me on the phone, sometimes two and three times a day, patiently listening, correcting, and making me take out what I made up.

Your memory, knowledge, and stand for the truth make a difference.

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I can only trust it was the right decision. I love you. Claudia, your stories have been the best. You had the closest connection with Mom actually, you were the only one with the fortitude to listen to herso you have memories the rest of us lack.

I laugh each time we talk, and feel your arm around me. I love you and your chocolate chip cookies. What I thought would be a few vignettes has turned into this memoir, reaching back through our generations and growing into a body of work.

I wrote it for you, and I wrote it for me. It gave me a place to say what I wanted to say, it brought me clarity and tenderness as I witnessed my childhood, and it brought me back to myself.

It also united our family in more ways than just these pages.

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My brother Larry was under the illusion that our mother was a good mother, but he had a different childhood than the rest of us. My sisters were convinced otherwise: Carleen complained Mom was thoughtless and self-centered, Betty resented her for abandoning us, and Claudia simply thought she was weak—all of which was true by the way.

I was never under the illusion I had a bad mother, I was under the illusion I had the wrong mother, and although I was not under the illusion she loved me, I hoped she might someday.

Some say holes are harder to heal. Fortunately, I only lived with her from the time I was five until the age of nine.

Or dead. I wrote our story, which evolved into a five-year journey. A magnitude of personal growth work put it into perspective; a writing class helped me get it down on paper.

My siblings loved my writing.

So as not to be cast out, and to honor her wishes, I put the book away. For the next five years I worked on our genealogy. It was safer; they were all dead.

But do we ever recollect what actually happened? Certainly we remember our version—and what we believe is true for us, so we better be careful what we believe.

And does any of it matter? Only when we make it mean something. In the mid s it was a whirlwind of change, a booming and often lawless community, a geographical crossroads where people from all over the world converged.

When the ice companies closed, my father got a job managing a Sprouse Reitz five-and-dime. Given the choice of running a store in Sonoma a sleepy hamlet forty-some miles north of San Francisco or in the town of Sonora, he chose the latter, hoping it would offer more business opportunity.

When our family moved there inSonora had no stoplights, one taxi, two theaters, a three-lane bowling alley, four newspapers, five cemeteries, a six-block main street, seven churches, and eight taverns, with cigar stores, barbershops, ice cream parlors and clothing shops in between.

The dry hot summers went on for years, a silver quarter was a lot of money, and people did what was expected of them. Sonora had passed its rough and tumble heyday, settling into a cocoon of open windows and unlocked doors.

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During World War II most of the men not fighting had left for wartime jobs in the bigger cities. My father was exempt from the draft, being almost forty with four children.

He was one of the few men still in town. Throughout the war years the community shifted into idle.

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With not much work other than the timber industry, most of the stores were vacant and gas rationing wiped out the tourists. Everyone in Sonora, a community of about 3, people, knew our family.

Lean and on the lanky side, he was prematurely gray, wore wire-rimmed reading spectacles, and smelled like a mixture of Lipton, Listerine, and Vitalis, with a slight splash of Old Spice.

He loved children. He had time for their chitter-chatter and sang hokey songs so they could sing along: How much is that Doggie in the window?

Arf, Arf… He knew children were sensitive with tender souls inside small bodies.

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He cared about flowers and trees, about rabbits and squirrels and birds. The only living things he ever mortally harmed was the rooster that crowed at a.

My father was a gentlemen. He shook your hand, tipped his hat, and offered his coat. He walked on the curbside. He stood when an adult entered a room.

He waited for ladies to go first.