I've often thought of writing a story of my youth! Most of it would be about growing up with all those brothers, the adventures we had, the plays we put on, the injury stories (and there were plenty), the losses we suffered, the lessons we learned and a million other memories.
There would be laughter. There would be tears. There would be anger. There would be fights. There would be happiness. There would be, obviously, my version of things although I am certain there are other versions out there. Chasing the train; crossing the tressel, following the tracks to prove where they led, nine people and a Newfoundland stuffed in a VW hatchback, golfing, tennis, biking, hiking, just a zillion stories swimming around in my tiny little head. It may not mean as much to other people as it would mean to me, or perhaps to my brothers, but some might find a connection or that it sparks a memory or two of their own past and their own youth. That would be perfect!
And, after years of trying to find some perfect title . . . the only one that truly suits the range of all things that would be included would be (and I can still hear her sweet voice ringing out) what my mom would yell when she wanted us all inside:
Cally, Billy, Danny, Jimmy, Lynnie, Skipper, Skeeter!
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