It's April 1965 - You're Gonna Start A Band - People Laugh - You Don't.

Memorial Day 1957 - Last Holiday Before Summer - Family - Bedlam - Miami

     Aunt Charney with Uncle Leif (in the background) - family reunions - controlled bedlam

You're Ten years old – still making your way around life – you have a big family – you have an even bigger family of cousins and uncles and aunts, some you haven't even met yet. At last count there were twenty of you. Every year, as long as you could remember (which wasn't very long, even including the months you were jostled around like groceries inside your mom), when school let out for Summer along with your brothers, your sister and all your cousins. That was when your dad got his two week vacation – so did all your aunts – so did all your uncles.

The annual family reunion – the army of same last names all converging on Miami where your grandparents settled – living the quiet life, basking in the sun, soaking in Coppertone – a house with a pool and enough beds for an army. We got the cots and the run of the basement and an hour's worth of sleep for the next two weeks.

Mom, Dad and all the aunts and uncles drew straws for the three available bedrooms. Then came the trek to the A&P for provisions: cases of Blatz – a ton of ground beef – cartons of Camels and Philip Morris Commanders – charcoal by the ton. In no time the lace doilies which dotted every surface of the house were replaced by overflowing ashtrays – and the scent of mothballs was quickly drowned out by the aroma of Pall Malls and Fatimas as well as filling the air with a blue haze that hugged the curtains.

The Uncles and your grandfather took over the den – your mom and the aunts and your grandmother took over the dining room and most of the living room. Your brothers, sister and cousins scavenged the kitchen, tucking beer and cigarettes into pockets, pants and skirts when no one was looking.

They were veterans of this ritual – you had to wait until at least 1960 before you could join in – the only one younger than you was your cousin Lenore – she cried a lot. You remember – you got put in charge of her while everybody else went to the movies – you drank Dr. Pepper by the case, and read comic books while she stared at you – you could never figure out what she was thinking.

It was your Aunt Charney who wound up being your favorite relative – she was the one who liked Rock n' Roll. She was an Elvis fan. She would get hold of the Kitchen Radio and fill the house while the others yelled and wanted Helen Trent – finally a truce, and the Soap Opera fans got the hi-fi in the Den and Charney got rock n' roll in the kitchen. She taught you how to dance – that came in handy by the time 6th grade rolled around.

Two weeks came and went in two minutes – it was over before it started – all your long faces piled back in your cars and headed home, promising to write and call some Sunday soon – half of you headed up Highway 1 and the other half up Highway 41. Back home and the rest of summer – walking around with wet washcloths and swatting mosquitoes – swamp coolers and sweating through everything – your bike, complete with clothespins and playing cards, hearing you a mile away – it was your noise and you could make it. It was all you had for breeze.

Without too much effort Summer drifted into deep-freeze – mosquitoes were replaced by slush – eventually Post Office trucks would become daily visits, with boxes and packages and Merry Christmas all over the place – all the cousins, aunts and uncles and all the gifts with a reminder it would be only a few months before the next big family reunion. You were going to grow into that sweater from Grams and Gramps but you couldn't wait for next Memorial Day to roll around.

Your voice would be breaking by then.

Here's a half hour's worth of Gene Weed when he was holding court on WQAM, Miami on July 23, 1957, just to remind you.