So here we are.
My brother and I were fighting all the time in those days. I mean we still don't understand each other and have little contact but in those days it was an out and out physical war.
We have a huge bench upon which to park our bottoms but for some reason we have chosen to sit as if we had to share a stool at kresge's lunch counter. I am purposely taking up more space than I should have and am smiling at the camera enjoying my brother's discomfort.
My mother who is far better educated than my father and secretly longs to be on the stage, looks dowdy and heavy, her fist is clenched in her lap, her legs pinkish with varicose veins. She stares grimly over our heads as if she is looking for an escape route.
Her next pregnancy probably isn't the escape route she is dreaming of, but at least it will give her something to do.
It is 1956.
My world is white, Protestant and traditional working class.
Like that was going to last.