I was 13 years old in 1975.  My adolescent years rotted.

While the older siblings were off on their young adult adventures, Michael was in the Marines and Janie and I were displaced from our family home due to the divorce that began when I was 13 years old.

I remember begging Mom to take me and Janie away from all the testosterone and alcohol induced behavior that had a grip on our family home, but, I was too young to fathom the consequences of that request.

As we had for many years, in the summer of '78, Mom, Janie and I were living large at our summer home.  The Buttonwoods Beach Club community was an enchanted place for a child to spend summers.  I dread the day that dementia or Alzheimer's robs me of those childhood memories.

But, an August memory during that year was one that would change life the way I knew it. I remember getting excited to go back to the winter house because school was about to resume.  I loved the beach house but I also always missed my winter house friends.  I clearly remember Mom having some pretty serious sounding phone conversations at that time, too.  I was too young and carefree to eavesdrop.

When the time was right for her, she sat me down and dropped the bomb, "we're not going home".

I barraged her with questions.  "what do you mean?  We have to go home.  We can't live here.  We have school.  Where are we going to go?"  Her reply of "I don't know" left me in a crying heap.

The day before school was to start, Mom got a phone call from my brother John.  Told Mom that his lifelong best friend had an small apartment in our school district that we could move to.  In my young mind, I credited that friend for saving our lives.

So then we were three.  Mom and her girls.  Out on our own.  Displaced from our family home with nothing but what we could carry.  That's what it felt like to me anyway. In an instant, we went from having a real home and a summer home, both full of childhood memories and familiar furniture, to being cramped up in a second floor apartment with slanted ceilings, old appliances and cots for beds.  It was culture shock to me and the ensuing three year divorce took its toll on me like no other child in the family.  I had already proven myself as Mom's right hand and Janie's keeper.  Now I was to be the conduit for communication between the two angry adults that gave me life.  I was not a happy camper.

Dad didn't want to get divorced.  He loved my Mom until the day he died.  Divorce in those days was rare.  Churches even excommunicated divorced people back in those days.  And Dad didn't want the divorce so he made it really hard for her.  He's give Janie and I anything we wanted while we were with him, but, he put my Mom in a poverty's stronghold.

For 27 years, my Mom was married and raising children.  Eleven full term pregnancies with two sets of twins resulted in seven living children by the time she was forty years old.  The only job I remember her taking while growing up was as a gift wrapper at the Outlet during the holiday season.

While I write about a lot of people and a lot of different stories, sometimes it's hard to remember the exact time that everything was happening.  But, even if I don't have some dates straight, the memories are very clear.

Mom, the younger girls, and two boys were post-divorce and living back in our family home.  Dad had moved into the apartment that we vacated.  Dad got Cancer and he had it bad.  They had to remove one of his kidneys and half of his bladder.  While he was in the hospital, one of my older sisters was working in the medical transcription field.

While our concerns were with Dad at that time, we got whacked with a second issue.  My sister saw two John Mullens come up in her files.  After alerting us to the issue, we found out that my brother, who days earlier had been in a brawl and had his head slammed in a car door, had been admitted to the hospital with a ruptured aneurysm.

My Mom's attention was stolen from my Dad by her oldest son.  I think that is pretty natural, but I remember clearly that my Dad's mom was extremely disappointed in her, yet once again.  I was very much a Momma's girl, and those kinds of moments were always caught and harbored by me.

John ended up surviving.  Dad ended up surviving that first brush with Cancer, too.  He explained treatments to us at times.  He'd take Janie with him to his treatments, which, in his own words, "felt like they were shoving a pipe cleaner inside his genitals."  Janie remembered going on those treatment visits with Dad until the day she died.  She loved being with him and always mentioned that he would bring her for ice cream after each treatment.

What I remember most about that time was the day that Dad sat Janie and me down at his cluttered kitchen table and promised us that he would stay alive until we both graduated high school.  He kept his promise and beat that Cancer then.

It came back in full force later on.  Lungs, esophageal, all over.  Dad was the first Mullen to be home cared for by the rest when he was dying.  The apologies, the tears, the love, and the pain were overwhelming and unbearable.  I remember praying that someone would allow one of us to administer an overdose of morphine.

I was 29, and Janie was 23 when we lost Dad on October 1, 1991.  Dad was 65 when he passed, and he lived a longer life than three of his sons and his baby daughter.  I can't help but be sad about that.

It’s 2019 now, and I can’t help but ask, “Why oh why are any city or town councils being paid to spend time on discussing or voting on issues that involve bringing military weapons into schools?”

I haven’t even begun to discuss the dysfunctionality of being raised with a PTSD Vietnam survivor, or the trauma that a 16-year-old felt when a huge military weapon and bullets were secretly taken into the house that I lived in with my Mom and little sister.

It was traumatic for me. It was one of only two times that I finked on one sibling to another.

And I got that gun thing taken care of at a very young age. I was in charge of Jane. I would have taken a bullet before it ever hit her (if I could). I never really knew how many stories I kept secret. I have not even scratched the surface of all I have to share. It is so, so, so cathartic.

I saw a 2017 Facebook memory that made me think how odd it is to have relatives from your bloodline out there in the world that you don't know, might not have ever met, and you don't even recognize some of the surnames.

I've always thought there were three reasons for that.  First was that I was one of the youngest of my immediate, large family; second was that Mom was the youngest of her large family of eight siblings; and third was that my youngest sister and I were the products of a divorce, and that didn't just cause a separation of our parents, but also a separation from Aunts and cousins.

I was only thirteen when the separation of my family began.  I still had plenty of interaction with aunts, uncles, and cousins from Mom's side of the family. I also had a little sister to hang with daily and five older siblings to hang with when I was deemed "old enough" in their eyes.  I really wasn't hurting for company, so I didn't really miss being around Dad's side of the family.

In reality, it was kind of stressful for me to visit with that side of the family.  It might have been my childhood imagination, but while I was in their company, I always felt there was an undercurrent of disdain for my Mom for divorcing my Dad.  When I was sixteen years old, and the divorce was final, my paternal Grandmother did not hide her contempt for my Mom when she used both hands to shake my mom's shoulders and scream that she was making the biggest mistake of her life by hurting her son.

That happened in front of me the day we were moving back into our family home after being holed up in a small apartment for the three long years of divorce court battles.  Three long years of me trying to be a mediator between two quarreling parents.  Three years of watching Mom work her tail off to put food on our table and keep some semblance of dignity when she had to go out and get a 5-pound block of yellow American cheese from a social service agency, Women, Infants, and Children (WIC).  Three long years of having to be my Mom's voice when asking Dad for financial assistance for necessities.

In addition, during those three long years in cramped conditions, Mom never stopped loving and praying for all of her children and extending her small home and support in an effort to keep them healthy and safe when needed. I remember at one time that there were five of us living in that tiny, slanted ceiling apartment.

I was overjoyed when we were finally awarded our family home again.  And I was overjoyed the day we were scheduled to move.  That joy went away the second I walked through the front door and saw that Dad was sitting in his favorite rocking chair in front of the TV, nothing was packed and ready for moving, and my Dad's Mom was in my Mom's pantry cooking.  That was a sight I was not prepared for.

Then I heard those words that at times would send me to the ER with an outbreak of hives, "Bud, you need to leave".  Well, that statement didn't set me off that time; it set my Grandmother off.  She came barrelling through the kitchen into the living room, all up in arms and screaming at my Mom, calling her names, and yes, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her while yelling that she was making the biggest mistake of her life.

And there I was.  My sixteen-year-old self. The self who had been raised by three fierce brothers. The me that had been trained to protect myself, my Mom, and my younger sister, even if it meant taking a bullet that was sent their way.  There I was watching this short, old woman with her hands on my Mom.

There is nothing quite like seeing your own Mom in danger.  At that very moment, I was tapped into that inner "mad" that I often refer to when speaking about my brother Michael's fighting ability.  I could have so quickly and easily snatched that woman and sent her flying to her death.  But that's not what I did.  Instead, I got between the two women and let my stance and my mouth do the talking.  I told her that she would never see me again. Told her she could take her son and leave my home, and that she would never be graced with the presence of her namesake grandchild again.  She was a Mary, too.

I think my Dad recognized my madness.  I think it's the first time he has ever seen that part of his little girl.  I think he took it very seriously and understood just what might've happened to his Mom had I unleashed the beast that was begging to come out.  He packed up his clothes very quickly and got his Mom and himself out of the house.

I was pretty diplomatic at a time when I didn't know what diplomacy was.  And I stayed true to my words to my Grandmother.  She never saw me face-to-face again.  She never heard me speak or watch me grow up.  I was done with her.  That one instance was not the only instance when she disrespected my Mom.  That one instance was just the instance that broke this camels back.

My Dad was a good man.  He just wasn't the man Mom wanted to be married to any longer.  Mom always told us she was married to God.  My Dad ended up moving into that small two-bedroom apartment that we had vacated. My Mom, on the other hand, ended up raising Janie and me while praying her heart out for the strength and ability to rid my brothers John and Michael of the alcoholism that had its grip on them.

<2017 FACEBOOK POST>
Facebook Memory from 2017:

I'd be the totally worst person to try and do a family tree. Of course, I know my Dad's sisters - but the names of all these Mullen cousins that I never met kind of blows my mind. Then Mom had all those Sullivan cousins in Newport that I never met.  But, RI is so small that maybe we have met and just didn't know it. At least I know I never dated a cousin.

“TBT from a cousin  - my Dads sisters - Pat, Roberta and Gail...1992 "Quinlan" (Mullen, Farrell, Godek, Butler, Fletcher, Champlin, Palmer, Gamache, Bender) Family Reunion in Wickford. My Aunt Gail Godek, Aunt Pat Butler (RIP) and my Mom. I love this picture of my Mom and her sisters. Pat had made & brought a cake for my cousin Michael's birthday. It was so hot, and the cake sat there so long, it was literally tilted & melting...LOL Joyce Champlin Freeman organized a bunch of games, balloon toss, sack races, volleyball....etc. we all had a great day.” INSERT AUNTS PHOTO

1978. Michael Wouldn’t Beat Me. Even Though He Wanted To At Times.

Michael has popped into my head at least 10 times today.  And while I was laughing and shaking my head about a Michael story, I pulled up FB and saw this picture at the top of my feed.  You can't ignore the signs when the timing is so right.

I was laughing to myself because I have three different life stories of when I used my wit for the sheer pleasure of it even though I knew it would make someone stinking mad.  The three times I remember best was in 1978 with Michael, in 2014 with Janie and in 2016 or 2017 with my Ex.  All three stories will be told someday... but, going back to '78 with Michael because he seems to be begging to be talked about.

Me, Mom, Janie and Michael in the living room of our home.  The divorce was final that year and we had moved back from the three longs years of being cramped in a small two bedroom.  Mom, Janie and I formed a special kind of bond through that whole divorce ordeal.  Michael wasn't with us then because he had spent those years serving in the Marine Corps.

Well, here Janie and I were living with two brothers, John and Michael, who had substance abuse issues.  I wouldn't be able to talk about those times had they not all straightened out their acts and made me proud.  Overcoming obstacles is a huge part of why I share my stories in the first place.

Anyway, Michael came downstairs and he looked rough.  He was so hung over you could see it from a mile away.  Life has taught me that it is best to stay clear away from people when they're hurting like that.  They're like time bombs.

All he wanted was silence, Diet Coke with ice and a Tommy's pizza all to himself.  So, he ordered it all.  The only thing he didn't get was silence because there was no silence to be had when Janie and I were in each others company.  And we were at home, in our element so we didn't use filters.

So, I didn't purposely time my conversation with Janie for when the pizza arrived.  It was a fluke that she and I got on the subject of how gross our brother John's drunken snoring was.  I was cracking up laughing then and cracking up laughing thinking about it now.

Michael must have been in the kitchen pouring his soda when we started on this subject and at the exact moment that he took a seat and opened his extra cheese and pepperoni pizza from Tommy's, the very descriptive word for John's snoring came out of my mouth.

Phlegm.

I've seen my brother get to his "mad".  I've seen all three brothers get to their "mad".  But, for the life of me, I do not ever remember getting Michael as mad as he was at that moment.  The look on his face alone made me want to pee my pants.  He wanted to kill me.  For real.  And the fact that he couldn't, and wouldn't because I was his little sister just made it funnier to me.  Janie and I were in stitches as we watched that pizza box get flung across the room  We laughed even harder as he began to storm off to the upstairs.

Our laughter paused a bit when he punched a huge hole in the wall of the staircase, but, it resumed because we were not the one's in trouble at the moment.

Mom was wise.  She let him sleep that hangover off.

Ahh... fun for me to start sharing Michael and Mary stories.  I was his baby sister the time this happened.  I became his peer and friend shortly after.  That's when our real stories begin.

1. Never have understood how so many of my girlfriends thought that train wreck of a guy was so attractive. He grew into his handsome self when he sobered up and made us all proud.
2. Welcome To Adulthood. Kind Of.

I was 13 years old in 1975.  My adolescent years rotted.

While the older siblings were off on their young adult adventures, Michael was in the Marines and Janie and I were displaced from our family home due to the divorce that began when I was 13 years old.

I remember begging Mom to take me and Janie away from all the testosterone and alcohol induced behavior that had a grip on our family home, but, I was too young to fathom the consequences of that request.

As we had for many years, in the summer of '78, Mom, Janie and I were living large at our summer home.  The Buttonwoods Beach Club community was an enchanted place for a child to spend summers.  I dread the day that dementia or Alzheimer's robs me of those childhood memories.

But, an August memory during that year was one that would change life the way I knew it. I remember getting excited to go back to the winter house because school was about to resume.  I loved the beach house but I also always missed my winter house friends.  I clearly remember Mom having some pretty serious sounding phone conversations at that time, too.  I was too young and carefree to eavesdrop.

When the time was right for her, she sat me down and dropped the bomb, "we're not going home".

I barraged her with questions.  "what do you mean?  We have to go home.  We can't live here.  We have school.  Where are we going to go?"  Her reply of "I don't know" left me in a crying heap.

The day before school was to start, Mom got a phone call from my brother John.  Told Mom that his lifelong best friend had an small apartment in our school district that we could move to.  In my young mind, I credited that friend for saving our lives.

So then we were three.  Mom and her girls.  Out on our own.  Displaced from our family home with nothing but what we could carry.  That's what it felt like to me anyway. In an instant, we went from having a real home and a summer home, both full of childhood memories and familiar furniture, to being cramped up in a second floor apartment with slanted ceilings, old appliances and cots for beds.  It was culture shock to me and the ensuing three year divorce took its toll on me like no other child in the family.  I had already proven myself as Mom's right hand and Janie's keeper.  Now I was to be the conduit for communication between the two angry adults that gave me life.  I was not a happy camper.

Dad didn't want to get divorced.  He loved my Mom until the day he died.  Divorce in those days was rare.  Churches even excommunicated divorced people back in those days.  And Dad didn't want the divorce so he made it really hard for her.  He's give Janie and I anything we wanted while we were with him, but, he put my Mom in a poverty's stronghold.

For 27 years, my Mom was married and raising children.  Eleven full term pregnancies with two sets of twins resulted in seven living children by the time she was forty years old.  The only job I remember her taking while growing up was as a gift wrapper at the Outlet during the holiday season.

1978. Coming Of Age

I guess I'm always going to get a twinge (or more) of stress during the first quarter of every year. I mean, we lost Michael in January, John and Mom in February and Janie and Joe in April. Not all in the same year, but, let's face it, all of us remember those special dates in our lives and mine seem to overlap.

But this quarter is coming to an end and I'm starting to fill up with some of the funnier aspects of growing up Family B Mullen style. I've got these "coming of age" memories surfacing. And when I say "coming of age" it is definitely not any kind of sexual awakening because I was way too scared of Mom and Dad to risk being caught and any guys around me were way to scared of my three brothers to risk being caught trying anything.

My "coming of age" stories began around 16 years old, maybe 1978. That was when I was finally allowed to hang with the older kids and their vast array of friends. If the Mullen basement could talk...

It makes me happy when I read nostalgic posts about growing up during the 50’s through the ’80’s in our Providence, Rhode Island neighborhood. We grew up in a safer and more charming world than we live in now. And no iphones. Kids today have been shortchanged.

The nostalgic blizzard pics prompted me to search google earth for Nocera Liquor, where the bus was stranded. This picture shows JUST A TAD of the space that we neighborhood kids called “our stomping grounds”. The stories we could share!! (Pictures 1978)

1978. Our First Taste Of Cancer.

While I write about a lot of people and a lot of different stories, sometimes it's hard to remember the exact time that everything was happening.  But, even if I don't have some dates straight, the memories are very clear.

Mom, us younger girls and two boys were post divorce and living back in our family home.  Dad had moved into the apartment that we vacated.  Dad got Cancer and he had it bad.  They had to remove one of his kidneys and half of his bladder.  While he was in the hospital, one of my older sisters was working in the medical transcription field.

While our concerns were with Dad that time, we got whacked with a second issue.  My sister saw two John Mullen's come up in her files.  After alerting us to the issue, we found out that my brother, who days earlier had been in a brawl and got his head slammed in a car door, had been admitted to the hospital with a ruptured aneurysm.

My Mom's attention was stolen from my Dad by her oldest son.  I think that is pretty natural but I remember clearly that my Dad's mom was extremely disappointed in her, yet once again.  I was very much a Momma's girl and those kind of moments were always caught and harbored by me.

John ended up surviving.  Dad ended up surviving that first brush with Cancer, too.  He explained treatments to us at times.  He'd take Janie with him to his treatments, which, in his own words, "felt like they were shoving a pipe cleaner inside his genitals."  Janie remembered going on those treatment visits with Dad until the day she died.  She loved being with him and always mentioned that he would bring her for ice cream after each treatment.

What I remember most about that time was the day that Dad sat Janie and I down at his cluttered kitchen table and promised us that he would stay alive until we both graduated high school.  He kept his promise and beat that Cancer then.

It came back in full force later on.  Lungs, esophageal, all over.  Dad was the first Mullen to be home cared for by the rest when he was dying.  The apologies, the tears, the love, and the pain was overwhelming and unbearable.  I remember praying that someone would allow one of us to administer an overdose of morphine.

I was 29 and Janie was 23 when we lost Dad on October 1, 1991.  Dad was 65 when he passed and he lived a longer life than three of his sons and his baby daughter.  I can't help but be sad about that.

1978. We’re Related But We Don’t Know Each Other.

I saw a 2017 Facebook memory (below) that made me think how odd it is to have relatives from your blood line out there in the world that you don't know, might not have ever met and you don't even recognize some of the surnames.

I've always thought there were three reasons for that.  First was that I was one of the youngest of my immediate, large family; second was that Mom was the youngest of her large family of eight siblings; and third was because my youngest sister and I were the products of a divorce and that didn't just cause a separation of our parents, but also a separation from Aunts and cousins.

I was only thirteen when the separation of family began.  I still had plenty of interaction with Aunts, Uncles and cousins from Mom's side of the family. I also had a little sister to hang with on a daily basis and five older siblings to hang with when I was deemed "old enough" in their eyes.  I really wasn't hurting for company, so I didn't really miss being around Dad's side of the family.

In reality, it was kind of stressful for me to visit with that side of the family.  It might have been my childhood imagination, but, while I was in their company, I always felt there was an undercurrent of disdain for my Mom for divorcing my Dad.  When I was sixteen years old and the divorce was final, my paternal Grandmother did not hide her contempt of my Mom when she used both hands to shake Mom's shoulders and scream that she was making the biggest mistake of her life by hurting her son.

That happened in front of me the day we were moving back into our family home after being holed up in a small apartment for the three long years of divorce court battles.  Three long years of me trying to be a mediator between two quarreling parents.  Three years of watching Mom work her tail off to put food on our table and keep some semblance of dignity when she had to go out and get a 5 pound block of yellow American cheese from a social service agency, Women, Infants, and Children (WIC).  Three long years of having to be my Mom's voice when asking Dad for financial assistance for necessities.

In addition, during that three long years in cramped conditions, Mom never stopped loving and praying for all of her children and extending her small home and support in an effort to keep them healthy and safe when needed. I remember at one time that there were five of us living in that tiny, slanted ceiling apartment.

I was overjoyed when we were finally awarded our family home again.  And I was overjoyed the day we were scheduled to move.  That joy went away the second I walked through the front door and saw that Dad was sitting in his favorite rocking chair in front of the TV, nothing was packed and ready for moving and my Dad's Mom was in my Mom's pantry cooking.  That was a sight I was not prepared for.

Then I heard those words that at times would send me to the ER with an outbreak of hives, "Bud, you need to leave".  Well, that statement didn't set me off that time, it set my Grandmother off.  She came barrelling through the kitchen into the living room all up in arms and screaming at my Mom, calling her names and yes, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her while yelling that she was making the biggest mistake of her life.

And there I was.  My sixteen year old self. The self who had been raised by three fierce brothers. The me that had been trained to protect myself, my Mom and my younger sister even if it meant taking a bullet that was sent their way.  There I was watching this short, old woman with her hands on my Mom.

There is nothing quite like seeing your own Mom in danger.  At that very moment, I was tapped into that inner "mad" that I often refer to when speaking about my brother Michael's fighting ability.  I could have so quickly and easily snatched that woman and sent her flying to her death.  But, that's not what I did.  Instead, I got between the two women and let my stance and my mouth do the talking.  I told her that she would never see me again. Told her she could take her son and leave my home and that she would never be graced with the presence of her namesake grandchild again.  She was a Mary, too.

I think my Dad recognized my mad.  I think it's the first time he ever saw that part of his little girl.  I think he took it very seriously and understood just what might've happened to his Mom had I unleashed the beast that was begging to come out.  He packed up his clothes very quickly and got his Mom and himself out of the house.

I was pretty diplomatic at a time when I didn't know what diplomacy was.  And I stayed true to my words to my Grandmother.  She never saw me face to face again.  She never heard me speak or grow up.  I was done with her.  That one instance was not the only instance when she disrespected my Mom.  That one instance was just the instance that broke this camels back.

My Dad was a good man.  He just wasn't the man Mom wanted to be married to any longer.  Mom always told us she was married to God.  My Dad ended up moving into that small two bedroom apartment that we had vacated. My Mom, on the other hand, ended up raising Janie and I while praying her heart out for the strength and ability to rid my brothers John and Michael of the alcoholism that had its grip on them.

<2017 FACEBOOK POST>
Facebook Memory from 2017:

I'd be the totally worst person to try and do a family tree. Of course, I know my Dad's sisters - but the names of all these Mullen cousins that I never met kind of blows my mind. Then Mom had all those Sullivan cousins in Newport that I never met.  But, RI is so small that maybe we have met and just didn't know it. At least I know I never dated a cousin.

“TBT from a cousin  - my Dads sisters - Pat, Roberta and Gail...1992 "Quinlan" (Mullen, Farrell, Godek, Butler, Fletcher, Champlin, Palmer, Gamache, Bender) Family Reunion in Wickford. My Aunt Gail Godek, Aunt Pat Butler (RIP) and my Mom. I love this picture of my Mom and her sisters. Pat had made & brought a cake for my cousin Michael's birthday. It was so hot, and the cake sat there so long, it was literally tilted & melting...LOL Joyce Champlin Freeman organized a bunch of games, balloon toss, sack races, volleyball....etc. we all had a great day.” INSERT AUNTS PHOTO

1978. Michael Wouldn’t Beat Me. Even Though He Wanted To At Times.

Michael has popped into my head at least 10 times today.  And while I was laughing and shaking my head about a Michael story, I pulled up FB and saw this picture at the top of my feed.  You can't ignore the signs when the timing is so right.

I was laughing to myself because I have three different life stories of when I used my wit for the sheer pleasure of it even though I knew it would make someone stinking mad.  The three times I remember best was in 1978 with Michael, in 2014 with Janie and in 2016 or 2017 with my Ex.  All three stories will be told someday... but, going back to '78 with Michael because he seems to be begging to be talked about.

Me, Mom, Janie and Michael in the living room of our home.  The divorce was final that year and we had moved back from the three longs years of being cramped in a small two bedroom.  Mom, Janie and I formed a special kind of bond through that whole divorce ordeal.  Michael wasn't with us then because he had spent those years serving in the Marine Corps.

Well, here Janie and I were living with two brothers, John and Michael, who had substance abuse issues.  I wouldn't be able to talk about those times had they not all straightened out their acts and made me proud.  Overcoming obstacles is a huge part of why I share my stories in the first place.

Anyway, Michael came downstairs and he looked rough.  He was so hung over you could see it from a mile away.  Life has taught me that it is best to stay clear away from people when they're hurting like that.  They're like time bombs.

All he wanted was silence, Diet Coke with ice and a Tommy's pizza all to himself.  So, he ordered it all.  The only thing he didn't get was silence because there was no silence to be had when Janie and I were in each others company.  And we were at home, in our element so we didn't use filters.

So, I didn't purposely time my conversation with Janie for when the pizza arrived.  It was a fluke that she and I got on the subject of how gross our brother John's drunken snoring was.  I was cracking up laughing then and cracking up laughing thinking about it now.

Michael must have been in the kitchen pouring his soda when we started on this subject and at the exact moment that he took a seat and opened his extra cheese and pepperoni pizza from Tommy's, the very descriptive word for John's snoring came out of my mouth.

Phlegm.

I've seen my brother get to his "mad".  I've seen all three brothers get to their "mad".  But, for the life of me, I do not ever remember getting Michael as mad as he was at that moment.  The look on his face alone made me want to pee my pants.  He wanted to kill me.  For real.  And the fact that he couldn't, and wouldn't because I was his little sister just made it funnier to me.  Janie and I were in stitches as we watched that pizza box get flung across the room  We laughed even harder as he began to storm off to the upstairs.

Our laughter paused a bit when he punched a huge hole in the wall of the staircase, but, it resumed because we were not the one's in trouble at the moment.

Mom was wise.  She let him sleep that hangover off.

Ahh... fun for me to start sharing Michael and Mary stories.  I was his baby sister the time this happened.  I became his peer and friend shortly after.  That's when our real stories begin.

1. Never have understood how so many of my girlfriends thought that train wreck of a guy was so attractive. He grew into his handsome self when he sobered up and made us all proud.
2. Welcome To Adulthood. Kind Of.

I was 13 years old in 1975.  My adolescent years rotted.

While the older siblings were off on their young adult adventures, Michael was in the Marines and Janie and I were displaced from our family home due to the divorce that began when I was 13 years old.

I remember begging Mom to take me and Janie away from all the testosterone and alcohol induced behavior that had a grip on our family home, but, I was too young to fathom the consequences of that request.

As we had for many years, in the summer of '78, Mom, Janie and I were living large at our summer home.  The Buttonwoods Beach Club community was an enchanted place for a child to spend summers.  I dread the day that dementia or Alzheimer's robs me of those childhood memories.

But, an August memory during that year was one that would change life the way I knew it. I remember getting excited to go back to the winter house because school was about to resume.  I loved the beach house but I also always missed my winter house friends.  I clearly remember Mom having some pretty serious sounding phone conversations at that time, too.  I was too young and carefree to eavesdrop.

When the time was right for her, she sat me down and dropped the bomb, "we're not going home".

I barraged her with questions.  "what do you mean?  We have to go home.  We can't live here.  We have school.  Where are we going to go?"  Her reply of "I don't know" left me in a crying heap.

The day before school was to start, Mom got a phone call from my brother John.  Told Mom that his lifelong best friend had an small apartment in our school district that we could move to.  In my young mind, I credited that friend for saving our lives.

So then we were three.  Mom and her girls.  Out on our own.  Displaced from our family home with nothing but what we could carry.  That's what it felt like to me anyway. In an instant, we went from having a real home and a summer home, both full of childhood memories and familiar furniture, to being cramped up in a second floor apartment with slanted ceilings, old appliances and cots for beds.  It was culture shock to me and the ensuing three year divorce took its toll on me like no other child in the family.  I had already proven myself as Mom's right hand and Janie's keeper.  Now I was to be the conduit for communication between the two angry adults that gave me life.  I was not a happy camper.

Dad didn't want to get divorced.  He loved my Mom until the day he died.  Divorce in those days was rare.  Churches even excommunicated divorced people back in those days.  And Dad didn't want the divorce so he made it really hard for her.  He's give Janie and I anything we wanted while we were with him, but, he put my Mom in a poverty's stronghold.

For 27 years, my Mom was married and raising children.  Eleven full term pregnancies with two sets of twins resulted in seven living children by the time she was forty years old.  The only job I remember her taking while growing up was as a gift wrapper at the Outlet during the holiday season.

1978. Coming Of Age

I guess I'm always going to get a twinge (or more) of stress during the first quarter of every year. I mean, we lost Michael in January, John and Mom in February and Janie and Joe in April. Not all in the same year, but, let's face it, all of us remember those special dates in our lives and mine seem to overlap.

But this quarter is coming to an end and I'm starting to fill up with some of the funnier aspects of growing up Family B Mullen style. I've got these "coming of age" memories surfacing. And when I say "coming of age" it is definitely not any kind of sexual awakening because I was way too scared of Mom and Dad to risk being caught and any guys around me were way to scared of my three brothers to risk being caught trying anything.

My "coming of age" stories began around 16 years old, maybe 1978. That was when I was finally allowed to hang with the older kids and their vast array of friends. If the Mullen basement could talk...