The Memories are Forever, If the Breaths of Life are Not

Bookends - Simon and Garfunkel

Music choices for me is not about popularity but how it touches my soul at that moment. Hearing the above track just recently I was swept away in a flood of memories and knew immediately that it had to be the song for this post. 

Memories. Sometimes it is all that is left. I consider myself lucky that music can trigger those memories for me, because then I can feel peace at any moment in the day. For besides my vast collection of Pink Panthers I am known for my love of music. 

I come by it honestly. The more I research my family history the more I find relatives that have the same passion and often talent for music. Be it writing or playing or listening. It's in the genes. My mother taught me that passion by example. 

My earliest and fondest memories involve music. Back in the day choices were limited. With enough homemade wine passed around the adults would break into song, belting out all the traditional songs from the old country. The children sang along - for we were all familiar with the language and the lyrics. If there happened to be an accordion around, well that was the accompaniment. 
In the past quarter century, I have had limited occasions to recall those beautiful words in public but rest assured the lyrics come flooding back with the first strains of the melody. It feels like I am surrounded by my family when I hear those songs. "Sul Cappello, Evviva, Evviva il reggimento."  

With Sandra and Ron in the foreground you can see
the stereo that Dad built in the background.

My mother had a fair collection of albums but the majority were songs from Italy. In fact that was the title of one of the LP's. I still own those records, but unfortunately have no equipment on which to play them. But I have many fond memories of adjusting the pennies on the toner arm of the stereo that my dad built. It was a beautiful piece of furniture that had space to hold LP's and 45's on one side and a turntable on the other. I'm told that the inner workings of the unit were created with the help of my Uncle that passed with my Dad. It was a collection of tubes and wires but had such fancy details as a light that not only illuminated the controls but alerted you when it was left on. Reception for the radio was astounding considering it's basic simplicity. For nostalgic reasons only, I hung onto that stereo well into my 40's and I kept one of the knobs from it, still in the top drawer of my desk to this day. 

Not mine but a reasonable facsimile :)

Mom was not beyond using the tactic of bribery to get her four children to do what she wanted. Case in point, when she got tired of employing all the tried and true methods for getting me to stop chewing my fingernails, she took to the darkness and bribed me. And for a 33 cent 45 I quit - at least temporarily lol! That 45 is still in my collection with it's original price tag entact. Day After Day by Badfinger was released in 1971, and it was the start of a collection that blossomed to more than 550 at last count.  

To appease the tastes of so many different musical minds in the early days, we often gravitated to K-Tel purchases of compilation hit music. The first one that I got to pick out and call my own was another bribe of sorts. I desperately wanted a chocker and my mom didn't like them. She slyly suggested that I would want music instead - a whole album. A chocker would have been soon forgotten. To this day I scour old bins of records to find that precious collection again. I would also like to know how it disappeared from the house in the first place - curses on the culprit whoever you are. I remember the cover artwork in my mind but can't seem to reproduce it on paper, the only song that I remember is Obla-di Obla-da by the Beatles. The album meant a lot to me. 

Sandra and I in our music-themed bedroom

We didn't just listen to music, we used it as a source of entertainment. In the evening the local radio station CKPR would hold a contest called The Top Ten. You had to listen to all 10 popular songs and recite them back in descending order to win a prize. The trick was to have a quick finger on that old rotary dial phone to key in the last number upon hearing the first few notes of the number one song. Of course you had to have entered in the previous 6 numbers prior or you would never be the first caller in. It was competitive and I don't think we ever won but we sure loved playing. It was a real family event. 

Linda at the piano. She learned by listening to
her older sisters practice.

Linda (youngest sister) and I took music appreciation to a whole new level. We spent hours upon hours listening to songs over and over again and we painstakingly tried to decipher and then immortalize the words in our own hand. You don't know how good you have it now that a simple google search or simple click on the Shazaam app will get you all that information without the toil. And between those two extremes of lyrical searches was the magazines that included lyrics of the popular songs of the day. I had such a collection of those lol! 
When we actually got to the point where we bought an album by a single artist, it was a real treat to find the lyrics printed within. But with compilations and "best of's" it wasn't likely to happen. So with either her or I at the control of the arm of the turntable and with a steady hand we would move the song back one or two grooves in the vinyl over and over until we came to a consensus. With an ear right next to the speaker, eyes closed and face scrunched in concentration it was like the worlds best game. In the end, having those lyrics so we could confidently sing along meant the world to us. And that folks, is probably why to this day I can listen to the same song over and over again ad infinitum and not tire of it ever.  

A gorgeous lady, A wonderful Mom. A beautiful soul. <3

Rod Stewart and his Every Picture Tells a Story release in 1971 heralded my departure from an egocentric child to awareness beyond self. I thought of my mothers musical taste more along the traditional, country or pop genres. This was a u-turn from the norm. And as I sat at a safe distance, hidden from view, I watched as my mother sat on the floor shoulder to shoulder with a man. To my burgeoning hormones, it was love. The man was a university student who was boarding with us. Chris might have been in his early or even mid-20's, Mom 10 years his senior. Today, I think "Way to go Mom!" Back then my jaw hit the floor and my diary got a page full of shock. And every time I hear a song from that album I still think of love and compassion and of the look of happiness on my Mom's face. Bliss!  

We didn't remain passive listeners for long. Starting with a paper keyboard on the kitchen table, Sandra (my oldest sister) and I began piano lessons 6-8 years old. Maybe younger. It wasn't too long before the need for a real piano became a necessity as we continued to pursue lessons with the nuns of the Avila Centre in Royal Conservatory format. Ron wanted to learn guitar - a few lessons in piano would be helpful. His health and Mom's death sidelined the aspirations of guitar, and he did continue with his piano. Although alternative music on the radio station became more his style and not the classical repertoire or the nuns. My youngest sister Linda picked up piano playing of her own volition. She would try and get in on the action after we had practiced and very quickly was picking out tunes she had heard. A talent not to be wasted she soon found herself tickling the ivories as well. Moms original intention was that the ability to play an instrument made you a more well rounded person. Personally, in hindsight, I think that she had the desire to play instruments but was never offered the opportunity. Hearing music in my sleep may have been her trying to teach herself to play in secret. 

And then there was dance. For what is music without the dance. Sandra, myself and Linda all took dance lessons. Ballet, tap and jazz. To be honest I sucked! Well at least compared to my sisters I did. Let's just say choreographed dance wasn't my thing, but really, I dislike lessons. I felt bad because I was only in the back rows of the dance numbers while Linda and Sandra shone in the front and lead positions. Oh well, we can't excel at everything we try. 

Just Breath - Pearl Jam

"Meet you on the other side"

After they were gone there was a considerable time were Ron and I were estranged emotionally if not physically. He tolerated me and I didn't know what to do with him. We didn't know how to rebuild our family from 5 to just the two of us. 

But with a physical separation when I moved out, we found our connection. We were just two kids trying to make our way through the world on our own and hanging on to each other with spiritual threads. Music gave us that stepping stone into the world together. I called on him to help me build and compile my audio system and he shared the music that he had gravitated towards. To this day still my favourite genre of music, the alternative format and the Canadian musician. Bands like The Deserters, the Villians and Audience. Gone was Top 40 radio and I searched out the CFNY of Toronto for my fix of new music. 

It didn't pigeon-hole the music I gravitated to, it expanded it and the vinyl collection. And although I may get a little teary-eyed when I hear Slade I will never stop listening to it because the memories are all I have. Even if some of those memories are sad not all of them are.  

**On this day, March 21st I have endeavoured to remember my family in the written word in many different ways. This is one of them. For I never feel alone like I do on this day because 41 years later it still hurts. 

For other stories please see:
Website
http://www.pinkpantherfan.caFamily Here and Gone Blog Listing
http://www.pinkpantherfan.ca/Family_Here_and_Gone.php

I am eternally grateful to have found this forum to share and release some of the intense feeling that I have kept to myself for so many years. 

R.I.P. 

Ron Sdraulig: Another Time Another Place - Part 1

And Now the Waltz (C'est La Vie) - Slade

This is a story I wrote a very long time ago and I am ready to share it now to coincide with the 30th anniversary of my brother's passing, June 4th, 1984. 

Ron Sdraulig: Another Time, Another Place

Ron Sdraulig March 1984

By: Gigi Sdraulig

“Another time, another place.  We’ll be together again.”

from: And Now the Waltz (C’est La Vie) by Slade 1984

This is about a young man who had the courage to save the life of someone else but could not save his own. This is about the bravest person I have ever known. This is about my brother, Ron Sdraulig.

Thursday, March 21st, 1974.  It was the middle of the school March Break and in Thunder Bay, Ontario there was snow on the ground still.  The roads were clear and the weather was warming.  We were taking a family trip-Mom (Livia, 32), Sandra (13), myself (Gigi, 12), Ron (11) and Linda (10).  Although I am not sure why, on this occasion we had an extra passenger: Mom's friend Jenny.  I am not sure how this came about because Jenny was not one of my Mom’s closest friends. In fact, I still know very little about her. Maybe just the adult company, for Jenny never took the wheel to drive.

Linda, Sandra and I holding onto Ron

Mom had planned to get away early in the morning for the eight-hour drive to Minneapolis and then on to Rochester, Minnesota, but it was almost noon before we left the house. My Mom was notoriously late, she had the best of intentions but I think there was just too much on her mind and she often forget. She forgot appointments, things she had to do, where she put her car keys. We were late for everything – that’s just the way it was. Mom would have benefited greatly from writing herself reminders – if she could remember where she left her lists. She was also very fastidious and the house had to be neat and tidy before we left, so that when we returned we would enjoy it rather than worry about having to clean. After a long trip we could come home and relax.                 
        So even though we left late from the house, Mom still had a few errands to run and we had to make a quick stop to switch cars with Nonno (our grandfather). We took his 1966 Pontiac and left him the loaner we had. Mom had hit a deer on a previous trip stateside and our old Meteor was being repaired. Then we were off on what I considered to be an adventure despite the fact that we had made this very trip on a fairly regular basis. Mom's brother and his family lived in a Minneapolis suburb, so we got to visit our cousins, but the primary reason for the trips was cancer treatment and check ups for Ron, who had Hodgkins Disease.

It was Boxing Day 1972, just before his 9th birthday, when Mom first noticed the large egg shaped lump on his neck.  As children, we knew he was sick but cancer wasn’t so commonplace back then, and we did not associate death with his having to go to the hospital all the time.  We did not experience his hospital stays or his pain, because all his treatment occurred at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. We stayed home with various caregivers.  We went as a family only for check-ups that fell on school breaks, as it was on this March day.

Dante and Livia Sdraulig Jan. 8, 1960

Mom was a great mother, who amidst chaos and uncertainty, made us feel as though we were a normal family.  But we weren't.  We had no Dad, Mom was widowed.  When forms came home from school asking for Dads' occupation and we matter-of-factly wrote - Deceased - almost as if that was his occupation.  We didn't know him to miss him.  Dad (Dante) died, along with Mom’s brother, Feruccio (Frank) Babudro, in a car-train collision on February 17, 1964. Mom was a strong woman who coped in the face of adversity far better than anyone I know could. At the time of his death, Dad had been building the family home with the help of Feruccio, and they were going to the lumberyard for supplies. They were broadsided by a train at a dangerous crossing in the middle of the day. They didn’t have a chance. Mom was left heart-broken and grieving with four young children and a partially built homestead. Sandra was the oldest at 3 ½ years of age; Linda, the youngest, was just 5 weeks old. There was an ensuing lawsuit that went all the way to the Supreme Court and did not provide much for the effort. So without a breadwinner, Mom struggled financially. The local school board eventually ousted mom, a teacher by profession, when she was unable to return to university for her Bachelors Degree-required since her graduation from North Bay Teachers College. After that she took a variety of jobs to support her family and at one point, I believe, social assistance.

My mom’s parents were a very big part of our lives – my paternal grandparents were still in Italy. What I didn’t realize then, was that her parents were both a source of comfort and anxiety and stress at the same time. We often heard Mom and Nonna (grandmother) arguing, and once I asked why they fought so much. “Because we love each other” is the answer I got. Love, it seems now had very little to do with it. Nonna didn’t approve of my dad’s side of the family and the marriage…and us children? She also blamed my father for the accident that killed both him and her son. As a matter of fact, it seems that Nonna approved of very little that my Mom did. There certainly was a one-sidedness when it came to the parents supporting the remaining son and daughter. The son, his wife and family wanted for nothing. It is just another testament to the strength and courage of my Mother that she obviously passed on to her children. Strong, honourable character.

With the last of the errands completed, we crossed the set of railroad tracks where I mistakenly believed my dad was killed. Perhaps because of the pain it caused her, perhaps because we never asked, but Mom never really talked about Dad. I knew nothing of his personality, his height, his character, his likes, dislikes, habits, hobbies. One framed picture was on the bookshelf. The same picture that adorned his mausoleum.  I knew how he died and that my parents were in love. That’s about it. We visited his final resting place often but never went to the scene of his death. So the tracks that intersected Thunder Bay between the twinned cities of Port Arthur and Fort William were not were my Dad breathed his last breath. Instead, the crossing was nearer the Port Arthur waterfront on Clavet Street.

All together!
Linda, Mom, me, Ron, Sandra

Spirits were high and excitement building with chatter of fun to come when the song “Photograph” by Ringo Starr came on the radio. It was one of Sandra’s favourites and a lively discussion ensued about everyone else’s favourites. Mom’s was “I Am Woman” by Helen Reddy; Linda’s was “Time in a Bottle” by Jim Croce. I, like Ron, could not pinpoint any one favourite. I liked too many.  To this day hearing those songs evokes a rush of emotions. Both sad and comforting but mostly hurt. Music was always important in all our lives. The stereo was a more prized possession than the TV. Of course, that was in part due to the fact that my dad built the stereo cabinet and put together (possibly with help from my Uncle who died with him) the interior components complete with the old tubes. No electronics back then. Many nights we would sit by the stereo as a family, listening to the Top 10 hits of the day on CKPR radio and then trying to be the first to call the radio station with the names of all ten in hopes of winning. I don’t remember the prize, or even winning. But I do remember the excitement of playing the game. Rewards and treats came in the form of new albums or 45’s. I still own the first 45 I ever earned. It cost $.33 in 1971 and was Day After Day by Badfinger. We all learned to play the piano and had aspirations to expand our musical abilities with other instruments. Singing as a family was another activity we enjoyed together, there was a host of traditional Italian songs that we learned (and I still remember), but there was one that came to impact my life in later years for reasons I have never really understood. The song was “Farewell to Nova Scotia” and I did not know what if any importance there was in that song for her. Perhaps it was because Nova Scotia and Halifax were the first things she saw in Canada when she came through the gates at Pier 21 as a pre-teen girl leaving her homeland. Perhaps she had hopes of one day returning for a visit. I’ll never know.

It was getting dark when we stopped at a Perkins Restaurant in Duluth, Minnesota for supper. With four hungry bellies whining, it probably wasn’t that late at night but the daylight hours are significantly shorter in the winter months. Perkins was a real treat because we liked the food, Mom liked the prices and we could only go when we were in the States. Downstairs, near the washrooms, we found a telephone and called Nonna to tell her all was well. Nonna was concerned with the darkness of the hour and the journey ahead. Mom assured her we would be fine, she was not at all tired. We only had another four hours or so to go, mostly on divided highway and with good road conditions. Mom was also very accustomed to this journey, having done it so often before.

            We didn’t make the rest of the trip.