This Passes for Memoir
By Anthony Buccino
Our snippets of family history need not be formally recorded and typed out on the latest fancy computer. It is not, after all, a history assignment, but a treasure chest.
Enjoy the proud days, come what may, of "That's my dad!" Before you know it, you'll hear, "Who? Him? I don't know him."
We took cover in neat order in virtually any place that was away from the windows. We sneaked a look back and waited for the Russian’s A-bomb to come crashing through any one of the many windows in our school.
And the only time we ever heard
It was always a hoot when Don the TV repair man came around to fix our Motorola. You could keep your RCA with that little dog, he only sold Motorola brand TVs and stereos.
My generation was born in the era of Kodak Brownie cameras and black & white film popularity. Four or five decades ago even the simplest camera was somewhat complicated to master.
A boy in a new neighborhood makes friends with a lost baby robin, feeding it, and teaching it to perch and take short flights.
I’m thankful for snowstorms
when I was a kid and got to play in them until my clothes were
soaked through and I was shivering and thankful for Mom and
warm, dry clothes. And for the pots of water she heated on the
stove so I could take a hot bath.
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New Jersey author Anthony Buccino's stories of the 1960s, transit coverage and other writings earned four Society of Professional Journalists Excellence in Journalism awards.
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