The oldest sibling in a family where the first four boys were born close together gets no authority via birth order. Prophet in his home village and all that.
Add to the mix the unique distinctiveness of each of what eventually became the six of us, and there’s little chance that Son No. 1 could rule, or even supervise.
But add someone who splits the difference, age-wise, between yourself and your parents, and you have an ally.
Uncle Richard was the 180-opposite of the old saw about grandparents and children being so fond of each other because they have a common set of enemies. Richard got parental guidance from the same Bill and Julie that we did, but he seemed to absorb the sharper edges of the discipline and kept us on the straight and narrow without the cat-o-nine-tails my dad always swore he had in the garage.
Mostly, Richard’s gift was alternative activities. We explored some of the simplest sites throughout Monmouth County, rain, shine or snow; long before “Sesame Street,” he sneaked learning into the fun.
He also had a sense that families should have traditions, even if they had to be manufactured. When he moved to the Shore from the steel mill town Dad had totally disavowed, Richard’s life hit a reset.
Our split-level development house was continually under construction. The downstairs rec room — a mini-hangar, really — at first was carved into two pieces to give Richard a place of his own. Then that wall came down and the fireplace went in; adios, picture windows. And this being the early and mid-1960s, the ceiling needed faux beams.
All of this inspired RAZ the playwright, director and producer. Who needs a barn? We’d start a tradition with a Thanksgiving pageant, and this was the perfect place for it.
From the beams, he hung bedsheets with thumbtacks. We had a stage.
He condensed the whole Plymouth story into a Ken Burns-ian script. A fire in the hearth added atmosphere.
Cardboard Pilgrim hats, white turtlenecks, black pants on the actors. As narrator, I got to wear my gold V-neck sweater with the black mock-turtle dickie sewn in. Quite snazzy.
Before we ate Thanksgiving dinner, we performed for Mom and Dad. I forget if there were others in the audience; maybe a younger brother not ready for prime time. A small crowd, regardless. Somewhere in the vast archives of family heirlooms, there’s a Super-8 reel of One Night Only on Riverbrook.
To this day, I can see our playwright-director’s beaming face: love, pride, accomplishment.
I don’t think we ever had a holiday play again, but that pre-dinner extravaganza was the foundation of many traditions my brothers and I did come to share, and which we’ve adapted and continued in our own families.
… to be continued
