About Me
Mike Basile, Fragola's PhotographyWhen I was a child, I didn’t dream of becoming a writer. I dreamed – beneath a vivid blue sky while watching fluffy clouds morph; humans to castles to dragons. I dreamed. Where I grew up my imagination soared, racing through fields on the back of a white stallion, climbing trees, swinging from branches through the rainforest.
My childhood home was located in the heart of the Finger Lakes region of New York State. From our back porch we had a spectacular view of Seneca Lake, nestled between rolling farmlands and vineyards. My family was low on income, yet, rich with life. Clothes always came second hand, but laughs were top shelf and never ending.
I credit my past; I wouldn’t change a thing. Bumps and detours filled the road to the present, bringing me knowledge and riches of the heart, a beautiful child who I fell in love with at first scream, and a best friend disguised as my husband.
The universe has taken care of me, bringing me gifts of new friends, extending the possible, squelching the impossible. I am completely at home with myself.
Family History – Some Little Known Facts
My grandmother came to America from England when she was seventeen, sent here by her parents to get her away from the man she loved. He was of a lower class – the wrong side of the tracks.
Gram wasted little time finding a new love. She married, the coupling produced eleven children.
Here’s the rub. Not only did my grandfather master procreation, he was an Irish- Catholic. Their marriage was taboo. English didn’t marry Irish.
One has to wonder what Gram was really thinking when she first met my grandfather.
Many in my immediate family believe we’re Irish, or, at least, use it as an excuse to celebrate ad nauseam on March 17th. Truth is, only my grandfather was Irish, making my mother fifty percent Irish. That makes her offspring (me and my siblings) one-quarter Irish.
There’s little known of my father’s parentage. His life began as an orphan, adopted by a family in Buffalo, their home in a part of town considered the other side of the tracks.
Interesting, those invisible dividing lines. Perhaps I’ll write about those one day.
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