"Arizona...

...take off your rainbow shades." Remember that song? That's the only line I remember. I've just returned from a vacation to Arizona, so that line has been playing in my head. And at least it's not one of the songs that have been bastardized from my youth via television commercials. You know the ones - here are some of my (least) favorites:

"Hello, It's Me" - England Dan and John Ford Coley - Tums Dual Action

"Don't you Want me Baby?" - Artist? - Swiffer Mop

"All I Need to Know" - Aaron Neville - GE Innovation

There are so many more, but I can't remember them all. Sonny and Cher's classic "I Got You, Babe" even promotes something now.

I think it all started when Carly Simon sold the rights to "Anticipation" and this excellent song became forever embedded in our psyches as the ketchup song.

Am I right?

The Memories Won't Be the Same

I've been kicking around the idea of memories that span the generations. My memories of growing up are far different from those of my parents and grandparents. The memories they have are rich in history and tied to the fiber of our nation. My memories are of growing up in the turbulent 60s. Still rich, but not like my parents and grandparents. Generations after me will have even different memories and I wonder what they will be like. Let's take a look.

My Grandparent's Memories

My paternal grandparents traveled to a port city in Sicily in the early 1900s. They got on a big boat and spent six hellish weeks traveling to a foreign land in the steerage compartment. My grandfather traveled alone and had $10 in his pocket and an address of his "sponsors", friends already living in the United States. My grandmother traveled with her mother, brother and several of her sisters a few years after my grandfather's 1907 trip.

They worked hard, learned to speak English, met, married, built a three-family house and by the start of the Great Depression in 1929, they already had eight children. My grandmother made clothes from burlap potato sacks and my grandfather grew figs, grapes, pears and more in his gardens.

When the United States entered World War II in 1941, my grandparents, over the next few years, allowed their oldest sons to join the military and serve their country. They made the greatest sacrifice a parent can make when their son, James Vincent Sardo, was killed in action on Okinawa in 1945. Despite that, my father and then his younger brother, both joined the Marines, even though they did not have to since the family had already lost a child.

My Parent's Memories

Born in 1928, my parents were babies at the start of the Great Depression. They knew what it was like to really go without. They took baths with their siblings to save on water. My mom's parents lived downtown so they could walk or take a bus everywhere they needed to go. They were coming of age by the time WWII broke out. They were teenagers when the first atomic bombs were dropped.

As a Marine, my Dad was serving on Guam in 1949 when he received a telegram stating that the body of his brother was finally being returned to the United States and he needed to be in Connecticut "by Saturday" to attend the funeral. So he got on a cargo plane to California, I think, then on a bus and finally a train and made it in time for the service. Shortly after that in 1950, my Dad was sent to Korea and was a member of the Chosin Few, a group of soldiers sent into northern Korea in the winter of 1950. Millions of Chinese spilled over the border into North Korea and killed many American soldiers. My father survived that but came home a changed man. His unselfish service to his country has cost him dearly given that today he suffers from dementia and who can say if what he saw and did at the Chosin Reservoir had anything to do with that?

My mom went to work right out of high school as a dental assistant in her uncle's office. She wanted to sing as a career, but my grandfather didn't want her to do that and wouldn't let her pursue it. Those were the days when children respected their parents, and good, bad or indifferent, didn't blame them for everything in life that ever happened to them. My mom eventually stayed at home, raising my brother and I. The time we all spent together was true quality time.

My Memories

Born in late 1958, I grew up in the turbulent 1960s, but my brother and I were clueless as to what was going on in the world. Our world consisted of our parents, grandparents and our friends. We played in our neighborhood as often as we could. Winter, spring, summer or fall, it didn't matter. We were outside. And as long as we could hear my mom call us for dinner, we knew we hadn't strayed too far from home. We walked to school. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. It didn't matter.

My brother put on puppet shows in our garage and charged our friends a quarter to come in and see the show. He made up games they could play and if they won, he gave them one of his toys as a prize. We sold Kool-Aid and Sno-Cones in front of our house and we kept all the money, even though my mom paid for everything. Life was safer then. It was simpler for kids then. And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

Today's Memories

Kids today will remember the colorful plastic play equipment in their fenced in daycare centers. They will remember the strangers who are practically raising them while both parents work. It's not the fault of the parents. It's the world we have created. Once in grammar school, they'll remember their first cell phone and how many minutes they were allowed for texting. They'll remember they could have anything they wanted, probably because of their parents' guilt for all of those hours and days in daycare. They'll grow up too fast. They won't know what it means to go outside and play. They won't know the kids in their own neighborhoods. They won't have much quality time with their parents. How often have you seen a parent and child together, but the parent is on their cell phone?

They'll have memories of a recession, outsourcing, unemployment, and who knows what else? Will they know how to manage money? How old will they be before they realize that if they buy things with their own hard earned money, there's more satisfaction in that than having something handed to them?

I don't know the answers to any of these questions. I just know that I would rather be me than them...

First Memories

What is your first memory? 

I stopped recently to take some time to think about my first memory. Some people have first memories as early as two or three years old. I can't seem to remember back that far. My first memory is when I had just turned five years old. It was November 1963. I remember walking up our sidewalk at my parent's house. I must have been coming home from kindergarten. It was a simple time to be a child. We walked home from school, which was nearly a mile from our house, with our friends. The bus, if there was one, didn't stop at every house and parents didn't wait in minivans at the school or the end of the street.

Anyway, I walked into the house and my mother was sitting in the living room watching TV and crying. I was upset that she was crying. I think I asked her why she was crying but I don't remember her answer. I'll have to ask her if she remembers. Her memory is unbelievable for an 81-year-old! I know now that she was watching either the news reports of President Kennedy's assassination or she was watching the actual funeral.

I don't have another memory until I was seven years old. It was February 1965 and my Aunt Anna, my Dad's sister, had died of cancer at the age of 47. My cousins and I were all left at my grandparent's house on the day of the funeral. We were playing in my aunt's room while all of our relatives and family friends came to the house after the funeral. I remember we opened the bedroom door and peaked out into the living room. I remember seeing a large group of people that I could barely make out through a thick haze of cigarette smoke. Everyone smoked back then - indoors, outdoors, in cars, restaurants, everywhere.

Those are the first two memories I have. I'm not sure why I don't remember anything in between the ages of five and seven. I wish I did.

Memorial Day 2009

Memorial Day 2009 at our house represented a landmark event for two reasons: we had more than 50 people in attendance and I had invited six recently discovered second cousins and their families. Here's how it happened. Several months ago, in my obsessive quest to discover and preserve my family history, I had searched my last name on Facebook. When I found a bunch of people with the last name Sardo, I sent out a message that said, "my grandfather was born in Sicily in 1883. He immigrated to the United States in 1907 and lived on North Spring Street in Ansonia, CT. I am looking for people related to us."

I received several emails from people in Italy - two still communicate with me, even though we are not related and they send the emails in Italian, so I don't know what they say! One man, who had the same name as my grandfather, Guiseppe Sardo, told me that Sardo was a common surname in Italy and that he lived in northern Italy and did not think we were related.

Then, I received an email from a guy who lives in Shelton, CT who said his grandfather had also lived on North Spring Street in Ansonia. It turns out he is the son of my Dad's first cousin, making he and his siblings my second cousins. My grandfather Guiseppe, and their grandfather, Francesco, were brothers! It represents my greatest discovery so far! So I met Frank, his brother Joe and sister Regina. They have three other siblings. Their parents, Albert and Connie Sardo, had died in 1968 and 1969, respectively, leaving the kids without parents. At the time, the youngest was only five years old.

When they heard my Dad, at 80, was still alive and well, they just wanted to talk to him about their parents. All of their aunts and uncles on the Sardo side had passed except for one, who is in a nursing home and doesn't remember very much.

Long story short, all six of my second cousins came to our picnic with spouses and children and grandchildren. It was incredible! My cousins brought photo albums, my Dad told stories about their mom and dad. Frank later left me a phone message telling me the stories my Dad shared about his father were priceless.

The amazing part of all of this is that the people who contacted me in Italy are not related to me, yet these six people who are my second cousins live in Shelton, Beacon Falls and Seymour, where I live! They've been here all along, going about their lives while we've gone about ours.

Now that we've connected, we plan to stay in touch. Without a doubt, finding family members living is a much bigger rush than finding those that have passed. These six people that I did not know several months ago all have a unique story that is also intertwined with my family history. That's what makes it so compelling.

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