I can’t go on to telling stories about my mother and her family without writing these two final Golding remembrances.
In 1963 my great-aunt Gertrude died; Cecil and Frusco came to Pittsburgh for the funeral. One night we were all sitting around the big table on Burchfield Street and I was sitting next to my aunt Cecil. Cecil had this fixation about the Mediterran sun. She claimed that it was the best sunshine anywhere on earth and it had the power to give you good health. So everybody was sitting and listening to her going on and on about this and how, on Capri, there were a pair of fraternal twins called Gabriel and Gabriella.
Then she stopped, looked at me, and said: “Look at Leslie, so flat-chested and she’s already 13 years old. On Capri Gabriella is just Leslie’s age and the Mediterranean sun has ripened her and she has a full bosom like a woman…”
Nobody ever mentioned sex or breasts or anything related to these things. My grandfather, father, and uncle hated this kind of talk. But in this particular situation, after Cecil stopped chattering on about “Gabriella,” there was silence. The adults felt sorry for me, I knew. But for myself I felt no shame. It wasn’t my fault I was born in Pittsburgh and not Capri. Besides, I adored Cecil and I at 13 already knew her ways.
lgmwriting 