The Schoolie,

        Fidgeting with a greasy, broken carburetor at the kitchen table—because that’s just where tools ended up—he looked up and said to mom, “Patsy, if you get pregnant one more time, we’re going to have to buy a bus for all these kids.” It sounded more like confusion than criticism, as if he still hadn’t quite figured out how it kept happening. The smell of spaghetti drifted in from the kitchen—warm, familiar, and a little too garlicky—adding to the everyday chaos. Not long after, Mom’s growing belly quietly confirmed baby number eight was on the way. And sure enough, true to his word, he pulled up a week later to their house in San Leandro, California, driving a 1958 Ford school bus—yellow-orange, striped in black, and conveniently marked with a number eight.

        “It’s here, it’s here!” Marc yelled. As the oldest of the five boys, he took his role seriously—part town crier, part junior foreman. He always seemed to know what was going on, even with a house full of noise and flying elbows. When I heard him shout, I came running, elbowed my way through the usual knot of siblings, and stopped short. I stared, wide-eyed, thinking, Wow… Dad actually meant it.

        Looking past the bus, I noticed curtains twitching all down the street—neighbors peeking out like nosy extras in a play. If I had been a teenager, I probably would’ve ducked behind a bush in embarrassment. But I was still a kid, and honestly, I was proud. Nobody—nobody—had a school bus parked in their driveway. What we were about to witness over the next two years was nothing short of amazing: that big yellow bus slowly transforming into a camper, powered by nothing more than Dad’s stubborn ingenuity and a lot of determination.

        I’m still not sure whose idea it was to have so many kids—maybe it was hers, maybe the Pope’s. Back then, that’s just how it went in good Catholic families. But my mother did tell us stories about growing up lonely. Her only sibling, a younger sister, went to live with their father after my grandparents divorced when Mom was six—a real scandal at the time. Grandma found work as a secretary and enrolled Mom in Catholic school, where she had to stay with the nuns until five. Then she’d walk home, make dinner for herself and Grandma, who came through the door worn out from the day. It was just the two of them, quiet and tired. Mom used to say it was so quiet and lonely that you could hear the forks clanking on the plates in that small, empty house.

        Mom always said she wanted a big family because the very idea of it just sounded… wonderful. The noise, the chaos, the endless swirl of activity—it lit her up. She thrived in the middle of it all, laughing easily, seeing the humor in life’s messes. In fact, the bigger the mess, the harder she laughed. She was radiant in her own grounded way—short black hair, dark sparkling eyes full of mischief and kindness. A little on the round side and standing five foot four, always covered in food or baby slobber, yet, when it was time to go out the door, she pulled herself together. With a similar look of Liz Taylor she was always composed, even when the world around her was anything but.

        In her rare quiet moments, she was an artist. Watercolors, charcoal sketches, bits of collage—she saw beauty in the everyday and transformed it into something lasting. Her hands were just as quick with a paintbrush as they were folding laundry or soothing a crying child. That creative spirit was another thread in her tapestry of grace. People often wondered where her style came from—this woman married to a humble mechanic and a gaggle of kids always behind her. But that was Mom: full of surprises, full of joy, full of art, and full of heart. Above all, she loved being Catholic.  She used to say there was something about being Catholic—the grandeur of cathedrals, the mystery of the Mass, the rhythm of the rituals. That reverence infused her whole being with elegance, like incense clinging to Sunday clothes.

        She was proudly Portuguese, with roots as deep and salty as the Atlantic. Her father came from the Azores Islands—a speck of volcanic paradise in the middle of the sea—and in a bold stroke of youthful adventure, he crossed the ocean aboard a schooner. Not just any sailboat, mind you. No, she always called it a schooner, because that word alone felt like a breeze through history: romantic, windswept, and brave. Somewhere between the islands and America, he taught himself English—one word, one phrase at a time—listening to sailors swap stories and leafing through the only book he had packed: Teach Yourself the English Language. By the time he stepped ashore, he had a heart full of courage, a head full of new words, and the kind of grit that would shape generations to come. And from him, she inherited not only dark eyes and sturdy pride, but that same adventurous spirit.

        He eventually put down roots in Oakland, California, in the year 1898, a time when the West still felt like the edge of possibility. There, he opened a soda fountain saloon, a fine and proper establishment with a twist: one side for women and children, the other for men. That’s just how the world worked back then sipping soda water on one side, gentlemen nursing something stronger on the other. Mom said it was a place of dignity and respect, where decorum mattered and so did good manners. Not long after, he met a lovely Portuguese Catholic woman, married her in true Old World fashion, and together they raised seven children. Her mother—my grandmother—was the eldest of the bunch.

        Mom loved telling this story. She made sure we knew we came from strong stock—people with guts and grit, who crossed oceans in schooners and started businesses from scratch. It was her way of reminding us that determination ran in our blood—that whether it was a storm at sea or one of life’s everyday squalls, we came from people who didn’t just survive, they thrived.

        Now Dad—well, his story was always a little more mysterious. I didn’t know much, except for the whispered rumor that some distant male relative of his had murdered someone back in the old country and fled to America. Was it true? Who knows. But it sure made for a great campfire tale when the stars were out and the marshmallows were roasting. As for why he had so many kids? I doubt he had a grand plan. I think he just married his girlfriend—surprise!—she turned out to be a wife and mother. Or maybe, deep down, he liked the idea of being that legendary neighborhood figure: “Hey, there goes that wild Italian-Catholic guy with the busload of kids!”

        Dad reminded me of Kirk Douglas in Spartacus—all strength and intensity, with that unmistakable Roman nose, a mop of fiery red hair, and piercing blue eyes. He had a barrel chest and a presence that filled the room.   A heavy-duty mechanic, no matter how many showers he took after work, Dad always carried with him the faint, lingering scent of diesel grease. It clung to him like a second skin—part cologne, part calling card.  He was the kind of tradesman who could take apart an engine blindfolded and put it back together before dinner. That smell, mixed with the grit under his nails and the creases in his hands, became part of his signature—proof of a man who worked hard, got dirty, and never once complained. But what I remember most were his hands. Hands of steel. Worn from a lifetime under the hood of cars—grease-stained, nails chipped, skin cracked like old leather. I’d stare at them sometimes, those quiet, hardworking hands, and feel a tenderness. They told a story of sacrifice, grit, and a kind of silent love that didn’t need words to be real.

        And so, this great big family learned by doing—shoulder to shoulder with their dad, tearing things apart, putting them back together, designing as they went. From him, we picked up grit, ingenuity, and the art of creative problem-solving with whatever was on hand. From Mom, we learned patience, love, and the quiet power of tolerance, all with her good sense of style—usually served with a side of laughter so strong it could melt tension like butter on toast.

        When Dad brought home the bus, life shifted into a whole new gear. That old yellow school bus parked in our yard became the family project, the family dream. First came the demolition: seats ripped out and tossed into a towering green mountain on the front lawn—so high my seven-year-old eyes couldn’t see over it. Then, piece by piece, came the makings of our new home-on-wheels. A 55-gallon oil drum, perfect (according to Dad) for a septic tank. Pipes—copper, PVC, it didn’t matter—collected from work or bartered for in some backlot handshake. A massive battery from a Caterpillar bulldozer was tucked under a storage cabinet like buried treasure. Propane tanks, wires, switches, everything mounted with purpose and a touch of mad genius beneath the belly of the bus.

        There was a water pump from the local camper supply store, and a toilet gifted (or maybe traded?) from that guy who had the horses—you know the one, always up for a deal. Square recessed lights were scored from a dusty supply shop, and steel piping, rescued from the scrap pile at Dad’s work yard, was transformed into a sturdy ladder bolted to the back of the bus. And that ladder? It didn’t just lead somewhere practical—it led to magic. At the top, Dad built a plywood platform strong enough for folding chairs, kids, and blankets. From up there, we watched parades like royalty, waving at marching bands and floats from our homemade rooftop grandstand. It wasn’t just a bus. It was our castle on wheels.

        Painting the exterior of the bus was no rushed affair—it was done with steady hands, great patience, and quiet pride. I remember watching Dad, mesmerized by the rhythmic motion of his arm as he glided the paint sprayer back and forth. He never lingered, releasing the trigger with precision at the end of each sweep to avoid drips. I didn’t ask questions. I just sat there in silence, soaking in the lesson—the kind you don’t get from words.

        While their friends lobbied for psychedelic colors or wild designs, my parents stayed true to their own vision. They chose a warm, comforting tan for the body and a rich root beer brown band that wrapped around the length like a gentle hug. It was tasteful, classic, a little nostalgic. And then, Dad found an old Volkswagen emblem in the local wrecking yard and proudly mounted it on the front. Just to mess with people. And it worked—because nothing confused folks more than a giant tan bus with eight kids inside proudly sporting the badge of a Beetle.

        Once the inside and outside of the bus were nearly finished, Dad dove headfirst into what may have been his favorite part: the engine. He installed a souped-up 292 V8, paired with a 4-speed transmission and a two-speed rear end—because hauling that kind of weight across countless miles wasn’t a job for amateurs. It was a mission, and it needed a mechanic behind the wheel and under the hood.

        If you wanted time with Dad, you had to earn it—in the garage. That was his sanctuary, his classroom, and his workshop all in one. The moment you stepped in, he handed you a wrench, a rag, or a wire and turned it into a learning opportunity. You never really saw all of him—just his legs sticking out from under the engine, or his feet poking out as the rest of him disappeared beneath the bus on that little rolling board we called a crawler. Occasionally, his face would pop into view—smudged with grease, sweat, and a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. It was in those gritty, oily moments that I saw what real work looked like—and what quiet love looked like, too.

        Once I did get Dad’s attention, I usually ended up with the same faithful jobs—sliding heavy blocks behind the giant tires of the bus, handing him socket wrenches, flathead screwdrivers, or pliers, and sometimes just running to get his coffee. But I was there. And that mattered. Being in his orbit meant absorbing his quiet reverence for things well-built, for tools and machines that had a purpose and a soul.

        His toolboxes were works of art: everything in its place, clean, cared for, respected. To him, tools weren’t just objects, they were lifelines. Good tools meant transportation. Transportation meant work. And work meant survival, dignity, and providing for a family. Take care of your tools, he’d say without saying it, and they’ll take care of you. That lesson, unspoken, yet crystal clear— stayed with me the rest of my life.

        Late one night, long after dinner had turned into legend, I stood waiting for my next order, bored stiff, when I locked eyes with a giant bottle of orange pumice soap perched like a crown jewel on the edge of Dad’s workbench. It practically dared me to press its pump—seducing me with its thick, swirly promise of citrus-scented mischief. I knew better. That stuff was meant for scrubbing off the kind of industrial filth Dad collected like badges of honor—diesel grease, axle grime, the kind of grit that made your skin look paved. But I spotted one lone smudge of grease on my thumb, and that was justification enough. One satisfying squirt later, I had a generous glob oozing into my palm. I rubbed it luxuriously between my fingers, hypnotized by the gooey orange lava lamp I was creating. I was mid-transcendental goop meditation when Dad’s voice cut through the silence like a wrench to the floor—

         “Becca, go get me that wrench, quick”.

        “Crap.”  I grabbed the quickest thing I could find, his shirt, and wiped it off.

        “Here dad, here’s the wrench”.

        “Thanks”, came the voice from under the bus.

        “Well, I gotta go now dad.”

        Sprinting across the sprawling backyard, tangled with weeds and wild grass, a sharp shout ripped through the air from the garage. “What the heck?” Heart pounding, momentum carried me across the yard and safely inside.

        Late at night, exhausted from work and his many duties, dad turned on the TV and settled down on his recliner. “Becca” he called from the front room.

        “Yea, Daddy?”

        “Go get your dad a beer.”

        “Ok,” I walked to the kitchen as the familiar song drifted into the hall,

        “…boys were boys and men were men; mister we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again. Gee our ol’ LaSalle ran great, those were the days”.

         Archie Bunker was on, mom sat next to dad on the couch, and they settled into the world of TV land as they howled, “Meat Head, let me tell you……”  by the time I brought dad his beer he was already snoring.

        Marc, my oldest brother took after my dad, as he watched dad build and redesign, it inspired him to do the same with all his toys. That is how we all learned.  Someone always had something pulled apart.  One time mom came looking for her diamond watch and found it in pieces on my brother Paul’s desk next to a pair of needle nose pliers. Paul, I think, had ADD or ADHD, in either case all I know is that he always in trouble and  had to take a  daily pill for it.  He was teased mercilessly for it.

        "Paul, Paul, time for your pill” You can’t sit still, you never will!"

        Searching for my trusty tricycle one day, I realized it had vanished.  Or so I thought. There it was, hiding in the garage, though barely recognizable. Marc had flipped the frame upside down, transforming it into a sleek, low-riding machine. It looked like something a tiny Mexican low-rider  might cruise down the driveway in. Surprisingly, it was a blast to ride—legs stretched out, arms wide, like you were in some kind of mini dragster. To this day, I swear someone must’ve seen that thing, because not long after, the plastic Big Wheel hit the shelves. Coincidence? I think not.

        Summer meant freedom. Once school let out, we gave ourselves over completely to the outdoors. Ideas—born of boredom or pure necessity—poured in like sunshine. Our bikes became our most prized possessions, as sacred to us as any car to a grown-up. They meant speed, escape, and the thrill of independence. Marc built ramps out of scrap wood, and we’d launch ourselves into the air, daring gravity to catch us. In those wild moments, as we pushed our bikes—and ourselves—to the edge, we discovered what courage felt like, one scraped elbow at a time.

        One golden summer afternoon, Marc called out for volunteers, his latest invention was ready for its test run. He had rigged our red wagon to the back of his 10-speed bike with the precision of a teenage genius. At just sixteen, he was already a wizard with an arc welder and had welded the wagon’s arm so it stayed stiff, no more wobbling up and down. He secured the handle under his bike seat with a length of rope and shouted, “Who wants a ride?”

        I trusted Marc with the blind loyalty only a younger sibling can muster. I climbed in without hesitation and convinced my little brother Vincent to join me. Ever the cautious engineer, Marc handed us each a baseball cap—his idea of safety gear—and off we went.

        The cul-de-sac out front was the perfect proving ground. We circled slowly at first, laughter bubbling up as the wheels found their rhythm. Then I shouted, “Winecha go faster, Marc?”—and just like that, we were flying. The wind whipped past our faces, our grins stretched wide. What a ride it was—part rollercoaster, part rocket launch, and all the magic of childhood in motion.

        Suddenly, I heard a sound like a cat’s howl—only to realize it was me, yowling as my body tumbled out of the wagon. I rolled a good three times before coming to a stop, winded, with Vincent’s leg draped across my throat. For a moment, I gasped for air like a fish on a dock. Then Vincent was up and gone—skinned elbows, bloody knees—sprinting into the house in a blur of panic and tears.

        I wanted to cry too. My lip quivered, but I clenched my jaw and told myself that saints didn’t cry. So, I didn’t. Marc looked horrified. I waved him off and said I was fine; told him I was tough. And I believed it—at least for a while.

        It wasn’t until much later in life that I learned toughness has two sides. There’s the kind that builds you up, and the kind that grinds you down. There’s blind, stubborn suffering, and then there’s suffering that forges you. History tends to remember the strongest souls as the ones marked with scars—not because they never fell, but because they kept getting back up.

        Aside from Marc and his crazy inventions one of the other best things about growing up in a big family was never being without an ally. If one sibling annoyed you, you just moved on to the next and asked, “Hey, wanna play?” And as one of the youngest, there was always an older lap to crawl into when the world felt heavy.

        What I was most proud of wasn’t a shiny bike or the latest toy—it was my brothers. All five of them. It felt like I had my own personal security detail, a full-time squad of muscle in hand-me-down jeans. At school, if someone so much as looked at me sideways, I’d raise my tiny hand, fingers spread wide and deliver the line with quiet confidence: “Back off—or my five brothers will rearrange your face.”

        That usually did the trick. A nearby kid would lean in and whisper,

        “Careful, she does have five brothers.” And just like that, the situation was defused. No fights, no fuss, just the unspoken magic of having an army in your corner—and the wisdom to weaponize it with flair.

        There was a price to pay for all that brotherly protection: I had to fit in. And fitting in with boys meant mastering their strange, sacred code—something they called funny. It wasn’t enough to just be smart or quick; you had to be a smart-ass, armed with wit, timing, and an unspoken agreement that everything—everything—was fair game if it got a laugh.

        My first attempt at cracking this elusive code happened at the San Diego Zoo. Our family—this lumbering parade of kids and parents, wandered into the fowl exhibit. Turkeys strutted. Game hens clucked. Then we all paused in front of one particularly glorious chicken, puffed up like royalty in full feather.

        This was my moment.

        “Hey Marc,” I said, loud enough for full comedic impact. “See that chicken? I’m gonna eat the next thing that comes outta its butt.”

        There was a sharp gasp. Not from my audience—no, they were already breaking into grins, but from my mom. Then came the slap. Right across the mouth.

        That’s when I learned there’s a second golden rule to comedy: always check who’s within earshot.

        I rubbed my stinging lip and glanced around, hoping the joke had landed. It had. My brothers were doubled over, wheezing with laughter. At the time, I wasn’t sure if they thought the line was actually funny—or if they were just impressed, I’d been bold (or dumb) enough to say it in front of Mom.

        Years later, I’ve figured it out: it was the latter.

        The first Earth Day rolled around in April of 1970, and like many well-meaning Americans, Mom and Dad decided to do their part by starting a victory garden. Our days were soon filled with the rumble of the Rototiller and fragrant family outings to nearby farms to collect manure, bucket after ripe, steamy bucket—for our growing mulch pile. Eggshells, banana peels, coffee grounds, anything vaguely biodegradable went in.

        Biodegradable. I loved that word. I loved knowing what it meant and being able to pronounce it like a tenured professor. As kids often do, I absorbed the latest family obsession and made it my whole identity: I became Organic Gardening Girl.

        My big debut came during science class. I spotted a banana peel in my lunch bag and noticed the patch of dirt just outside the classroom window. It was fate. With bold confidence, I launched the peel out the window like some eco-conscious revolutionary. The mean girls’ table gasped in unison. “Eww! She’s littering!” I turned, cool as compost, and delivered the line with smug precision:

        “Hey. It’s biodegradable.”

        “What does that even mean?” they snapped.

        I just smiled, grabbed my milk carton, and walked off like I had dirt under my fingernails and secrets in my soil. Let them stew in their cafeteria plastic and ignorance. Mean girls, they act like they know everything, until you throw a banana at science.

        Our family victory garden stretched across half an acre, with winding dirt paths cut between squares of corn, artichokes, squash, fruit trees, and tidy rows of smaller plants—lettuce, onions, tomatoes. Our job was weeding, though distinguishing weeds from vegetables wasn’t an exact science. The method was simple: pull it. If it came out too easily, oops—that was a vegetable.

        The next morning, our mistakes were obvious. Wilted, slumped-over plants stood like sad little reminders of our agricultural crimes. But weeds were not the only problem, pests of every kind came to have a bite out of our garden.  Dad read his subscription of “Organic Gardening” like the bible, and its message was clear: the healthier the crop, the fewer pests you’d have.  However, although dad repeated the gospel, I wasn’t convinced. I loved artichokes, but unfortunately, so did earwigs. Drop a fresh-picked artichoke into boiling water and out floated the earwigs like they were enjoying a spa day. Eeww.

        What we did not grow, we went to the store for, simply going to the store was a high-risk operation for a woman with so many kids. Someone almost always got forgotten, usually because Blaise thought it was hilarious to keep shifting places in line, throwing off the count. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—good, they’re all here!” she’d announce with the efficiency of a drill sergeant. Maybe, just maybe I am thinking, Mom “accidentally-on-purpose” left one of us behind now and then to teach us a little independence. Her motto was clear:

        “I’m not raising children. I’m raising adults.”

        And honestly? That’s a solid point. Kids don’t grow up to be bigger kids, they grow up to be adults. And an adult, in her book, was someone responsible, respectful, and able to figure things out for themselves, or at least how to find the answer. Getting lost in a store, as it turned out, was just another part of the curriculum.

        It was thanks to all these little gems of wisdom floating around our house that I became an avid note-taker. I was never without a composition book, often receiving a fresh one for Christmas or my birthday, right alongside the socks and shampoo.

        To be fair, there were plenty of crossed-out insights on those pages. Like the time I realized Mom’s relentless push for independence in her children wasn’t just about building character—it was also about buying herself five minutes to sip her coffee and take a Midol. Genius, really. She kept the bottle tucked in the pocket of her robe, a quiet act of self-preservation amid the chaos of eight children.

        But you’d never know how tired she was when she walked out the front door, once she stepped outside, she was composed, polished, and put-together. Where did she learn this? Maybe it was all those afternoons spent with the nuns as a child, or maybe it was her mother’s Portuguese elegance, but wherever it came from, I noticed. Her hair was always perfectly coiffed, a fresh swipe of lipstick never far from her smile. Her outfits were simple, coordinated, and somehow always effortlessly chic—like she’d just stepped out of a magazine for modest moms with impeccable taste. If any of us dared to sneak out looking rumpled or wild-haired, a voice would thunder from the ether:

        “Stop! Don’t you dare leave this house looking like that!” Before you could blink, an arm would appear—like a stylish guardian angel—yanking you back inside, slapping a sun hat on your head, and smoothing your shirt with military precision. Only after modest clothing was straightened, hair was brushed, and a respectable smile was plastered on our face were we cleared for public appearance.

        “You get treated with respect when you respect yourself,” she’d always say, her mantra, and our unofficial uniform code.

        And that made perfect sense to me. So, I wrote it down.

        On the rare occasion Mom left the house alone, there was no telling when she’d be back—or when we’d eat again. But that was okay. We were resourceful. We had a Victory Garden! Lunch was straightforward: grab a knife from the kitchen, march out back, and find the perfect summer squash. Whack it off at the stem like a pioneer on a mission. Then drag a chair over to the stove, fill a pot with water, and bring it to a boil. In goes the squash. Wait until it’s soft, drain the water, plop it in a bowl, drown it in half a pound of butter, sprinkle on some salt, and voilà—full tummy, crisis averted.

        My older brother Blaise had more ambitious tastes. One day, he struck gold in the fridge and found some  fresh ground beef from the butcher. Jackpot. He tore it open, rolled the meat into little balls with his hands, speared one on a fork, and fired up the electric burner. Then, like a miniature caveman chef, he began slow roasting it over the coils. A dash of Mrs. Dash for flair. When it started to snap and sizzle, he declared it done. He gave it a quick blow, took a bite, and let out a satisfied sigh, as if he'd just cooked a five-star meal.

        My little brother Vincent and I watched in awe—and, frankly, in jealousy. Why were we stuck eating vegetables when we could have meat? Determined to level up, I followed Blaise’s method to the letter. I rolled my own meatballs, skewered one on a fork, cooked it to perfection, and proudly offered the first bite to Vincent. His big brown eyes sparkled; his mouth, already open and drooling in anticipation. I handed it to him—and only then realized I hadn’t blown on the fork. He bit down. Right onto the scalding metal. Too late. The poor kid had fork marks branded on his lips for a week. No amount of ice—or apologies—could undo that mistake.  Rule of thumb: you always, always fed the younger ones before yourself. Which meant Little Andy never had to cook a thing. Ever. But Vincent, nursing his blistered lips, looked over at him and said, 

        “You know, Andy… there is the safety benefit of learning to cook for yourself.”

        One fine spring day, Dad was outside, crouched next to the bus, welding a hinge onto the side storage compartment. I wandered by—eight years old, a red licorice rope dangling from my mouth like a lazy ribbon, sticky juice dribbling down my chin. Without even looking up, Dad reached out, wiped it away with his work-worn hand—and smeared it straight onto his pants. 

        “Becca,” he said, brushing off his jeans with a shrug, “I’m done. We’re ready to travel.”

With a satisfying clang, he dropped the compartment door shut. It clicked perfectly into place, like everything was finally in order.