Greg's earliest days of being a rascal were at 1280 Slater Road in New Britain. He was born with a twinkle in his eye. Even then he had his own way of seeing things: so sure that the white "angel hair" on our Christmas tree was all that was left of our white angora cat, or lying on the floor and looking under the housewives skirts, and/or telling everyone that I had stabbed him in the chest (he really fell on a stick). He was so adorable, and yet could drive you so crazy that even the "best" of babysitters might throw his ice cream in the street! We were "8 in a Volks" with the "B's", Uncle David and me, hodgpodging all over Ct., or, believe it or not at a Drive-In movie, with Greg, Stacey and Thera all riding in the "back of the back", Maura between David and I, and Maury and El in the front...who knew a Volkswagon could be so roomy?
The last time I saw him he was lifting up his shirt pointing out to Cheryl that I (once again) was responsible for the scar on his chest due to the fact that I had "stabbed him". But then he sweetly pointed out to me, as only Greg would, with that twinkle in his eye, that the scar... always made him think of me.
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are,
Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are." Mother Goose