Preamble by Steve Siciliano
Last Saturday evening, when we were sitting around a campfire up north, my brother Mark chided me about the fact that a preponderance of my weekly blogs posts as of late have revolved around fly fishing, even having the insolence to go on to suggest that a good number of NBF readers may be tiring of the subject matter. It didn’t matter that he was probably right, and it didn’t matter that just seconds earlier he gave me a nice compliment about a recent NBF post about our deceased mother. I was, of course, slightly piqued by my younger brother’s unsolicited advice and, after a long sip of bourbon, gave him a stare that I thought his impertinence deserved.
“And what’s with that new hairdo?” he asked, returning my steely gaze. “Lose the part.”
I’m twelve years older than Mark. My sister Laurie and I were perfectly happy being the only children of Sam and Nita Siciliano and then he came along. Matt joined the family thirteen months later. Mark tells anyone who will listen that Laurie was a good babysitter while I was not. Apparently, Laurie played games with him and Matt and taught them to dance. He claims that I threatened to leave if they didn’t toe the line. It’s an accusation my foggy memory doesn’t enable me to confirm nor deny.
I do, however, clearly remember the time I came home from my summer job to find my brothers dousing our grandmother Fulvi with water from a garden hose. The young imps had the old lady cornered