by Rhonda Crone

Created on: September 03, 2008   Last Updated: September 10, 2008

When you're a child, the older people in your life seem worldy and wise. They have it totally pulled together and know exactly what they are doing. Don't they? They are adults, after all. Your parents, your teachers, your older brother, they all have the right to act as irrationally as they please - they are adults. You hate them, but you love them just the same. But then you become an adult, unwillingly, inevitably, and your eyes open to a frightening new reality. Nothing is as it seemed in childhood. Holidays suck, your parents' house is no longer a mansion, and your grandma's back yard is no longer an enchanted forest. In hindsight, your Aunt Rosey was just plain crazy, not eccentric, your teachers were average and your big brother wasn't as brilliant or tough as you thought he was. And all these people that you used to hold upon a pedestal, now they all make mistakes. And you are disappointed because you are smart enough to realize it. It really pisses you off.

They say "The family that drinks together sinks together," but I'm not so sure about that. We've had our ups and downs, but we could never be accused of being mundane, or a failure. I have been fascinated by my family since I was old enough to sing along to the James Taylor songs my brother Steve strummed as everyone sat around, drinks in hand and smiles on their faces. Sometimes I can still feel the energy, the presence of all those people, just as they were back then. I love that feeling. It is at the very core of my being, that feeling.

It was 1976, and Steve and Jenny's house was reminiscent of a hippie commune. It was hidden under the trees on a gravel road in a small southern town. Under a big Magnolia tree was a pond with frogs and lily pads. Music poured out from the windows. Inside, there was red shag carpet and a room named "The Doom Room," after a friend whose spooky painted portrait hung on the door. I slept in that room when we spent weekends there, and I was certain it was haunted. In the den next to it, where all the living took place, were a built-in bar, an old piano, and a slot machine - the kind that rang up lemons and oranges and cherries. Downstairs was dungeon-like, with a small bed built into the wall, curtained with hanging beads, where I also liked to sleep when none of their friends had passed out drunk there.

The house was full of music and laughter, and though I was a little girl, I felt a part of it, and I gazed admiringly at my family as if they were the coolest and most

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