"Those were the most beautiful women I have ever seen to this day. They danced like nothing I can ever forget and this is where my love for music was born. Within the gypsy camp I learned to play the harmonica. My dad told me to stay away from them. He told me that the gypsies were thieves and if he caught me there he would tear me up. But I didn't care. I was drawn to them. Every evening, I would put a plastic bucket under my window, wait until my parents were alseep and then I would climb out the window and onto the tub. I was too small to make it to the ground without falling."

"I was only seven the first time I found them. I heard the music and followed it to the river. Then, year after year, I waited for their return. I spent my evenings waiting in bed until I knew I could safely climb out the window, run to the gypsy camp down at the river."

"I'll never forget them. Then came the year they did not return. I never knew what happened - why they did not come back but I never see colorful silk fabric, beads or wagons - I never play my harmonica without thinking and wondering about the gypsies. I loved those people, yes, I really did. Oh, those were the prettiest women I have seen to this day."

My dad shared this story with me often, along with many other life experiences, and as I write it, I can hear him telling me - taking me with him. A little boy running barefoot, as fast as he could go to get to the river. To get to that forbidden gypsy camp.

There were others, there were many. Stories of a pet raccoon nursed back to health, a brother killed at the end of World War II....but there is something about the gypsies....

My dad was well known as the drum major in the band - the one who leaned so far back his plume flowed on the ground behind. A lover of music, a dancer who would clear the floor. And, I suppose, it was born in the gypsy camp - in the heart of a little runaway boy.

Simple stories, simply told. A time when life was truly that - simple.

My life has been so enriched by the lives of those who have lived and shared with me that which I shall never live or see.

Yanna, what a sweet story you've passed along from your dad. Thank you.

I remember gypsies coming through our area up until the late 1950's.

Westerly, Garfield was assassinated in 1881. It's so great your husband has a tape of his ggrandfather's recollections and made the effort to gather those thought before they were lost forever. Thanks for sharing.

Yanna, what part of the country was this? Or was this another country? I think there used to be gypsies in Western Pennsylvania, but no one in my husbands family was ever brave or inspired enough to follow them and learn things.

My husband has a tape of his great grandfather telling of his adventures as a very young man - it was the year Garfield was assassinated - what year was that? John S. Wicks took the boat over from Cornwall where he worked the tin mines with his da' as just a lad. As a young man he set sail for long-lost relatives who lived in South Fork, PA, for just a visit and a short stay. But that's where he met the woman who was soon to be his wife and raise ten children with. He started at the coal mines there and later sold organs. (He was a crack organist, and he played the coronet, too). Later he opened a men's clothing store. So you see, it wasn't a short trip after all. He lived to be ninety or ninety one, all his life in South Fork, PA, joining clubs, giving people work, helping people out when they were down on their luck....

I never met him, but he has a wonderful voice on those tapes, full of humor and amazement.

Westerly:

It was in Springhill, Louisiana:) My grandfather, being the Southern Baptist Preacher that he was (God rest his sweet soul) was so concerned about my daddy being under such negative influence such as those gypsies. If one is familiar with the south, it is understood that "in the day" dancing and drinking were exactly the very things that would throw one into eternal hell fire. I don't believe he ever found out that my daddy was visiting them.

Westerly, I still see the far away look in my daddy's eyes. He left us 2 years ago, but I still see the look in his eyes, his face as he reflected on those times.

My dad was 76 when he left so today he would be 78. He told me he was 7 years old when he started running off to visit the gypsies.

He always spoke with such passion about this experience....

History is truly amazing. Someday, I shall tell the story of my mother's family from Norway. Now, that is truly something else.

From the coal mines, to salesman, to business owner...how interesting your story is. Our heritage...where we came from and how we arrived...Such an integral part of us, you know? hmmmm So much to think about.

So with this said, I shall say to Norway, to be continued....

The elderly are such a trove of wisdom and history. It's a shame how invisible they often become in our youth-oriented culture. (And it makes the prospect of growing old a bit less appealing.) I've always admired more "primitive" cultures where the elderly are respected and revered.

Recently I started an online archive where stories and wisdom can be shared before they are lost. You can learn more about it on my profile page.

Lately, I have been thinking of a misunderstanding with my mother which had persisted until we had a long sit-down 2 summers ago.

The original event happened over 45 years ago. It was the occasion of my late return home from school – as a first grader – and meeting my mom halfway down the walk with fire in her eye. I think she grabbed me under the armpit and dragged me inside, demanding to know where I’d been so long scaring her half to death like that. She pounded her fist on the counter-top and the drinking glasses jumped. I think the expression “never again” was rolled out more than once.

Being a mere pup and clueless, I had thought nothing of visiting a classmate’s house on the walk back from school, playing with her dolls as long as I wished, marking nothing of the time. It those days the bus didn’t pick you up and drop you on your front lawn. Even very young children walked long distances, alone.

It was my friend’s mother who finally suggested I quick-step it before my mother had my “hide.” Yessir, she yelled at my silly, irresponsible self. I think she even smacked my behind. I just thought she was the meanest mother there ever was.

Mom and I had a recent good laugh over that long ago day of pain and tears. This is how she saw it. She had a big house with high ceilings to keep clean. She had a husband in the VA hospital with a serious illness. She had a toddler in diapers, and her first-born, me, was a no-show from school. She counted on a certain number of minutes for the walk; the minutes ticked on, and no 6-yr-old. The shadows grew long, and she felt her heart racing in panic. She slipped on comfortable shoes and a sweater, bundled up my brother and stuffed him in the stroller, and trod the mile or so to the school ground and back again, expecting to find I had beat her home. Out again she went, back over the same ground.

At some point a couple of rowdy guys slowed down their car and leaned out the window to make bawdy comments to my panic-stricken young mother.

“Hey, Baby, how’d ya like to sit on my lap?”

“Imagine!” she said, reliving the indignities all over again. “Here I was, hauling an infant, my face damp with sweat…. All I wanted in the world was to see my dear daughter, and they thought I’d be interested in dallying with the likes of them?”

She sounded so indignant, we both had to laugh. My mom is 84, and has a sense of humor in there somewhere. Good thing. What a hard ride she had.

Hey Westerly.....sweet....