This post isn’t about Parkinson’s—except that it was written by someone who lives with it. Me. Lately, as part of my newfound obsession with “getting my life in order” and clearing things out, I’ve been sorting through old photos. I hadn’t seen this one in ages. Naturally, it stirred up a wave of nostalgia.

I spent many summers in a tiny upstate New York town called Glenco Mills. It was so small that by the time you passed the “Welcome to…” sign, you could already see the “Now leaving…” sign about 100 feet ahead. I’m exaggerating—but not by much. A town of houses and farms. No gas station, no school, no general store. (Well, one neighbor sold candy and ice cream from their front porch a few times. That sort of counted.)

Back home, though I loved my life in the city, I was an only child.

But in Glenco Mills, I suddenly had a God-family. I was baptized there, in a creek, when I was seven, by a friend of my dad’s who was an Episcopal priest. He became my Godfather. His wife, my Godmother. And with their four children—three girls and a boy—I was folded right in. With them, I had a gang.

We played hide and seek in the cornfield or barn, and we swam in the best swimming hole you could imagine—complete with a huge rock for diving.
We had endless diversions. Football games on the lawn, ballets and musicals staged on the front porch for anyone in town who would come and see them. And there was a swing in the front yard that soared so high it felt like flying. I learned to ride my bike on the wavy, up-and-down road in front of my God-family’s house. When it rained, we couldn’t resist racing our bikes through the puddles. Dangerous, maybe. Refreshing, definitely.

One of the things I remember most is how we were always together.
Looking at the above photo now, we really do look like a gang—sun-kissed, tangled hair, arms around each other, ready for anything.
We were like a gang—always plotting the next adventure. My Godbrother, being the oldest and the only boy, wasn’t in on every plan us girls concocted—but I remember him always showing up. Sometimes reluctantly, sometimes dragged in, but always there.

Those summers stayed with me.

We had several of them, each one stitched with its own stories and small adventures. Sometimes we’d take day trips to Taconic Lake. Here’s a photo of my Godparents from one of our day trips to Taconic Lake, where we’d swim and picnic on the beach.

My Godparents were also talented musicians. They used to travel through the upper eastern U.S. to perform folk mass music at different Episcopal dioceses. That spirit of performance lived in our porch plays and barn concerts and dances, too.

We’ve all moved on from New York. My Godparents eventually divorced. My Godfather remarried, had two more children, and moved to Southern California. My Godmother also remarried after she and my Godsisters moved to Indiana. My Godbrother settled in Vermont. Since my own move to California in 1978, we’ve only seen each other a few times—not enough.

When you’re used to spending day and night together for weeks each summer—plus the occasional weekend throughout the year—it leaves a mark. It feels like part of you is missing. We didn’t just grow up together; we were in sync. Our thoughts, our games, even the way we moved through the day—it all felt like a chorus.

And even though we’re scattered now, and we don’t stay in touch as often as we once did, I still feel the vibrations of that chorus inside me.