It was snowing in Norwood, Massachusetts the day I was born.  My dad was at work when my mom into labor, so  she called my aunt for a ride to Norwood hospital, where they were both born and my grandfather died.

The snow slowed down my mom’s sister, so she called a cab to the hospital, a half mile away from our place on Winslow Avenue.  It’s understandable my mom couldn’t walk the 9 minutes, right?

I came a few hours later, given the name Dennis for my father and middle name Paul for my mother’s Italian grandfather, whose real name was Paolo.    I was brought home from the hospital on Christmas Eve, in my parent’s 1960 Ford Sunliner convertible.

I’m assuming the top was up.   Maybe not, and that could explain a few things.