As a child, I thought myself preternaturally small; a wee one waiting and always missing the puberty
train. I remember my diminutive Sicilian Tsunami Mommy trying to console me in my wish to tower with
the redwoods, or at least hit 6 foot 3 inches.

The 4-foot, 11-inch pistol packing Pisano would prop me up eye-to-eye on a step stool and whisper,
‘From little acorns mighty oaks will grow.’ It was little comfort. I knew darn well that most of those
wonderful missiles of New England autumns would either be whizzed by Sandy Koufax wannabees at
just about any old target or end up as squirrel chow.

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