ON<br >(~N THE DAY that I found that Penny was not my sister， I<br >knew that my life would change forever. How much change， or<br >what it would be， I could not have known at the time. I re-<br >member asking Penny， "What s going to happen to us?" and<br >Penny， who was sixteen and knew all there was to know about<br >everything， tossed me an old saw: "The more things change， the<br >more they remain the same." She added， "That s what I m afraid<br >of." I was only thirteen at the time and her response did nothing<br >to relieve numbing pressures in my head.<br > We found out who Penny s real father was on a day that left<br >no chance for reflection for a long time to come. That was that<br >September day in 1938 when the hurricane and flood that rav-<br >aged the Northeast almost destroyed the town of Eastfield in<br >Connecticut where we lived. Penny learned that our Uncle<br >Lambot was really her father--not mine as well， but only hers--<br >after he had gone into town to batten down the hatches of the<br >family-owned woolen factory， the Winston Mills， before the<br >elements let loose their furies. When he didn t return that eve-<br >ning and there was no way of knowing what happened to him，<br >that day， like much of the summer， became a time we would<br >have eliminated from our memories if we could have. But it<br >would remain forever with us as if it just happened. Even now，<br >more than forty years later， it all seems as if it were only yester-<br >day.<br > Mostly hiding the turmoil inside， outwardly Penny took<br >each day in stride. She was fond of saying that crying could<br >Q<br ><br >