Every time I see this picture, I find myself asking, “Who are these people?’

But of course, I know the answer. This is my family, in 1952, gathered in our living room for a photo. Why are we holding the numbers 1927? Because that was the year my father graduated from Boston College, and for his 25th reunion we were going to be on the cover of the Boston College Alumni Magazine.

Why? Well, naturally, because my father had the most children of anyone else in his class. How Catholic, how 1950s!

Yes, my parents were devout Catholics, raised in Boston’s South End and Bay Village by parents who immigrated from Ireland. When they married, they vowed to take as many children as “the good Lord sent them.” And over their first 12 years, they certainly did. There were nine of us in the end, living in a four-bedroom, center entrance colonial in Milton with a bath and a half, 12 people in all, because my mother’s mother lived with us too. Strangely, I never noticed that house to be a problem in any way.

My parents shared values and commitments. Their biggest commitment was to paying for all of us to go to Catholic schools from kindergarten through college. I have no idea how they managed that. My father was a surgeon, my mother a former teacher of elocution and actress, but a stay-at-home mom after that. They truly loved and respected each other and somehow we all knew that. I think for most of us they were great examples.

A big family is a source of entertainment and argument, but fun to be in the middle of growing up. But as time passed, I began to see us as three different families. Sure we were a lot alike, but our three oldest were shaped in the ‘50s and early ‘60s. My oldest brother loved girls and loved to go dancing at the Totem Pole in Norumbega. He married early, had three children, his wife changed her mind, they divorced. My mother cried the following Christmas when we gave him things for his new apartment. He ultimately became a teacher.

My two older sisters worked on Kennedy campaigns and in Democratic politics, loved Frank Sinatra and were extremely independent. Both ultimately became lawyers.

The middle three girls, myself in the lead, loved rock and roll, the Beatles, the Stones and more. We were more likely to violate family structures, experiment and travel. I lived in Argentina, another of us lived in Germany, the middle one was the first girl married, and to a Methodist! I was in Buenos Aires for their wedding, but I heard my mother was upset to the max. She, the bride, became a speech therapist. The youngest of the middle three, taught, worked in DC and New York, and still lives there today after turns as an actress, bartender and research reporter.

The last three, two boys and a girl, seemed eons away from me. The two boys fought, one a neatnik, one a slob, sharing a room. And the last born is just a perfect darling of a girl who loves us all but never seemed to like school the way most of us did. The neat boy became a lawyer, the slob, an emergency room doctor, and Joni, the youngest, a social worker.

No one abused drugs, no one became an alcoholic. Good citizens all.

It’s funny when we all get together today, how different our memories are. Yes we are all still alive. We can be talking about the same event and no one seems to remember it in the same way.

I haven’t spoken much about my father but he was our rock. He didn’t yell and scream (like Mom). He was always there for us. Imagine finding time to attend the concerts, plays and ball games of nine children. But if you gave him enough notice, he would write it in his calendar and he would be there. A steady, devout and good presence in all of our lives.

They did everything for us and gave us wonderful starts in life. But the ‘60s, ‘70s and then the ‘80s changed our world and us. Only two of the six girls have children, all of the boys do. But no one of course has nine. Many are no longer Catholic. Some are.

I followed my dream into television and it was wonderful to me. Then I met Arnie Reisman and had to deliver another blow to my parents: a marriage to a divorced Jew. But by then I was 35 and knew my own mind. I told my parents, “He is exactly what you told me by example to find — loyal, kind, smart and true. I’m sorry he’s in the wrong wrapping.”

They grew to love him, of course. Families like ours don’t break, they somehow learn, over time, to bend, to adapt.

And while we worried that we disappointed them, after my mother died a message in her own handwriting emerged. It said: “Thank you my children for being so good. You have made my life beautiful, together with your wonderful Dad, my dear Ted.”

I guess we weren’t so bad after all.

Paula Lyons lives in Vineyard Haven.