There was this Italian man living in Brooklyn back in the 1950’s who
prayed very hard and believed that St. Joseph could cure all his ills. Being a
father of 15 children, his wife Rosie might be pregnant once again. This upset
poor Domenico, because one day he found that the company he worked for was
going under. Worried he went to church one Saturday and visited the side altar
where his favorite statue of St. Joseph stood. Behind the statue was the
pastor, Father Joe, who could hear everything Domenico said.
Crossing himself with a frown, Domenico began to pray to St. Joseph:
“Dear Holy and blest San Giuseppi, my wife a Rosie and me, we hava too many
kids and a no job. Please helpa me finda some work!
The next Saturday Domenico returned to the church and once again got
down on his knees and said: San Giuseppi, you no listena to me last a week?
I’ma say I needa a job, if I hava no job by nexta week, I coma back here and
chop you in half! Father Joe heard this all and worried about Domenico and
prayed.
Saturday came and to be cautious, Father Joe replaced the expensive
statue of St. Joseph with a small plaster cast of the saint. Sure enough, who
comes storming into the church angry and madder than a wet cat but Domenico,
who comes up to the statue and says: Hey! Quello piccolo, dove è il vostro
schiocco? Roughly translated: Hey! Little one, where’s your pop?
Having spent a small part of my life in comparison to the
rest of it, the memories I hold dearest seem to go back to my early upbringing
in Brooklyn. It is after all where I got my start as a human being. It’s where
I first met Mom and Dad, and the rest of my family. The mere mention of
Brooklyn takes me back to those wonderful times when I knew nothing of life but
the streets and school and church, neighbors and family. You might say Brooklyn
was the blueprint for my life.
Growing up with the concept of home and family first, we as
Italian Americans always placed values along the lines that at the end of the
day, we would all meet at the kitchen table and explain ourselves, our day and
what our plans were. Dad had a story from work that day, Mom reported to Dad on
my behavior for the day and I reported on why I did what I did. Of course most times
the conversations were happy and life was good. This was all discussed over a
plate of pasta fazool or a simple spaghetti dish with meatballs. It was home,
no matter how cold the flat was, we kindled our spirits with the love of family
and the fun we had with each other.
No one was allowed to take their self too seriously, if you
did you got it and got it good, you would regret being uppity or arrogant. We
were not allowed to make fun of anyone’s looks without first looking into the
mirror yourself, and Mom would chip in: and YOU are so beautiful???
Over the years I have written about Brooklyn and my life, my
relatives and the places I visited with the mind of a child, because I was a
child when it all happened. But it was not the childhood I wrote about, it was
the state, which is living in Brooklyn. There is no other special place I know
of. And so I will introduce a new way of expressing it on this blogue; ‘DelBloggolo’s
I remember Brooklyn’ you’ll see it from time to time.
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1 comment:
Glad to see you're still writing. So lucky we were raised in the hood...it helped shape who we are. Have a good year, amigo.
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