NUMBING MY BRAIN

No matter which end of the political spectrum you are on, the constant news that seems to be jaded by who the news source is supporting or not has become too partisan and bias. The faith I once placed in a TV or radio report on POTUS or Congress seems to become one-sided rather than informative. It seems the reactions on both the left and right are too quick to respond negatively than considering the points being made.

Because of all this jadedness by the reporters I have shed I party affiliation for one of Independence. I found it is very calming and soothing while giving me a chance to better understand points of view!

The other day a prominent Senator, one I detest laid out his reasons for obstructing a proposal which when listened to, made me consider my opinion on a broader scale and, oh my God, UNDERSTANDING HIS LOGIC! The beauty of being Independent at its finest. I’ve become convinced that the two-party system once adequate is no longer viable we need another alternative.

It would be very hard to brand me a Liberal or Conservative since my views are contrary as a whole to either arm of politics. Some issues I am a Liberal and some a Conservative. I would give you these views but who would care except those running for office seeking my vote or endorsement.

PATRIOT, THINKER AND GENTLEMAN

One of the men I truly liked and admired was Senator Joe Leiberman from Vermont who wore an Independent label and seemed so sane in his points of view, causing both parties to have to shift their points of view for fear that they would lose too many who would vote for their side. It’s what I call: ‘squirming’ and is very enjoyable to witness.

The trouble with being Independent is that Independents have different viewpoints with each other, but the good thing is they consider everyone’s point of view. If you don’t as an Independent, you lose your soul once again.

THE NAZI

Ever since Seinfeld ran on TV the designation of Nazi has depicted professionals or workers who take their job too seriously and become overbearing in their dictates. If you recall or don’t know, the ‘Soup Nazi’ had sway over people who ordered a soup and if he didn’t like your tone, your attitude or your groveling it was: “NO SOUP FOR YOU!”

And so, I have since found that they exist everywhere, a gas station that had an attendant I called The Gas Nazi who had to be satisfied that you parked close enough to the gas pump, had your money ready and spoke distinctively to his Middle Eastern ears.

Then one year I went to my primary physician to correct a problem with my medication. As I walked up to the receptionist window, there in front of me sat this lady about four feet tall in her early sixties, cropped hair and an attitude that was rotting in the open air of the office. She asked me my business and I explained that the doctor’s office called my home to have me come down to clarify a form for a medication.

The Receptionist Nazi: “When did you receive this notice?”

Me: “I don’t recall if it was Thursday or Friday.”

The Receptionist Nazi: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T RECALL!!!???

Being the cultured even-tempered gentleman I am I replied:
DON’T YOU YELL AT ME!”

She immediately buried her head in the file on her desk and said nothing, but from then on we tangoed around each other whenever we were in the same room. That day she was filling in for the regular receptionist and must have felt that working behind that desk gave her certain powers of abuse of patients and men of good standing. As the years went by this cold relationship existed as we avoided each other.

Then, today came and I had to visit the doctor again for my usual 3-month checkup.

As I entered the office, there she was, The Receptionist Nazi! She looked up and swallowed hard while I looked down not sure if she was sitting of standing and faced her square and true.

The Receptionist Nazi: “Good morning! How can I help you?” A smile radiated from her face, eyes pleading not to make this a scene. Very casually I gave her my answer and sat down. I had tamed The Receptionist Nazi!

The sweetness was over-flowing, the past tension easing as a steam pipe from my old heating system. We were fast becoming best buds! An almost new found love was building, causing me to remind myself to speak to the doctor about this sudden sense of upheaval from deep in the pit of my stomach.

THE OLIVE GARDEN AND OTHER SINS OF THE PAST!

I have to admit, I ate at the Olive Garden. It wasn’t something I planned, it just happened. Being hungry I lost my head in a shopping center with an Olive Garden nearby and went in. I entered and looked around making sure no one knew who I was or that I was Italian.

There are things we all do that we are ashamed of, and my eating at the Olive Garden is one of them. My grandmother, God bless her soul and her sole (Used to make it with capers and olives) will be rolling in her grave when she reads this.

Once I slapped a pizza out of the hands of my son because it had pineapple on it. I’m not ashamed of that, though.

Dad used to make pizza in his pizzeria restaurant. Then when he stopped that and went into the business world he became impossible to eat pizza with, describing what was wrong with the pizza, particularly the crust, his biggest source of complaint, while another source of complaint or criticism was, you guessed it, the sauce. He made everything fresh, grew his tomatoes and oregano. You might say he had a very critical tongue when it came to pizza and once went into a Pizzeria kitchen in Washington to reprimand their poor assemblage of the sauce that seems to have come right out of the can. They never seasoned it at all, obviously a non-Italian chef!

A SPECIAL PRIDE

Way back in December of 1944, in the snow-covered Belgium forest called the Ardennes, the Germans threw the dice one more desperate time in hopes of turning the tide of war in their favor. Under fog and dense humidity of the December days before Christmas, they launched their attack to split the allies in half and separate the Americans in the south from the British in the north. The idea was to drive to Antwerp and capture the major supply port that fed the Allied advance toward Germany. With only a limited amount of fuel, just enough to make the push in one sweep, it was a huge gamble.

The Germans were banking on the surprise and timing of the attack as their only hope of success. The weather was their ally in that there would be no air support for the Americans because of the thick cloud cover.

On the American side stood a corporal, one Daniel Tria who had joined the US Army and was in direct line of the enemy’s attack, unaware that anything was coming to this position of R and R.

Like most American soldiers, he dreamed of being home for Christmas on this December 16th morning. That dream was shattered in the early morning dawn when the forest and town around him suddenly erupted into thunder and lightning, the ground shaking in front of him the mass confusion of war turned the dream into a vivid nightmare.

His confusion led to his deciding he needed to seek refuge and load his rifle, that this day may be his last. Digging into the muddy ground, he prayed and wondered, when he heard the sounds of the dreaded dual-tracked monsters, the tanks. The Germans were attacking a weakly defended section of the Allied line, taking advantage of heavily overcast weather conditions that grounded the Allies' overwhelmingly superior air forces. Fierce resistance on the northern shoulder of the offensive, and in the south, around the crossroads of Bastogne, blocked German access to key roads to the northwest and west that they counted on for success. Columns of armor and infantry that were supposed to advance along parallel routes found themselves on the same roads. This, and terrain that favored the defenders threw the German advance behind schedule and allowed the Allies to reinforce the thinly placed troops.

In the nightmare of the initial attack, Danial Tria was seriously wounded in his right leg, a shell exploding from the distant artillery and was knocked off his feet. The German army with their mechanized vehicles rolled through the lines and started to capture many American soldiers at the beginning of this offensive. Daniel Tria lay in his foxhole, wounded and unable to get up and walk, trapped behind enemy lines! In the confusion of battle, with his rifle the only source of protection, he crawled through enemy lines, carefully plotting his every move, from tree to bush to hole, from outhouse to barn to a farmhouse. Over many days and much pain and danger, exposed to the growing cold and snowy weather, hungry and exhausted, he finally reached the American’s as they gallantly withstood the German onslaught and that would turn the tide enough where the Germans were unable to wage war again in an offensive capacity.

While these brave men hung on, refusing to surrender, to the south another corporal, Frank Corace was heading north in the middle of the night to relieve his fellow Americans at Bastogne under the command of General George S. Patton. A man of quiet courage and bound by duty, little did Frank know he was relieving his cousin Daniel Tria.

Both Daniel Tria and Frank Corace were uncles of mine, One, Daniel because of his wounds, was sent back to the States forever in pain with a cane to support his mobility. There was a big story about him with pictures of him recuperating in a field hospital in the then center spread of the New York Daily News, while Frank Corace continued on his way to the final chapters of WWII in Germany, a hero just like his cousin without much fanfare.

Italian Americans gave much during the war, they gave their sons and daughters and fought as bravely as anyone could, putting away the terrible put downs of their parents and themselves proving we Italian Americans are very much a thread in the fabric of this great country.

A PLEA TO DEAF EARS

Every morning when I turn on the TV I find the same old thing, ugly and incomprehensible, the wanton destruction of lives, particularly those of children.

If you look at the Middle East and our southern border we are shown the massacre of dignity, the ruination of young lives and in Syria particularly, the murder of children. There are iconic images of a child and his dad floating face down in the Rio Grande I believe, drowned because they couldn’t make it across the river to a better life. There is no hope for legal entry in the U.S.A., they are starving in their homeland and try to escape the violence that encompasses their home and families.

Look to the Middle East and you see the wreckage of the War in Syria and with the assistance of Russian aircraft bombing of civilian populations, a child five-years-old searches for her younger sibling maybe one-year-old in the rubble. She died in her efforts! How proud to be Russian, how proud to be an American these days.

GETTING UP OFF THE FLOOR

How can you survive from a broken leg due to a fall, then an external fixate to keep the leg in place was attached, a rod inserted to that very same leg, go through rehab for over 5 months, fall again and have a brain bleed, fall again then have a partial hip replacement, more hospitalization and rehab, contact colon cancer, have that operation then catch pneumonia and from that, followed a collapsed lung, by a tracheotomy and a ileostomy bag, all hospitalization and now again, rehab? I forgot to mention losing weight that leaves you unable to even stand, and not eating solids in months, many months! In the midst of all that I was told to prepare for the end, a Molst application would be needed! (Medical Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment) in this case end of life.

But she is a fighter, my daughter. If she doesn’t want to do something, she doesn’t. If you tell her she is going to die, she won’t hear you as she rebounds from whatever there is to deal with. She has more courage than anyone I know of, she is a fighter, pugnacious and determined.

She is what is meant by: “Never say die”!

Scared as she has no idea why these things happen to her, unable to express her pain, where it is and not understanding our coaxing, she fights on alone in a darkness that will never leave her. She is developmentally disabled, can’t speak, can’t convey much of her feelings, but she is alive and will fight for every breath in her being. This was the fight of her life, and she won.

I’m proud of her.

THE ITALIAN WEDDING

One of the features of life in the Italian family back in the early ’50s was the wedding. If you had a daughter, it was very important that she got married, otherwise, she would be considered an ‘Old Maid’ and Momma couldn’t have that. For Poppa no one was good enough for his daughter or have too much money to support her.

Like any engagement, the announcement was presented under a cordial and some cookies, “Salute” was the word and ‘Wheeew’ was the whispered word Poppa used when it was finally announced that he got her off his hands.

Daughters had the extra or added burden of Mamma, who would assume command of everything and everyone, there was the cleaning of the house, the cooking, the hall, the cooking, the church, the cooking, and the wedding dress, and don’t forget the cooking. A son only had to have a tuxedo and clean underwear.

In the old days, fear of grandparents from the ‘other side’ was the norm, and whom you were marrying was important to the grandparents, thus important to you as the parent of the bride. First the criteria: Had to Italian, from the same hometown, e.g. Neapolitan or Sicilian, Catholic, and the opposite sex helped too. The very idea of a mixed marriage was a Sicilian marrying a Neapolitan.

As my oldest cousin poised to get married she was breaking most of the rules. Everyone was worried Grandma would find out. She was marrying a gentleman of German extraction, was a Lutheran and God only knows what else he was. Someone would have to approach Grandma and lay it on the line. Fear was high that she would be unhappy, angry, mad and not pleased. The job went to the stranger who had nothing to lose but his bride. He told Grandma he was a German Lutheran! He actually told her that!

Well, when the smoke cleared and the dust settled there was my grandmother making her announcement. She announced in her own words, part Italian and part Broken English that she was pleased!

Grandma!

“He’s a nizer boy!”

Was she hitting the sauce? No, she thought that that might happen but then again, that was one of the reasons she came to this country to escape the poverty and narrow mindedness of prewar Italy in the early 1900s.

And so the happy couple would march down the aisle into wedded bliss as soon as my aunt was done giving her wedding orders, fussing with the bride’s dress and giving Hell to anyone unfortunately in the way. It was called a football wedding with a live band and I will never forget it! Grandma was ahead of her time, and wiser than her children, and my uncles couldn’t smoke their di Napoli cigars.

For the next two years after that day of unity, my aunt’s house was the depository of wedding gifts stashed away in closets, basement, and under tables scattered throughout the house. In even subsequent years the supply of baby shower gifts led heavily to my uncle's determination to move and not tell anyone where.

PETER, PETER, PETER!

One of my favorite pastimes is to have lunch with old friends from the days of old. There a few lunch groups that I select from, mostly PCH, Bellport High School Class of 1909 and even relatives and friends.

One of the lunches is an old photographer friend named Pete San Chirico, who spends his retirement time shooting polo matches, but NO weddings and making interesting friends. When I was working at PCH Peter was at the time a freelance photographer that we employed. His professional lineage dates back to Doubleday Books and we both know the same people since, like him, came over to PCH from Doubleday.

Actually, Peter ate the whole thing!

Peter has an enthusiasm for life that exceeds anyone's. He is a character that cannot be described without illustrations. Once when a mutual friend passed away I went to his memorial service at St. Lawrence the Martyr Church in Sayville. As I stood waiting for the service to begin in the church parking lot with a few associates when who pulls up into the parking lot with his then 90 something-year old mother but Peter. To show his enthusiasm for his old friends with Mamma in the front seat, he flipped us the bird! Mamma and Jesus both got a first-hand view of Peter’s sense of humor. Of course, we all backed away to ensure none of us would be hit with lightning.

Yesterday I had lunch with Peter as I do as often as possible and we had our usual good time. Then the trouble started. Having ordered a Turkey Club it came in short order but as I bit into it I noticed something strange, no Swiss cheese! Dumbfounded I lay in wait for the waitress to come by and ask if everything was all right.

“How come there is no Swiss cheese in my club sandwich?” I asked.

Looking surprised she repeated the question back to me then informed me that I had to ask for it!

“Ask for Swiss cheese on my Turkey club!”

“Yes. You ALWAYS ask for it anywhere around here.”

“I’m from Holbrook, and we DON” T ask for Swiss cheese when ordering a Turkey Club! In fact, when people are just passing through Holbrook the town passes out Swiss cheese so they don’t leave hungry”

Knowing her cook made an omission we laughed at her pathetic attempt to cover her ass. Meanwhile, Peter was calling her Matilda and she was answering him. We now had a new friend as we kidded her and she asked questions about me and I related facts about my life. As we are leaving, Peter goes to take care of the bill as I head to the men’s room. When returning to say goodbye to Peter I see him sitting in a booth with Matilda, who informs that one, her name is Maryann, and that two, she has a cousin named Anthony Del Broccolo!

GREAT STUFF!

Every summer I try to find and read a book that will carry me through the season. A book can better recall the lazy, hazy days of summer I read that year.

Finding such a book as I describe is not always easy, sometimes it comes easily and sometimes not. The criteria for such books must be that they are important: interesting, informative and entertaining. When I find such a book two things happen: 1) I slow down the reading because I don’t want to finish it too quickly and 2) I don’t want it to end.

This past summer I had the pleasure of meeting someone who I so enjoyed meeting. He is the author of a book called ‘AMP’D’ written about an amputee that deals with life half-handed. The author’s name is Ken Pisani and he is a hidden treasure who needs to let me know when his next book is being published. The man is a very gifted and talented writer who wrote his book just for me. I know, how can I claim that but it feels like it was written to open up and sharpen my field of awareness and vision, it seems to address me personally. The main character takes you by the hand off-handed and gives you the details of a funny yet sad tale. 

When I visited #1 Son in Burbank in June, he mentioned that he had a friend who wished to have lunch with me. Never turning down lunches and meeting someone new are my things, and so we did. Ken apparently reads my blog: DelBloggolo.blogspot.com and wanted to see if I am part of a scheme to defraud people of their sanity or into thinking that someone like me could possibly exist and still be free to move about.

Me, The Author Ken Pisani & #1 Son, Anthony

The lunch was then made memorable when Ken and #1 Son split the bill for the sushi, followed by the best gift of all, a surprised autographed copy of his wonderful book AMP’D!

I will treasure the book because not only did it come from a talented author signed with encouragement, but, it is a summer highlight that will bookmark this past summer.

If you want to read something that has style, is fun and goes all too quickly, then get a copy of his book, you will want to read it a second time as I do.

AMP’D

Ken Pisani

St. Martin’s Press

OLD ITALIAN WIVES TALES

While the world is getting more and more sophisticated every day, it's odd how these tales seem to exist and still be passed down from generation to generation even though people may not believe them anymore, yet, they still get quoted.

No peacock feathers in your house or apartment, the feathers give the appearance of the "evil eye" bringing bad luck.

Paint the front door red. This keeps evil spirits from crossing the threshold. I know a lot of traditional Italians who live in my neighborhood did this. I’ve also heard of Italian families who hang bread over their front and back doors keeping the evil spirits away as well.

It is bad luck to sit a shoebox on anything!  It is believed that the superstition originates from new shoes originally having the soles affixed by hobnails and that these would cause scratches on a table if they had not already been worn down.

Baby showers. This one is a little perplexing! If anything, Italians like to wait until after the baby is born before having a baby shower.

While in the whole world the traditional unlucky number is 13, in Italy the traditional unlucky number is 17. (See yesterday's blog) There's nothing wrong with that style of writing but when it comes to the Roman style, it's either XVII or VIXI. The latter translates from the Roman language as "I had lived = I'm dead".

No hats worn at the table is a rule in many traditional households. Is it a custom of just a sign of respect?

ITALIAN SUPERSTITIONS

ITALIAN SUPERSTITIONS

Italians are a superstitious lot. In spite of their religious beliefs and the teachings of mostly the Catholic Church, it is part of an Italian’s life at one time or another. Much of the superstitions came from Italy and was packed in the valises and trunks of their lives. It dates to centuries ago and was passed down like sacred relics from one generation to another.

Along with the evil eye, here are 15 far-fetched and unheard of for the most part that governed the simple lives of my ancestors. If you know of any more, please feel free to add them to the list.

1. Don’t take a bath when you’re ailing.

Whenever I’m ailing and feeling slightly under the weather, chances are I want to take a nice hot bath to soothe my aching joints and combat some of the pain. According to Italian superstition, taking a bath when you’re sick will only increase your misery as will going outside with wet hair or feet on a cold day.

                                                XVII

2. The unlucky number 17

If you ever visited Italy have you ever wondered why some hotels don’t have a 17th floor? The number 17 is considered unlucky in ancient times. The XVII is the Roman numeral for 17 and when rearranged to look like VIXI it means, “I have lived,” a symbol that’s placed on ancient tombstones and associated with death.

3. Don’t place a loaf of bread upside down

A loaf of bread must always be placed facing up according to Italian traditions This superstition is based on the religious fact that bread is considered a symbol of life in Italy, therefore, its bad luck to turn the bread up-side-down or stick a knife into it.

4. Watch where you lay your deadly hat

After returning home from a hard day’s work, you might be tempted to toss your hat onto your bed! Putting a hat on a bed is considered dangerous since it’s associated with death. According to tradition, when priests in Italy visited the dying to give them the last rights, they would remove their hat and put it on the bed.

5. Never seat 13 people at a dinner table 

If you find the number17 is bad luck, then don’t find yourself sitting at a dinner table with 12 other people, Italians consider it unlucky! Having 13 people at a table at mealtime is considered bad luck because there were 13 people at the Last Supper.

6. Single people, avoid brooms

If you’re single and you see someone sweeping the floor, get away as quickly as possible! If that someone brushes over your feet by accident, then you will be destined to being single for the rest of your life.

7. Don’t toast to bad luck

Been to a wedding feeling pretty good? When it comes to the toast several things can cause you bad luck. For example; never raise a glass that’s filled with water and never cross arms with the person next to you when you clink glasses. Chin chin.

8. Stay clear of air conditioners

If there are no air conditioners in Italy, it is because Italians believe that they are evil contraptions that blow dangerously cold air in your face, leading to “colpo d’ari” or a “punch of the air.” Who knew?

9. Touch iron to avoid back luck

In the U.S., people knock on wood to avoid tempting fate. In Italy, it’s common for people to “tocca ferro” or “touch iron.” I would imagine that the iron is not hot!

10. Bless a new home

It’s common for Italians moving into a new home (especially newlyweds) to rid the place of evil spirits blessing their home by performing certain rituals, such as sprinkling salt in the corners of all the rooms. Which creates a dilemma for #6 on this list!

11. Eat plenty of lentils on New Year’s Eve

Every culture has its own set of New Year’s traditions, and Italians are no different. In the Italian traditions, it’s customary to eat lentils after the clock strikes midnight. Also, don’t forget to wear red undergarments as this too, will bring you good luck in the coming year.

12. Beware of that black cat crossing your path

You heard it in America and now from Italy, too! If a cat is crossing the street, avoid being the first one to cross its path, as you’ll have bad luck. Italian tradition says that black cats are a symbol of witchcraft and the devil.

13. Carry a cornicello charm

If you want to protect yourself against the evil eye, then you must carry a cornicello charm around with you at all times. The charm, which resembles a chili pepper or a small horn, represents the horns of the Old European Moon Goddess and will bring you luck.

14. Don’t place objects in the shape of a cross

Never cross objects into the shape of a cross–say for example your fork and knife–as this is considered to be an insult to the religious symbolism of the cross and will bring you bad luck.

15. Don’t spill the salt

This superstition–which states that one must toss a handful of salt over their left shoulder to get rid of bad luck–is also common in the U.S. In Italy, it’s also customary when passing the salt to place it on the table first before handing it over.

 And so you have it! Grandma and Grandpa had superstitions and managed to practice them for their safety and good fortune.

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DAYS OF WINE AND PASTA

Bobby and Darby

Growing up in an Italian household filled one’s heart and soul with long-lasting sweet memories that rise to the surface of my consciousness. They feed me when I am lonely, they cry out to me in echoes from yesterday, and sadly, they remind me that my grandkids will never experience those wonderful memories that filled my days.

Dear Darby and Bobby,

Your names could have been Rose and Anthony or Maria and Giovanni, but that was a long time ago. You are the new generation and you will find new memories just as Grandpa has his. If there is one thing I want to give you as you grow and learn about your heritage, it is this: Once upon a time life was simple but beautiful.

There was a sense of family and what it meant was you lived for the days you were brought together, the times that you sat around a dinner table or shared a laugh, a joke, and yes, even a kiss. You watched the process of osmosis transform strangers and friends into family. With broken English and eyes that sang like a tarantella playing for welcomed people to the table of my grandparents.

There was my Grandpa Ralph with his plaid shirt and grey hair inviting you to sit down among the members of your new family. The voice welcoming he gave you the impression that grandma had tamed him long ago. His grey fedora cocked on his head he had no pretense he was simple and kind. You looked at his face and you saw the years of sacrifice to raise an American family, the calluses of hard work that encased his hands from manual toil, hands that carried the bread home. He was a proud man; work was his privilege loving and protecting his family was his need.

My grandmother Francesca was the glue that adhered to all who lived in her household, then married, moved away and had children, teaching, loving and there for all her children and grandchildren. My grandmother was an inexhaustible woman with talents that she employed on to her children, redefining them from her Old World to the New World. After all, she was raising an American family in her heart. She was not a linguist but tried none-the-less and made sure all her children spoke the American brand of the King’s English, preferably with a Brooklyn accent!

But my grandparents were not unique they were the norm as they say today. They were everybody’s grandparents that sailed to America from their homeland called Italia. Giving up what they cherished for a future in a strange land they sacrificed often their health, what little money they had and their past for the dream they realized.

There are amazing stories, millions of them from all the Italian immigrants that set their belongings on the shores of this great country. Disillusioned of their concepts that the streets were paved in gold they rolled up their sleeves and paved a golden future for their offspring.

With all their love of America, they still loved their Italia and so taught their children and grandchildren about the “Other side” as it was called. If you sat with these immigrants they left you with the clues that pointed across the sea. Their English was broken, yet they communicated with their hearts as they related their past as children in the old country.

On the holidays, be it, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day or Easter the family came together. Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins gathered in merriment, hands waving and gesticulating, voices singing and laughing, joy pure and simple. The plate of ziti or manicotti, maybe lasagna or ravioli, the meatballs perfectly rounded and the chicken roasted like it should be with a hint of lemon, simmering in a copper pan grandma brought back from her home across the sea.

Grandpa was that little old winemaker, making sure everyone had his glass filled, while it sat in the large pitcher with orange or peach slices, ready for the grandkids as the rushed grandpa for one or two slices, then, pretended they were drunk.

After dinner came the roasted chestnuts crossed by hand. I once asked grandma why she cut a cross in the chestnut and she said it represented every time she thought of me! Scattered across the white wine and gravy stain tablecloth were remnants of various nutshells, and then the demitasse cups were called to perform their duty with the dark roasted Espresso Coffee and anisette that flavored the bitterness along with a spoon of sugar.

I had great aunts and uncles who spoke broken English. They greeted you with kisses and left you with kisses, and in between they would tell you stories that left you laughing so hard your sides hurt. With their accent, they related the trials and tribulations of their lives and as they did, you would remember and repeat things they said long after they were gone. I miss them. I wish I could hear them once more, just one more story, one more squeeze of my cheek, one more dollar found mysteriously in my pocket, one more question out of love and caring concern.

God bless them all! There will never be those moments for me again, but they will live on in my core, my heart, and soul and I will cherish it all! The warmth and love they conveyed were special, like Italians on a whole all-loving and homey.

HEY, I GOTTA EAT!

Being retired, I have no time on my hands. The hustle and bustle of working life have escaped me and now I am too busy to relax. This is good. When I worked I had to conform to a rigid schedule of commuting and putting in hours of decision-making and meetings as well as schedules that could not be broken.

But now, I have the freedom to do what I want and I do it as much as I want. For instance, lunch, a time-honored tradition in my life that I dedicated myself to, only super-seeded by dinner is occupying my days. Old friends and acquaintances have come to the forefront and together we commiserate about people and times we know or knew. As I write this I still have an hour and fifty minutes until lunch and I haven’t yet formulated what I want. I hate when that happens.

Different people require different restaurants. One likes an all you can eat Chinese restaurant that also serves Italian food from its buffet, one likes Italian and one, a ribs and chops hamburger man. One is a writer, one an author and one a photographer all bringing to the table some interesting experiences that are shared with yours, truly. I love it.

Being that I do most of the cooking at home, inspiration prevails as I peruse the different menus and look at the different possibilities that can be had from these experiences.

But why am I telling you this?

Because I find it an interesting turn of events. When I worked I had my lunches with these same people and time was a factor in how much I could enjoy them. Not that I had to be back at a certain time, but, there were things that needed to be done, calls to make and people to get back to, so it was always in my mind as I worried that the waiter or waitress was taking too much time with my order, all the while sitting on the edge of my seat.

“STOP TALKING DAD, YOU’RE KILLING ME!”

Dad and I had a great relationship. Often, we would go to see grandma who lived in Brooklyn and the long drive from Long Island was always filled with conversations about his life. I particularly listened hard to these wonderful stories because they allowed me into his past however so limited.

One day in the 60s as we drove along the Southern State Parkway, Dad actually put on the radio, something he was loath to do since his old car, bought third hand, would “Wear out my battery.” The rage of the day was Lo Monte and he was singing his ‘Shiek of Araby.’

Well I'm the sheik of Araby
Your love belongs to me
Well at night when you're asleep
Into your tent, I'll creep
The stars that shine above
Will light our way to love
You'll rule this world with me
I'm the sheik of Araby

Sono Sheik di Araby…

Suddenly Dad started to chuckle and I knew something new and interesting was coming. As he gently coaxed the steering wheel, his eyes staring straight ahead as in a trance he started as he always did with “You know…” and then the revelation.

“You know Grandma was in love with that guy!”
“Lou Monte!”
“No, the Sheik… Rudolph Valentino!”

This came as a shock to me as I envisioned Grandma with her floral apron and black dress, her fingers smelling like a good cheese from Italy and her religious medals adorned on her clothing as she pinched Rudolph’s cheeks.

“Grandma would get on the ticket line at the movie theater to see his movies. She would swoon just like these crazy teenagers today!”

“Dad! I don’t believe you, I’m sorry that is not possible! What did grandpa say about all this?”

“Grandpa? He was happy she went to the movies, he got a nap in.”

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A PARENT

Every morning I awake and the first thing I think about is my daughter, Ellen. She is lying in a hospital bed alone and in pain, unaware of where she is as I suppose she is scared of it all.

My need to dress and get to the hospital is one of urgency; an urgency out of a need to see that she is assured that someone still loves her and one that makes it clear she has support.

I’m not particularly enamored with the current place of convalescence since it lacks a lot of diligence for the patients. One hardly sees a doctor and if you do it is a doctor who needn’t be there to talk to. The ones that matter seems non-existent.

When I tell a nurse that my daughter is in pain and they say OK, but who the hell sees them with anything to ease the pain.

I take with me my laptop, I-pad and newspaper and of course my book AMP which all help me get through the long hours of quiet and non-verbal communication with my daughter. When I do have a conversation, it is with maybe the nurse’s aid or a nurse who asks me questions that she should already have answers to but doesn’t.

The chair I sit on is hard and uncomfortable, as I am crowded into a small section of the room that Ellen shares.

After I read the newspaper, do the Sudoku and crossword puzzles I turn t the laptop, write and peruse the Internet, I settle into some games on my I-pad while I watch the clock for a first-morning break down to the cafeteria. Around mid-morning TLW (The Little Woman) arrives and we commiserate over our misery, a kind of ‘miserate’ as we exchange notes and observations and I relate the morning from what I can gather.

I have been doing this in three hospitals and a couple of nursing homes for the past four years on and off. She has been in one of the facilities almost every day and more so than not. What I dream is to wake up one morning not worrying, knowing that I have no place to run to or fret about. As it is, all my plans for a move to Burbank, California are now on permanent hold. I am angry, tired and fearful for my daughter. I don’t have a normal life.

I’M SICK OF THIS PLACE!

I know it’s a hospital but I am sick of this place! Long Island Community Hospital is for the birds, the pits as it continues to earn its’ reputation as a lousy hospital. They are under-staffed and poorly organized as they work hard to maintain their reputation as incompetent.

As a patient who does not speak, my daughter needs to be watched for both her safety and recovery, yet, every morning when I arrive she is not is a stellar condition. She looks frightened and disheveled. This morning I raised the roof as she lay there almost totally exposed and in pain, and no one was around! So I boomed out loud I wanted a nurse as I stuck my head out the door. One came running and I told her in no uncertain terms I was angry and something needed to be done about it!

When she was transferred to the hospital originally, the nursing home sent over a whole bunch of medications she needed to have. So what happened? From Thursday to Saturday she had no medications, especially her seizure meds. Yesterday she had a seizure. When she was in St. Charles Hospital in Port Jefferson, her care was exemplary, professional and well monitored, not the poor lack of professionalism she is receiving now.

Long Island Community Hospital has changed its name from what was once called Brookhaven Memorial Hospital. The way they operate, I can't blame them for changing it!

THE SOUNDS OF SILENZIO!

Once or twice a year Grandma Frances would gather the troops for a Mass at Our Lady of Loreto Church on Sackman Street in Brooklyn. The reason was there was a new fundraiser for an occasion such as a bus ride upstate or plane flight to Italy for some fund-raiser for an orphanage grandma organized. I can remember her doorbell constantly ringing or her phone chiming in to announce another wishing to join the occasion.

One year it was a big event, my Dad, Tony, was asked by his mother to paint a Madonna for the church that could be carried in a procession on a pole. Dad not being a churchgoer did as he was told and we all went off to church one Sunday morning to see the Madonna be paraded out during the Mass, a one-time ordeal for dad.

I happened to like going to this church built by Italian immigrants with marble imported from Italy. It also was a day of pride for me, Dad, my Dad, had painted this masterpiece, and it would be paraded down the main aisle!

There were two events that occurred that day and every Sunday, during the year at Our Lady of Loreto. The first event was the consecration, an event I could wait for, not because I was holy or saintly in any way, but because when the bells rang at the Consecration, a split second afterward, fireworks would go off on the roof to the church! The boom and loudness woke me up to get through the rest of the Mass and the noise scared the living Hell out of me.

The second event was the best! Usually, in the front rows of the church, pews occupied by little Old Italian ladies would chatter and go on in Italian, and the priest would shout out during his sermon-"SILENZIO!" This admonition did not silence anyone, after the shock, off went the chatter once again!

Speaking in Italian the priest would stand at the pulpit and with arms flying and hands emoting, his Italian rising in volume and pitch a group of little old grandmothers would be huddled together speaking in their native tongue rising to hear each other while the priest spoke.

“SILENZIO!” shouted the priest.

The gaggle of grandmothers suddenly cut off their conversation, heads down and feeling contrite. The priest would pick up where he left off, once again bring his point across, arms flying and voice growling in condemnation of all the bad things we do in our lives.

The grandmother pack put their heads together once more and picked up on their gossip, or was it a recipe they were sharing? It would start as chirping and quickly grow due to the insolence of the priest rise to competing until the exasperated priest once more would yell out his admonition for all to hear.

“SILENZIO!” shouted the priest once again.

And so, when the mass was over and the fireworks display by the priest completed, I knew that next Sunday would be like the present Sunday, not even God in all his glory would tell these little ladies what to do if they didn’t want to!

IF SHE LIVED SHE'D BE ALIVE TODAY!

Grandma Frances had a birthday every January until she died in 1991 at the age of 97! If she had taken better care of herself, she would have lived longer! But no, she insisted on eating red meats, spicy cheeses, and hard salami, wine and often got emotional. At least she didn't smoke.

Until the day she died, she was a nutritionist's nightmare, a living testimony to bad eating habits.

As a young teenager, I went with Dad into Brooklyn one Saturday to have his taxes made out by a friend of the family. It was tax time, and he decided to visit "Grandma", as we called her after having his income scrutinized by this friend of the family.

Arriving at Grandma's house on Fulton Street, we parked the car along the curb and under the shadow of the el stepping over the grating for the IND line that ran under the street, the noise saying: ‘Grandma'. By then there was deterioration of the old neighborhood occurring, so in some ways, it was a sad visit.

Grandma was all excited to see us, in her floral apron and black dress (rehearsing for when she would become a widow) and immediately grabbed my two cheeks (surrounding my nose) and with her index and middle finger, squeezed until I dropped to my knees, where she then made us stay for dinner so I could recover even though she had eaten!

Racing down her long hallway that ran adjacent to the railroad flat rooms of the bottom floor, she threw a couple of steaks in a wire holder, dropping then over an open flame on a gas stove in her basement or cellar as we called it. As cellars went, this one was well-stocked with supplies for any eventual nuclear attack, wine, canned tomato sauce, a refrigerator, sink, pickled eggplant and peppers and of course, various holy pictures that adorned the crude concrete texture of the footprint of the building. The smell of the meat cooking was overpowering my ability to reason, let alone my ability to speak, as my saliva activated at an uncontrollable flow, spraying instead of saying! When she returned, she took out a crusty loaf of Italian bread, some hard salami, and hard cheese with a gallon of wine, to try to control my salivation problems.

The time it takes to say salad, she had the homemade wine, bread, cheese, and salami along with the best salad ever made, from Grandpa's homemade wine vinegar. A tasty vinegar that always made a simple salad a treat!

Grandma knew how to live, and was very generous.

Often when Dad announced the coming of grandma for a visit, once we calmed Mom down, we anticipated her stately arrival. Something like Queen Victoria arriving at the royal palace, she came usually with an entourage of aunts who like Grandma expected to eat. To further this expectation which was greater than Hemingway's, she brought along with her cheeses, salami, and a gallon each of wine and wine vinegar, Italian bread (The countryside didn't make Italian bread like Brooklyn) roasted peppers and sometimes canned eggplant. With all she did bring, she would preside center table and dispense in Italian, words of wisdom as I sat in awe of her.

As she ate she would look at me and say:

"A Joe-joe, you too a skinny, mangia! A Whyer you no eater a more?"

Meanwhile, Dad was trying to remember all the hiding places the food was because all I did was eat! I tried to convey this to grandma in a diplomatic way, but Dad was within arm and earshot. And so, when her visit was over we all respectfully escorted her to the door, with endless kissing of aunts and ladies in waiting, cheeks getting another workout and grandma's: "A Joe-joe, you a too skinny, mangia! A whyer you no eater a more?"

I miss those days, the times spent with that generation were magical, someday I will tell you about Grandpa, a man for all seasons and jobs that Grandma assigned him.

THERE IS NO REST

Not for my family as we try to come to grips with this orotund force that batters us every moment. It is too strong, too big, too powerful to conquer, only try to control it enough to not let it overcome us all together.

Just about every day since May 5th of this year, we have spent the day or majority of it in a hospital room. My wife and I go, sit with my daughter Ellen and try to make her understand that we will be there for her as she struggles for her life.

Her eyes are now haunted, that beautiful sweet smile seems to have been taken away from her. Her body, wracked with pain lies in almost a comatose state, not moving except to react to the excruciating pain that seeps out of her thin emaciated body and paints the grimace that takes my breath away.

Being how she is disabled, one of our fears all our lives has been that she would be in pain and not be able to tell us she is or where it is, that fear is now hard and real.

Since the month of February three years ago she has suffered a broken bone in her leg requiring first an exterior fixator that keeps the bone in place to start the healing, then the insertion of a rod into her leg.

She has fallen and suffered a brain bleed, then broke her hip and on May 10th had an operation to remove cancer from her colon. She hasn’t walked or stood since April and has been in a jerry chair since August. There are sores all over her body and then acquired pneumonia from the cancer operation and now has a tracheotomy that has to help her rid the accumulated phylum that has accumulated in her lower lung causing it to collapse.

Ellen cannot speak, does not understand and is frightened of all that is happening to her. And, so we go to sit with her to try to help her get through the rest of her life, which won’t be long.

A GENTLE MEANINGFUL SOUL

The 37-year old son of Italian immigrants, he would lean in the doorway, overlooking the grey three-stepped stoop. Staring out into nowhere, not noticing the people who going by never acknowledged his existence, no ‘Good morning’ or ‘Hello’ not even a nod in his direction.

He could hear the cadence of a little girl as she bounced her rubber ball, and every once in while swinging her leg over the ball as it descended, then abruptly ascended back into her palm, only to begin the process all over again.

In the street in front of him, a game of stickball would be in progress. The chatter of the players breaking the boredom he felt from his perch on top of the stoop. Once again a rubber ball, this one hardened by the weather. As the ball came in on one bounce, and the batter, with a sawed-off broomstick, handle taped would viciously be swiped at it. Soaring high into the Brooklyn sky, two sewers or more the ball went in flight, excitedly the boys racing around the street like it was a Chinese fire drill!

But still, he would not move from his place. Watching everything, yet watching nothing. He never interacted with people. He had a simple manner that required no maintenance for a day-to-day conversation with anyone. He never read a book or a newspaper, and he never went to school. He was that person who usually ended up in Willow Brook in those days of the mid-fifties.

His name was Henry: and his Italian mama, Lena, would keep a steady eye on him. From her bottom floor bedroom window, Lena would bark at him in Italian. Being an immigrant, she knew only enough to survive in a world that brought both hope and despair. She had another son, perhaps a few years younger, attending college, and kind of a mentor to me. His time was spent away from the house, and the stoop, using it only in passing. That other son taught me to catch a ball! Coming home from college classes one evening, Manfredo saw me with a ball and glove, and no one to play with. He laid his books down on the stoop, and gently gave me instructions on the art of catching a ball!

But Henry stood and watched. Not moving, not saying anything to his brother or me, Henry was the silent sentinel at the gateway to my home.

There was a sister, many years younger, a late in life baby as they used to say. Her name was Marianne. Marianne was a thin cheerful little girl and full of song and enthusiasm. Playing with all the little girls in the area, she was the apple of her mother’s eye. The kids in the neighborhood looked out for Marianne, she was there with her smile, and that was all that mattered. That is to everyone but her older brother, Henry. Marianne went on to become a nun. Her love of life was transformed into actions of compassion and giving of herself to God and humanity.

But Henry watched and he listened, and he never spoke, unless you spoke to him. He once saved me from a terrible injury, when I fell into a gear shaft moving up a cellar elevator. When it was about to clamp down on my leg, the pants being ripped in the process, he pulled me away, just in time!

Henry stayed with me all my life. I often think of Henry and the fact that I now deal with people with mental disabilities, and I am trying to help them. Having a child of my own with mental disabilities, as she lies dying in a hospital, I know first hand now, the parent's pain. I see Henry, leaning in the doorframe of the apartment building, my apartment building. I wonder if he is still standing there, watching me, posted there to teach me, that life has many sides, and it is not simple or fair. I sometimes wonder if Henry was put there, just for me, to teach me that we are all one, no matter to what degree, we will all be born, live and die. And as we live, we will hold no title, own a principality, or be truly superior to the man next to me. The man that taught me will always be, Henry.

But this immigrant family, these simple, wonderful people, who were building their lives, had one thing in common. They had each other, loved each other, and were not ashamed of what and who was in their family! They were my first true lesson in life, and it all centered on a gentle soul: Henry.

“Only a life lived for others is worth living.” -Albert Einstein

BOOKS

One of the things I would want to have in my survival kit living on a secluded island, far from civilization would be fresh water, food, a sushi handbook, (makes sense) and a book to read other than about sushi.

Having the ability to read to me is the greatest gift my teachers gave me as a child. The chance to stretch my imagination when I read is like a passport to the unknown, one that I am in control of due to someone else’s experiences and notations. Reading a book is always an adventure and not too many people appreciate it. We take it for granted without realizing how precious it is, as it liberates one from the reality of the reader’s environment and the enriching of one’s mind.

When I enter a library for no reason other than to explore, my adrenaline rushes and my blood surges in anticipation of what I will find between the covers of the many books and what each one offers.

Currently I am reading a wonderful and imaginative journey of a man who loses his arm, and the concept is not only wonderful (Not of losing your limb) but it takes you away from what is safe, what is taken for granted and puts you in an unsafe place in which to live as you turn the pages, all in the safety of your armchair, more on this book later.

I never like to read a novel then see a movie based on that novel. Once I do that, I am always disappointed in the casting, as I envision the hero and other characters based on my own life’s experiences. I hear them differently they move and act as I would direct them to move in my mind, the greatest movie lot in the world!

HAPPY ARE THE WISHES

Today is my wife Ellen’s birthday! She is once again 25 as she was the day she became a mother for the first time. In all those years of being a mother, she was steady, consistent, devoted to her kids, and loving.

She is a special mother who has given her all to those children, and I say this as an up-close observer of what she has endured. No one deserves to be called ‘mother or mom’ more than she does.

Heartbreak is for the weak; she is strong. What she has endured no one should have to. When your child is born with a disability it is unfair. Your dreams for that child are quickly crushed and you become the mom of a child with special and intensive needs, your heart breaks for that mom. Ellen has endured it twice.

As a mom you carry a child for nine hard months, each successive month harder than the last, knowing that next month will be even harder. Knowing too, that the last month will bring forth the process of birth and all that it means to a mother’s body, and the subsequent months of after-birth. And after that ordeal to see that child pass before her very eyes tearing out the heart and soul of that woman. She has endured that too.

If a child is in trouble or despair, she takes her leave to be next to that child either in a hospital or in a plane to travel 2,000 miles away, she will be there. Like many of you, she is a mom, the most important word in the languages of the World

The birthday girl

She has taken on the heartbreak of losing her daughter-in-law as if she was her own, for, in reality, she was. She consoled her son and grandchildren and even helped me. 

So, today I will celebrate her, while we try to celebrate her birthday and her children, living and dead. The day itself is but a date in the annals of unscripted devotion by this woman, and the devotion like a rising sunrise is all I can see, the tears fill my eyes for the gratitude that she is the mother of my children and hope the sunrise never sets.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!

JOE “THE FINN”

My Dad!

When I was growing up in Brooklyn, we always had nicknames for people with style. The names you heard on “The Sopranos” are really an outgrowth from the Italian neighborhoods of the 20s and 30s that carried on right into the 50s and 60s and to some degree the 70’s. Although it still happens within families, usually not as much. Italians were notorious for giving out names to supplement, define and create color for all who lived within the confines of Italian-American culture.

If you happened to be something other than Italian, it usually meant that you would inherit a nickname of your very own by your Italian-American friends, even if you didn’t have any style. And sure enough, there was one gentleman who was not Italian, had style and frequented my Grandmothers house, and he was Joe “The Finn”, of Finnish heritage.

Joe “The Finn” was my Dad’s best friend, and he could do anything, as long as someone needed to get something done, Joe was your man. Perhaps his notoriety stems from the fact that he never paid his electric bill but always had electricity running in his apartment. This was because Joe “The Finn” was a genius in worker’s clothes. He devised a way to connect again with the electric company after they shut him down by using a simple copper penny! Somehow he knew what to do and did it. Joe “The Finn” was also a mechanic of sorts, and with his wiry frame, jet black hair and wise guy attitude, one would find him under my Dad’s or some neighbor’s car getting it back on the road, and all he would ask for was a $1 coin! If you looked under the hood of the car he worked on, there was a Maxwell House coffee can sitting there, wired to whatever needed the wire, and darn if it didn’t work like a clock.

If there was one thing that troubled Joe “The Finn” it was his family. His wife was rather large in stature and bulk, and his two sons were very skinny and as he would say: “very dopey.” He would wail on how one son or the other did something stupid, never leaving a class without repeating it at least twice, or embarrassing him in some way. Sitting in grandma’s kitchen over a cup of espresso or having dinner, he would regale us in tales of his adventures, his son’s antics or his rather unsympathetic descriptions of his wife’s condition. I don’t believe it was mean so much as comedic, with enactments and facial expressions that made for many an underwear change!

Joe never knocked he just walked in, sat down and Grandma would pull out another plate whether or not Dad was there, he was family!

Being how I was quite younger than his two sons. Joe would take out the $1 coin, ask me if this was a quarter or a nickel, and I’d say a dollar and he would give me the dollar and compare me to his kids. Of course, my Dad would get all over me to return the money, I would, and when I got home, I’d find it in my pocket again!

Wherever you are Joe, I love you.