FRESH STARTS

After driving #2 Son back to SUNY/Purchase for his last year, it got me thinking about those very days when I attended college and what it was like. I remember seeing my old friends and making new ones.

Some of us hung around in cliques and some in two’s or three’s but you always got together with others and had a great time. Academically it was a mixture of friends and classes, kidding each other about our major, and even what we would be like after graduation.

There was a young lady, a beautiful girl who had jet-black hair and this incredible face, who was sweet on me. She would often stop by where I was sitting in the student lounge, and chat. She was studying to go into the TV/Radio business as a communications major. She was smart and fun: at least I could make her laugh easily enough, and she made me laugh too. The young lady had a refined way, dressed well for a college student and the manner to go with it.

My college career was tough to sustain, since I had to work s much as possible to stay in school since my parents didn’t have the money to send me. Dating was sometimes out of the question because of either the studies, including expensive art supplies and film for my photography classes, so I pretty much had to avoid committing myself to anyone, without the freedom from school.

To this day, I wonder what happened to her, if she got her career going, and if she held it against me that I never took the time to date her. After my car accident, she visited me in the hospital almost everyday, she would come and sit with me for a while and go back to class.

One day the doctor told me I was going home, and I never got to say goodbye, and I never took the time to try to get in touch with her. I was bitter that I had lost a whole semester and that I was going to be laid up for a while, so it kind of went on the back burner, without flame.

Somewhere she is hopefully married and happy with grandchildren, maybe retired from a great career, at least I hope so.

Some things are not meant to be, and some things are. I won’t regret because I got a wonderful lady myself.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BEAUTIFUL NIECE LAURIE ANN O'HARA!

IT AIN’T WHAT IT USED TO BE

-->

Way back in the old days, life sure was a lot different. Trust in your fellow man was a taken for granted everyday occurrence. People were a lot poorer and everyone had to work to make life possible. It seemed almost seamless as we went through our days, one at a time, without fanfare or a need to be appreciated.

Mom stayed at home, as did all moms I knew, and their lives were governed by what was important, raising and teaching their children. The ordinary such as insurance salesmen was a lot different too. Once a month our doorbell was rung from three floors down on the bank of buttons that were situated in the vestibule as you entered the apartment. In the apartment, you rang your end to let the person by the main door into the stairway.

RRRRIIINNNNGGGG!!!

RRRRIIINNNNGGGG!!! (right back at cha)

“OLYMPIAAAAAAAAA!!!”

It was the insurance man, coming to collect his nickel, that’s right, a nickel a month for insurance. He was a very business looking man, with a grey suit and fedora, who would climb two flights of stairs to my third floor dwelling, knock on our door and Mom would allow him in. He carried a little account book, open it, Mom would hand him the nickel and he would open the little passport size book and mark her down as paid, and off he went to his next account. Yes, the nickel didn’t even need to be shiny, either!

Then there was a Fuller Brush salesman, he came around a little less often, with his black suitcase of the latest in brush wares and mount the two sets of stairs and knock, Mom would check out what was the latest in brushes and once in a while purchase one.

We even had a man who collected and sold junk on a horse drawn wagon, as well as a fruit and vegetable man with a horse drawn wagon, along with a fish monger.

In the summer time, there was a little catering to kids too. There was aside from the Bungalow Ice Cream truck, a hot dog wagon, with a big colorful umbrella, that fascinated me to no end with the wagon’s compartments. The peddler pushed it to various spots in Brooklyn and sold his dirty water frankfurters, with the big red letters, impressively designed along the sides of the cart and the Sabrett logo on his umbrella, usually red and yellow and self-contained to hold franks, buns and sauerkraut, along with mustard and relish. Some nights, along came a truck with a ride like a whip or a rocking seat, making it virtually impossible to be bored.

Once we moved out to the sticks, we lost most of that, save for the ice cream truck. We did have milk delivery though. You had on your doorstep a red wooden Sagtikos Dairy box that could hold four quarts of milk. You left a note in the box for how many you needed and whatever extra products like cream or butter.

Then there was my favorite deliverer of all time, the Duggan’s man. He was my hero, delivering donuts and cakes, freshly baked, all with my name on them. It so happened that the delivery man was a neighbor of ours, and real gentleman who had a very nice family, his name was Erickson, and his son, my friend was Paul. I can’t believe I never wheedled out of Paul any free donuts!

Boy, life just ain't what it used to be!

MY AUNT MARY

If you were Italian, you might have had an Aunt Mary. You could have an Aunt Marie, but you needed an Aunt Mary.

Now Aunt Mary wasn’t rally an aunt, but a second cousin. She was a beautiful woman and quite a character, filled with emotion and the Italian way of demonstrating her emotions, with her hands.

Aunt Mary had a wonderful husband named Uncle Johnny and he died too soon. He was an entertainer and he took the time to entertain me. One day he had a trick tie, and as any youngster around 5 or 6, his audience was easy to work. I sat on his lap and he took a glass of water, and dumped it into his tie! Imagine that! He dumped a whole glass of water into his tie, then put the water back into the glass it came from! How did he do it? Like I said, it was magic.

Aunt Mary loved to talk and talk she did, as I was mesmerized by the manual ballet her hands performed, expressing herself so eloquently. By a show of her hands she could stress a point, name someone a son of a bitch and tell you how happy she was for you. She was cool.

Aunt Mary was one of these short ladies that did everything quickly, and you better be on your toes or you fell into her whirlwind. She was my Godmother and had two children, a lot older than I was. I had two cousins I really loved, because I didn’t have an older brother, one was my cousin Victor, and one was Aunt Mary’s son, Anthony. They were glorified in my mind and probably bigger than life in mine. She also had a wonderfully beautiful daughter named Marie, a daughter who was her best friend later in life. Italian families had great mother-daughter relationships, and Aunt Mary and her daughter Marie were the prototype.

Aunt Mary came to this country early in her life, I think in her teens and grew up in my Grandmother’s home. She was treated like a daughter and sister in the household. Dad had a sister Angie, Victor’s mom and a sister Theresa or Tessie or Chi-Chi, named by my cousin Victor because he couldn’t say Tessie as a baby.

Aunt Mary worked in a factory that made children’s play clothes, operating a sewing machine, and she was so fast they couldn’t afford to let her be a supervisor. She loved my Dad who ran the shipping department, and would often come after work at night and visit. It was a visit I made sure to be near by for, because she was hysterical, saying things that were in her own vernacular, yet so true and at the same time funny, waving her arms as she spoke, filled with life. She was beautiful!

When I look back at all my relatives, I realize how very special they all were, how they had so much to offer me, in good memories, love and happiness. I miss those days and wish I could have them back again, even for a moment.

JOOOOOOOOOE!

That was the cry that greeted me one morning last week. The thing that all modern America dreads, loss of the Internet in any shape or form: was the issue that TLW (The Little Woman) was dealing with.

Now I’m a believer in modern technology, I happen to like color TV. I think the Princess telephone looks good on the nightstand, and I’m really impressed by my stereo record player, and darn, I wish I could get the carmakers to reintroduce the cassette player!

I must admit, I’m losing some ground, I no longer have a teenager living at home so I don’t dare buy anything that requires wires that hook up to the TV. I do have a cell phone, but it needs to be charged, and I have to look at it as a way to communicate, right now it just helps to keep the loose change from making too much noise in my pocket. And as far as blue teeth, I don’t have any, and don’t plan on any implants.

I must say I see people who walk staring into a thing called the i-phone or i-pad, mesmerized by what they are looking at and I get to meet them as they bump into me because they can’t see where they are going. I know the device can slow you down when driving, causing people behind you to go around you, but a lot of them are waving hello and saying you are #1 with one finger up in the air as they go by!

Turns out TLW was locked out of her computer, it would not let her sign on with her usual password and I had to get involved. Off she goes to take a shower and get ready for work as I put in the effort to solve her problem. I find and fix her problem and happily she goes onto the Internet, talking to me while I’m trying to write. Mind you, I don’t mind her talking to me ever, I enjoy it, but I needed a few moments to collect my thoughts and continue what I was writing. (It was my last will and testament, and I was trying to fit all my readers of this blogue in, so it takes concentration. You don’t want to put the commas in the wrong places with the numbers.)

So modern technology will not assign me to the back seat, but the driver’s steering wheel, by golly!

THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR

As she says: "LET'S GO METS!"

Recently as of this blogue being written on September 5^th, the New York Yankees have been losing and fell into a tie for first place with the Baltimore Orioles. Not being a Yankee fan, but being a Met fan, I could empathize with Yankee fans everywhere. Then I thought about my classmate from High School, Michele (She dropped the other ‘L’) DePalo and how avid a Yankee fan she is.

In her gloom, she commented on Facebook how she might as well be a Mets fan! This broke my heart, and felt compelled to fix that. I immediately went into my DelBloggolo archives and found the posted picture you see here, and put it up on Facebook, with the comment: “Even the most loyal Yankee fans are jumping ship!”

 

I’m sure you must have heard of stories where a rich guy moves into a poor neighborhood to get the feel of how the other 7/8’s lives and becomes sympathetic to their cause. I feel with this picture above, I am helping to spread the word, and making Michele (She dropped the other ‘L’) a better and more compassionate baseball fan. My hope here is that she roots sincerely and with her heart for her new team the Mets. Why she could even start rooting for another team in baseball as her second team, the Boston Red Sox, kind of the anti-Yankee in her now! This would make her friends with so many people she would become a cult hero: a symbol of what compassionate fandom is all about!

 

Pray for Michele (She dropped the other ‘L’) DePalo and: “Let’s Go Mets!” or “Red Sox” just like Michele (She dropped the other ‘L’) will.

 

As for me, I’m leaving town: she knows where I live!

I NEVER ASKED!

I’m an old fashioned kind of guy. I would say traditionalist is who I am, a man that does not defy convention. I am not a conservative in a real sense, and not a liberal, just someone who likes to hear a good argument and weight the pros and cons.

I have left the impression that I am conservative, and maybe I dress like one, but I do follow some of life’s conventions. For instance:

ISN'T SHE GEORGEOUS?

Many years ago, when I asked TLW (The Little Woman) for her hand and the rest of her in marriage, I never asked her father for her hand. That was because I knew what a great gal she is and was afraid he’d say no. That plus she had her hand already, asking her father for it would have confused everything.

But a funny thing happened, he never tried to stop me, in fact he came to the wedding!

Jim was the kind of man that made me laugh, he had opinions, moods and was in all of that a gentle soul, gentle enough for me to respect him as a man, a great father and provider, and really an embodiment of the American Dream, coming here to America from Ireland as a young man.

Today would be his birthday, and how can you not go by this day without thinking of him? He wasn’t anyone for fanfare, boasting was not in him, just the goodness he taught his children, and I was lucky enough to see in his daughter and children.

JIM (DAD)

If you met my mother-in-law Helen, you would say what a sweet woman, and you would be right, Jim was smart enough to see that. He worked two jobs to get his kids through a Catholic elementary and high school, all his children, he sacrificed and did without so they could have the education he deemed to be the best.

He was probably a liberal at heart, but washed his hands of extremism, he would probably not have accepted intolerance of any kind. He never try to impose his will on anyone or become offensive to people with his political bent. I guess people were glad to see him, but he would never know why.

My brother-in-law Steve, sister-in-laws Sara and Angela and me have been lucky, because we got to know him through his children.

We miss you Jim, we really do, but you did do something good, you left your children, and I for one am grateful.

But it occurred to me, I never asked Jim for his daughter’s hand in marriage!

Happy Birthday Jim, from the cad who married your beautiful daughter.

THE LAST HOUR

The day before Labor Day was supposed to be the day that we took #2 Son back to college. Somehow things got screwed up and we didn’t get his deposit in time for him to secure a room.

So off we went to look at rooms in White Plains for him to rent until a dorm room opened up, and he found one on the Internet, called about it and we went to look.

The house was in the wilderness, on top of a hill overlooking the White Plains area. Driving to it was an adventure, as we ascended the hilly roads making hairpin turns until we came to the last turn on the GPS. Making this very sharp hairpin turn we climb almost straight up, taxing the ability of my Prius to climb so straight up.

Once we got to the crest of the hill, we parked and started to climb these steps that lead you to the top of a chalet looking hostel, and we meet the owner, who gives us a tour. The place is dark and dreary, I couldn’t imagine living there, let alone studying there. On top of all that, #2 would have to walk a bit before finding a bus that would take him into Purchase where he would then catch a bus to the college! Then reverse the whole trip. The house did have a magnificent panoramic view of the valley and White Plains in the distance. It also had a balcony allowing one to survey the whole area about 180 degrees! The kitchen was left over from the 1960’s or even earlier, with everything original in it including the cabinets and table and chairs!

Having no choice we took the room and went home, and I was very depressed, but we needed accommodations for #2.

The big moving day comes as I schedule to leave at 2:00 PM to accommodate the owner’s schedule. I’m sitting in my den, half drowsy from waiting and watching a ball game when the phone rings.

“Hello? Mr. Del Bloggolo, this is Ken from Purchase College, about room availability for Michael. Did I pronounce your name right?”

“You can call me anything you want with room availability, Ken!”

At the eleventh hour the school called to offer #2 a room after all!

Guess what, we took it!

We lost the money for the rented room but it is still cheaper, and he has it until he graduates in May.

Had I left a minute before the call, we would have been screwed!

WHAT ARE WE DOING?

It seems as the days roll by, more and more young men and women are coming home from their tours of duty cheated and crippled. Cheated of a limb or maybe more, cheated of their youth, and cheated of their ability to care for themselves.

I go into a supermarket and I see a young man with an artificial limb, and the anger builds in me, I know how he got it. I know too that the issue doesn’t end with the prosthetic, there is the financial burdens some of these guys have, maybe even a broken marriage due to his time away.

Then I read about the suicide rates that are increasing in the military branches due to combat, the stress of killing and having to kill or dying. Again maybe the financial burden is over-whelming, and the stress on marriages that these men and women encountered.

I hear the screaming about the fact that the Republicans at their convention didn’t mention the war in Afghanistan, and yet neither party has addressed the issues of military suicides! Both parties are not immune to this. They just stink in different ways.

I look on the social networks and I see people post pictures of the weaponry that we employ, and I wonder: why? Isn’t it the jingoism that got us to Afghanistan in the first place? What does the weapon stand for? It stands for the instruments of destruction, the very thing that makes our men and women cripples physically and emotionally, it stands for the bravado of those who won’t go into battle and experience the horrors of war and the fear it will generate in the core of your being.

We send these men and women into “harms way” and ask them to do these horrific things that will result in their being maimed or killed, or worst still, the children that will come across the battles that are fought over their heads being maimed or killed, then they come home, we release them and they wind up without support. You would think the President would speak up, it is his duty to protect the citizens of this country, why doesn’t he? I don’t want to hear about partisan bickering or it is the Republicans fault, it is the President’s fault he isn’t speaking out. And where in either platform is there mention of this? Where do we find the wounded veterans without support lobby? There is none. Maybe there aren’t enough to get excited about, or care about or even think about?

Where IS our debt to these veterans? Where is the obligation to these brave men and women? We need to start to put some pressure out there. I know we will all forget this and turn the page, and so too will the veterans, because they need to find ways on their own to survive.

I am ashamed of this country that they let these guys down, we asked them to suffer as much as possible and then we forget them: their suffering what for: for some ungrateful rag heads, goat loving stinkers who hate us anyway?

And the suicides, well many kill themselves, because they probably know what they will get when they return, they will get forgotten. We are losing these men more to suicides than to enemy actions, and we are helping the enemy kill them!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!

He was born in a shack, in Rockville Center, the first of three children of Joseph and Frances. He never knew his Dad, since his father died from the Spanish Influenza Today, had he lived, Dad would have been 96-years old.

Dad was a real person, a people’s person, and a genuine article. He could find trouble where there was none, and in the process, give his kids something to laugh at for the rest of their lives. He was also a teaser, and a good sport. I told you about his stuffed lentil recipe, and there were other things just as creative.

But the best happened on a ferry going over to Connecticut in 1968. Dad was a big coffee drinker and had a lot that morning as we boarded the ferry. We were about 7 of us, going to visit my sister who was getting married soon and we went to meet her future husband Tom’s family.

Dad had to use the restroom immediately, if not sooner! The ferry had a bank of rest rooms and they were not marked clearly enough for dear old Dad. No, he didn’t need to know where the men’s room opposed to the ladies room was situated: any room will do. Dad entered the first rest room he could find, and opened the stall and sure enough, there sat on the can, a woman we knew from East Patchogue, doing her business! Dad was mortified, running out and Mom, looking on in horror said: “And now what?”

Well, every time my sisters or me looked at Dad that weekend, we would break out laughing so hard, our sides splitting, failing to get any words out. And Dad? Well Dad wasn’t done that weekend, no, he sheepishly went through the weekend finding new things to do accidently, that to this day we still laugh at.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD! 

Love your only son.

_________________________________________________________________________________

 

And a special shout out to an old high school buddy of mine:

Michele DePalo, aka DeVito, still trying to push pass 39 again. 

Happy birthday kid! Although still a Yankee fan, we still love her.

Happy Birthday, Michele!

Love, Joe & Ellen

P.S. Go out and treat yourself to a new wardrobe!

NEED HELP?

Partners in crime

In my professional career as a designer, I have been asked to do many things. Some of them impossible and some I did in my sleep. The things I did in my sleep were all important and I was paid for it, and the things impossible were the things that I usually did for free.

The other day the phone rang. It was TLW (The Little Woman).

“I want you to do me a favor.”

“What?”

“I need you to either write a letter or make an award.”

“What?”

“You know Karen from the Wanna-Be-Bank and Truss Co.? Her husband finally replaced a mailbox and she wants to have some fun with it, maybe a letter from the post office thanking him for changing the mailbox. Can you do that?”

“Well I guess so.”

These are jobs I have been getting for years, especially since they invented the computer. With a little imagination and a devotion to humor, you can do just about anything with a computer.  Playing tricks is probably one of my favorite things in the whole wide world.

Many years ago when I learned how to manipulate all the programs, I sent a letter to a co-worker who was born in the Philippines and just a nice guy. He was always a kidder himself and I decided to give him the business. His name was Nonni, and he was always parking in the same spot: the shortest distance to the door. He would leave at mid-night just to get to work early enough to park there. That week I had gone bowling, and going home one Monday night from bowling one of my headlights went out on me and I got a ticket from the village police. I had to replace the light and the ticket would be forgiven somehow, so I took it to work the next morning and copied the ticket on a color copier and saved the ticket for use later on.

The day came and I designed a ticket on my computer at the office and it looked very real. The ticket was for parking to close to the ground, and I put it in Nonni’s windshield. Then I told everybody I knew in the surrounding departments what I did and that he was going to be told there was something on his windshield. You could see his car from one particular entryway into the side of the building and everyone gathered to watch.

Nonni comes out, takes the ‘Ticket’ off his windshield with a quizzical look on his face and read it. Suddenly he gets down on all fours and looks under his car, and gets up, scratching his head, and the place erupts in laughter.

Then there was the time I sent a letter from a bogus union to my best friend Phil. Phil was home alone when he got it, and the letter on ‘Union’ stationary listed back dues that amount to over $5,000! One of the items was his being ugly, and at the end, I put that he should send it to me. Knowing Phil, when he saw $5,000, he would probably never finish reading the whole letter, including where I charge him for being ugly.

He is so upset, he takes it to work and talks to his boss about it, who equally has a short attention span and never finishes the letter after the $5,000, and makes an inquiry about the bogus union. Finally after reading it enough times, Phil discovers who it came from.

I have learned since then that in the 41 years of being married to TLW, although she doesn’t know how to manipulate the programs and create the visual effects, she’s right there in deviousness in asking me to do her dirty tricks.

UNCLE SAM WANTS ME… AGAIN!

My vote does count. It counts in the jury pool, but it seems that’s all, it certainly never makes a difference otherwise. Every 6 years the yokels out in Riverhead decide to send me a summons for Jury Duty. Now I don’t mind serving as long as it doesn’t interfere with my long term plans. It almost did, but I’m OK.

Do I want to serve? Sure, I get to serve and do my civic duty, and being retired it is something to do and write about on this blogue. However I would like to be the Jury Foreman. I can then bring the real messages that need to be said.

Judge: “Ladies and Gentleman of the Jury, have you reached a verdict?”

Me: “We Have your Honesty, we the Jury in the case of: Rowe vs. Paddle find the defendant guilty as charged. We also find that had he listened to his mother, none of this would have been necessary.”

Then I would wink at the court reporter and sit down as the defendant’s family wails and faints and the TV people offer me a part in Murphy’s Law, or even CSI.

Of course I will need to scout out the place and find a deli where I can get lunch, which will probably be the most important thing I do all day as I wait to be picked.

There are some things I can say that may dissuade them from picking me, like winking at the defendant, asking if the case involves Italians, or is the defendant a Liberal or Conservative. Just sayin’!

I CAN TELL

There once was a man who discovered that things have a way of happening.

He moved into a new apartment and was unpacking, when he came across a pair of shoes he liked. The shoes seemed to be very comfortable and his feet never got tired in them when he wore them. They were a nice brown and just needed a good shine and new shoelaces, and thought, let me get the soles replaced too.

He went out looking for a shoe repair shop and came across ‘Dominick’s Shoemaker Shop.’ “Ah!” he thought to himself: “This place is very busy, so Dominick must be a very good shoemaker!” He went into the shop and waited on line until the proprietor came to him.

“And a how may I helpa hew?” said Dominick in his broken English.

“I need new soles and shoelaces and a good shine on these.” Said the man as he handed the shoes over to Dominick.

“Eh! I tella you whata you need, I’ma the shoeman.”

"Hew coma back atuesaday!"

The man was taken aback by Dominick’s attitude but thought as long as he’s good who cares?

“You needa new soles, a newa shoelace, anda nice-a shine! Takea dis ticketa and comea back aTuesaday.”

With that the man left the shoemaker and went home and put the ticket into a draw and continued to unpack, putting things in draws and closets and getting adjusted to his new place.

About 25 years passed and it was time for the man to move to a new place, the neighborhood wasn’t the same anymore and so he started to pack and came to the drawer where he finally found the ticket. Realizing he had forgotten all about the shoes, he wondered if it was still any good after all these years, so he headed to ‘Dominick’s Shoemaker Shop’ and there stood Dominic, a lot older and stooped, alone in his shop reading the newspaper. The man gave the claim ticket to Dominic, who said: “ Atuesaday, in the halfternoona.

I mention this story because TLW (The Little Woman) asked me to do her a favor.

“Joe, can you do me a favor?”

Being the man of the house, he who wears the pants, and will not be bossed around stood up to her and said: “Yes Dear?”

“Would you go to the pharmacy and pick up a prescription for me?”

Reasserting myself, I said “Yes Dear”. You have to be firm.

“My doctor phoned in a prescription for me last week and I forgot all about it!”

Once again, I stood up to her and said: “No problem.”

Off she goes to work and after a while, off I go to the pharmacy. Being a man with great vision I pull into the parking lot of the pharmacy and notice no one is in the handicapped parking spaces. This is a good sign since that means no one will be waiting on the line to pick-up prescriptions, only the old people do that.

I step up to the counter and a young pretty gal says “Hello” and I say “TLW Del Bloggolo?”

She looks in her bin. I say: “It was phoned in about a week ago!”

“Hmmm… looking into her computer. “Can you wait, it will only take a moment?”

Under my breath I say: “Do you want me to come back next Tuesday?”

THOSE WERE THE DAYS MY FRIEND

And I thought they’d never end! Life was simple with a lot of style.

In the early 50’s in Brooklyn, Dad got up at 7:00 AM sharp, ate and took his brown bag of lunch and the brown bag of garbage as he left for work. The lunch supposedly destined for the noon hour and the garbage for the grey metal can in the front yard, next to the stoop. Dad did have his days, where he took the wrong bag to work!

Mom was like a traffic cop in the mornings in the early 50’s, school shoes resided on the cast iron stove all shiny and polished, the cereal on the table ready for her offspring to devour, and admonishments to speed it up or we would be late for school.

My older sister Tessie (much older) would dutifully eat her breakfast, check her homework and be ready to move out, to maintain her ‘A’ average and good deportment with the nuns, and of course there was me. Let’s go to the next paragraph, this may take a while.

My biggest fear was the one that Dad kept putting in my head that Congress was going to vote on having school all year long. There was to be no summer vacations for kids anymore so they could teach us even more. This was a reasonable fear in so much that I dreaded having to see the brothers and lay teachers all year long. The thought of being in a dreary classroom where there was no coddling, no laughing or talking depressed me. Thank you Dad!

After the last threat to “get moving” with a wooden spoon in Mom’s hand, I shuffled off to school in the cold winter mornings, and along with my older sister Tessie (much older) would walk the one block along Stone Avenue to MacDougal Street Aberdeen Street to the school yard, avoiding stepping on cracks or we would break our mother’s back! Passing Sloppy John’s messy and sloppy vegetable stand, I would reflect on what I did to him the afternoon prior as I played with my friends, and hoped he didn’t come after me with a baseball bat!

Up Stone Avenue to MacDougal Street toward Broadway we came to the overhead El, and the noisy rumblings as it went by overhead on the Broadway Junction. My long hard day was quickly approaching, and with it my apprehensions of the homework that was due and may or may not have been completed.

Reaching the schoolyard, if the weather permitted, I would stop and watch a game of handball between I think Franciscan Brothers and upper classmates. Then the dreaded bell sounded, and I went to my respective area to line up with my class and march into the building, the one grade after the next, upon entering the building: smelling the steam from the radiators that meant this is business. Once in the classroom, we stood at our desks, put our books in the desk and said our prayers, then the Pledge of Allegiance.

I hated the school, and the classroom and the teacher, and the idea that 3:00 PM dismissal was so far away in the day. Although I managed to get through the school day, I didn’t like it, and I guess no one said I should.

3:00 PM was the magic hour, and Friday’s 3:00 PM was the super magic hour!

But there was a lot to like, for instance the last day of school before the summer vacation, and like I said, Friday’s.

Almost next door to me was a small grocery store called Curialie’s and it had a bakery in the cellar that made fresh Italian bread every morning. Do you have any idea what it was like to awaken in the morning and smell the bread baking? Do you have any concept of what instant hunger really is? Then go into the kitchen and smell the coffee just brewed, and take a whiff of the Maxwell House coffee can and the fresh grinds? This is living!

Then Sunday mornings: on Sunday mornings Mom made me do two things. One was to wear my Sunday best suit, and two was to go to Mass. I had to march to church, taking the same route I took every morning to school and sit with my class, then when we were supposed to kneel, not rest my butt on the seat or: it would get whacked with a long stick by some patrolling nun or brother. (You’d think they’d be praying instead of looking out for my ass.)

In those days you didn’t eat anything before Mass so you could have a clean stomach for the host. So by the end of the Priest’s prayers at the foot of the altar, my stomach was praying along with me for this service to be over with.

 

Now the neighborhood was pretty much Italian with some Irish or German mixed in. As we walked home, we could smell the sauces being made as we past the many homes that house Italian Americans. This added to the hunger pangs and the need for crullers, crumb buns and jelly donuts, to hold us off until the feast at 1:00 PM.

Mom would lay out the Sunday dinner that always consisted of pasta, or in the old days, Macaroni with gravy, and not the sissified “Pasta with sauce”. Italians made gravy from the meat they cooked first, that’s why it is called gravy. You fried those meatballs pal, not baked them, you rolled your braciole and threw in the hot and sweet sausage, and “abbondanza!”

The wine that sat on the table was home made, from my grandfather’s grape vines, squeezed by Grandpa and bottle by Grandpa. We should not have called it ‘Home-made’ we should have called it ‘Grandpa’s Soul’. Along with that wine was Grandpa’s figs, grown by you guessed it, Grandma’s spouse.

On holidays or not, Sundays at Grandma’s was special, and I used to go on my own before my family got there. Why? Because I loved to watch Grandma as she maneuvered around the kitchen and out to the garden, picking her parsley of basil, the thing I called Green Gold. To this day, whenever I smell fresh Italian basil, I think of Grandma, her floppy slippers and her going into and out of the screen door on the hinge as it slammed in her huge bottom floor kitchen.

The Kitchen was headquarters for all to come to. Grandma was like the neighborhood Godfather or in her case Godmother. You had a problem be it financial, medical or loneliness, you went to “Zia Francesca” and she would straighten it all out.

Those were in essence beautiful days, days of golden virtue and sterling lessons of the life of what a family should be, days gone by and never to be reclaimed again.

A famiglia in primo luogo!

IF YOU DON’T HEAR FROM ME…

Recently there was a story all over the media about the tennis judge who allegedly bludgeoned her 80 something year-old husband to death with a coffee mug. Seems he was suffering from dementia I believe, (Can’t recall???) and she is considerably younger and was tired of waiting on him, so he got his.

TLW was reading the story in the newspaper one morning as I went by.

“You wouldn’t do that to me would you?”

“Oh no, I’m not strong enough to kill you like that.”

“Well that’s good!”

“Nope, I’d have to use a hammer.”

Lately I’ve been sleeping with one eye open, and have to remind myself to keep the right eye open since that is the side she sleeps on.  My real problem is I roll over to my left and I could be dead! When someone reports me missing and the cops come and find me, she will simply take out all the nice notes and cards she gets from members of the Wanna-Be-Bank and Truss Company who she’s helped and she’ll say: “It wasn’t me, see” showing her testimonials.

I’m afraid, very afraid!

IT’S WHAT WE DO

After 41 years of marriage, when things get boring we, TLW (The Little Woman) and I do something to make it interesting again. We go on a diet! (What did you think?)

Anyway, it starts with just one weekend of being bad, eating too well and feeling it. The trouble starts with TLW.

“Oh! I’m full (pushing her plate away after a nice dinner) we have to go on a diet.

“OK”

“We have been eating too well, we need to start watching again.”

“OK”

“Right after our trip we are going on a diet.”

“Why not start now?”

“Now!”

“Sure, you know what it is like when we go on any sort of vacation, we eat well, so, if we start now, we will not be in too bad of shape after the vacation.”

TLW loves to diet: she has been dieting all our married life. Getting me on board has never been a problem, and she usually doesn’t get nuts if I break it once in a while. What would really make her nuts would be for me to be on diet and her not. That would confuse her and come to think of it: it would be confusing me too.

The other morning I went into the kitchen and who do I see but TLW, she lives with me so we keep running into each other a lot. She is pouring herself a cup of coffee from the coffee pot and I am getting my coffee from the one-cup maker. I am also pouring cereal into a bowl for my breakfast. In the refrigerator is a small container of Half and Half left over from a dinner she wanted me to make so she bought it and the milk. I take both out and pour some milk into her cup for her.

“Half and Half!?” A look of amusement crosses her lips.

“Well, yes-I use the Half and Half for the coffee or it will go bad.”

There seemed to be stunned silence as I laid those words down on her, and there was NO retort, response nor reaction.

But the battle lines now have been drawn. She is watching and I know she is watching. I will now have to watch her. I know what would get her off her diet if she makes me nuts, and that is simple. On a Saturday morning when she is off, I’ll rise early and cook bacon. Bacon makes her do crazy things, so my plan is simple. I will use it only if she makes me crazy, it will be like the military plans for the invasion of Iran, made but don’t use unless absolutely necessary.

You might wonder: What kind of a husband would implore such methods? One that was using the Half and Half up before it went bad kind.

If you see my picture on a container of Half and Half someday, don't be surprised!

STANDING A CHANCE

In my family growing up, I had four sisters (all adopted) and myself.  There is a big age difference between the oldest and the youngest, My oldest sister (Much older) Tessie then my sister Fran, then Mary Ann and Joanne, then of course me.

GOT HER GOOD!

Being the only boy in the house, I took a lot of abuse, there was the constant reporting to my mother about every little small indiscretion I committed, from scaring the hell out of them to teasing, pulling hair and playing hide and seek, and never looking for them.

“Ma!” was a familiar cry coming from one of those opened mouths or another, and sometimes all I had to do was look in their direction to get them to scream. Life was good!

As we got older the covenant of four teamed up against me and I had a four front war on my hands, which although challenging was fun, because it gave me something to do when I didn’t feel like doing my homework.

One evening as the sun set and Tessie my older sister (much older) came home from her date, I decided that for some reason she would snoop in my room. I closed all the lights in the room, closed the door and slipped under the bed and waited. I don’t recall why I knew, but I did, and she didn’t disappoint me. Slowly a crack of light started to appear in my room and from the darkness of  under the bed I could clearly see her feet, furtively moving forward small steps at a time. I waited for her to pass my bed and with her back turned to me while looking out the window, I gave a blood curling howl that had her clutching her chest and sitting almost on the floor. I was good, very good.

Over the years we have teased each other without malice or mercy, just old-fashioned ribbing and give and take. It was something I knew all my life and even with friends that is what I did. Then one day I got married! TLW (The Little Woman) never did that growing up. You had to be nice to each other, which my sisters and I did when we were all asleep. It was hard to work it into the schedule with all the teasing we still had to do. She has made my kids like her, so it isn’t any fun anymore like the old days. However #1 Son and I did do some ribbing, he would call me a turkey or I would call him one, and we had our fun with his tricks on me as a little tyke.

Dad was notorious for teasing and it is where I learned it, from the master.  He used to drive a group of older women to their jobs, and teased them into believing things that just weren’t possible, like his stuffed lentil dish. The ladies would go on about something they made the night before, and Dad one day decided to join in.

“Oh, you should try my stuffed lentil dish.”

“Tony, you made stuffed lentils?!”

“Oh yes, the recipe has been in the family for years!”

Another lady would then ask ‘how’.

“Well, you get a pound of ricotta cheese, make sure you drain it good.”

“Yeah, wait let me get a pencil and paper from my pocket book.”

“Then you mix it with two eggs…’

“Yeah, go on.”

“Chopped from parsley very fine>”

“Yeah???”

“Then you get an eye-dropper and…”

And so he went on.

IMPORTANT COLLEGE FOOTBALL NEWS
My new best team THE STEVENSON UNIVERSITY MUSTANGS, had a slight trip up, losing their first game to Shenandoah: 26-16.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAT MARCOCCIO

A young high school pal of mine, today she is working on her 39th birthday, she believes in taking it one day every few days! 

WHEN FATHERS BECOME MOTHERS

My best customer

Every other Sunday I metamorphose into a mother. Probably a lot of you have been calling me a mother anyway for years, but Sundays in particular, when my daughter comes home from her group home for dinner, I become her Mom. Oh, TLW (The Little Woman) is still her mother and takes preference over me, but Ellen my daughter looks for me to feed her.

There are a few foods she loves and recognizes, and one in particular that excites her. It raises her to shouting with glee and clapping her hands and patting me on the back, she is so happy I am making it. She doesn’t speak, which is a rarity for a woman of 40 years, but she doesn’t.

Her favorite dish in the whole world is tortellini. Made with a cream sauce and wine, she absolutely goes crazy over it. She can tell when I am making it and starts to congratulate me by: hugging me, patting my head and clapping her hands while laughing. Food is the only real pleasure in life she has. She usually finishes hers in a hurry: and eyes my plate, and I wind up giving her the rest of my dinner, which she takes gladly. But this is what a mother would do: at least TLW always did, and now, so do I.

Ellen has a very large appetite, yet is very skinny, so naturally I hate the kid. I have a very small appetite now, and let’s put it this way: not skinny. (Let’s be kind out there) She can eat easy, two plates of pasta and salad, and look for more.

We also give her soda because she never gets it at her home, but does love it. We feel she is home now, so we will give her whatever she wants. She can drink about a ¾ liter bottle in one Sunday.

One would think after the menu we presented my daughter with, she would want to linger a while, savor the tastes that linger, but that would be false. She is like the perfect relative who comes for dinner, she eats and runs.