ZIA FRANCESCA

Everyone called her: Zia Francesca, I called her Grandma.

If grandma had taken better care of herself, she would have been 120 years old this January! But no, she ate whatever she wanted, drank anything she wanted, and worked long hard hours. She passed at 97, much too young to go. Her idea of a vacation was a pilgrimage to Italy, to support an orphanage she created for children who lost their parents during the war and the Church named it after her. Grandma organized bus rides to upstate New York for those very same kinds of needy orphan children.

She, like all the Italian grandmas in Brooklyn: wore black. This was very unsettling for grandpa, and he always avoided naps when she was home.

Grandma ran the house, the family and my grandpa like a prized stallion, he was always doing something because Grandma wanted it done. Every little creak was attended to: the house was in tip-top shape and it was almost a religious experience for grandpa.

On Sunday, he would sneak out to the Republican Club next door for a good card game, di Napoli cigar and a demitasse while holding his own in a pinochle game and some rest or respite from grandma. This, of course, irritated grandma who wanted him attending Mass on Sunday. The Sunday ritual was after Mass at Our Lady of Loreto grandma would cook her sauce for the dinner or should I say feast that would follow about one or two o'clock that afternoon. On her gas stove stood a pot that could hide a fat man over 6 feet tall. Her kitchen was the size of Texas and everything was done in it. Cooking, sewing, yelling and eating, plus laundry and paying the bills. She ran a self-sustaining farm with every kind of vegetable and spice she could fit in it, the ground lovingly nurtured by grandpa, down to the marbles he had scattered for some reason. With all those marbles, he never lost one!

In the garden stood a fig tree wrapped in the winter in linoleum carpets, and grapevines that overhung the cement patio and started to bloom in Spring. Figs were a big part of the diet, you ate them with a glass of wine, and they were sweet and delicious, juicy and succulent and inviting when I looked at them. The grapes were sour white grapes, that would eventually turn red and sweet, for his homemade wine. In his cellar, he pressed them and then after a while everything was bottled.

Grandma did have one habit that stuck with the whole family. On Saturday night, she would cook up a steak. As I grew up in Brooklyn, a steak was the meal for Saturday nights, as it is in my house every Saturday night. But grandma's steaks were special, nothing fancy but they were cooked over an open flame on an old gas stove in her basement. The smell was just so tempting, so delicious and so darn good. When mom sent me off to the confessional on Saturday afternoon to lie to the priest, I would be getting hungry knowing that a steak was in my future in an hour or so, cooked on an open flame, just like grandmas.

Grandma never smoked and had her daughters and nieces hiding from her so they could puff away, but in the end, she didn't care if you smoked, after all, it was another nail in your coffin.

It was hard to say goodbye. Grandma would see to it that everyone had a private audience. Saying goodbye meant that you would receive special attention as you tried your darnedest to get out of the house. There was a long whispered conversation, filled with expressions that told stories you couldn't understand, hand gestures that punctuated the thoughts and little children, standing next to their mothers fighting off sleep. Husbands would be yelling at their wives to get going they had to work in the morning. Gossip was saved for the end.

In grandma's cupboard in her kitchen was a collection of wedding favors, all wrapped with sugar coated almonds in a lace material, that was distributed on Easter Sunday for a small snack before the nuts and pastries. Life was good and so were the pastries. Grandma must have attended at least one wedding a week because she knew so many people, people she sponsored or financially helped, people who needed favors and she went out and got it done for them, people who needed her and she needed to have them need her.

Grandma was a big deal in the church. She made the pilgrimages for orphans but also for the special needs of the church, building funds, repair funds, dances and whatever Jesus called her to do. She also enlisted my Dad, a non-church goer who was a bit if an artist, painting a banner for a procession she was organizing for the streets of East New York and surrounding neighborhoods.

To coincide with the special church events, she organized, we had to go to her all Italian speaking church for the kick-off Mass. My dad not being a regular church attendee, would sit next to me to avoid my getting into trouble, Mom made him wear a suit and tie, a tie that hung on Dad loosely knotted, his top button of his shirt opened, sitting with his legs wide open in the seat, as he waited for the final bell so he could get home. I would watch the little old Italian ladies chirping away with each other as the priest gave his sermon, he would then pause and yell out: "SILENZIO"! The little old ladies would fall silent for a short while and right back at it they went. Then the consecration came, and I couldn't wait for it anticipating the sound of the fireworks that were set off on the roof! Bells ringing from the altar and BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! overhead kind of led to my excitement.

And so, her grandson writes about her, thinks of her bravery as a 15-year-old girl who couldn't speak English and yet owned a fruit and vegetable store, a restaurant and apartment houses, and wonders: was that the American dream? I love you Grandma: you make me proud.

UNCLE TONY'S IN HEAVEN (MAYBE)

Uncle Tony is the two men on your right!

Every kid of Italian heritage has or should have an Uncle Tony or an Uncle Joe! All my cousins did, and so did I. My Uncle Tony was actually my Dad's sister's husband. Uncle Tony was a mild meek gentleman who spoke broken English and really loved his booze. Married to my Aunt Angie made him that way. She was a take-charge woman, and a take charge attitude, just your average wife. (Only kidding)

Uncle Tony loved his booze so much that my aunt would hide the booze on him. Meek as Uncle Tony was, he wasn't stupid. He would arrange to play hide and seek with his kids, and would find the booze where it was hidden!

One of his favorite past times was barbecuing at any time of the year, including during a blizzard. Old Uncle Tony would announce around supper time "I make a nice a fire!" Out he would go and make the fire and cook for my aunt.

One year it was graduation time and my aunt lived in a duplex with my father's brother Joe. Uncle Tony and Uncle Joe never got along and on the rare occasion that they did, something would always happen. Both Uncle Joe who had a son graduating high school and my aunt had a daughter who was also graduating this one day. My Aunt Angie was visiting with my Uncle Joe's wife, (who happened to be my Mother's sister, two brothers married two sisters) and Uncle Tony came home from work, and goes over to my Uncle Joe's house looking for Aunt Angie who says to him "Tony, go upstairs and get dressed for the graduation tonight" Of course she meant upstairs next door. So off goes Uncle Tony. Uncle Joe comes home and is told his clothes are all laid out for him on the bed upstairs. Just as he is ready to go up, who comes down but Uncle Tony, all dressed up, and ready to go, in Uncle Joe's suit, shirt, tie, socks, and shoes!

Once, Uncle Joe and Uncle Tony went fishing in a local lake. They were sitting in a rented rowboat when all of a sudden Uncle Joe asked Uncle Tony to give him more bait, Uncle Tony decides to stand up and as he does, falls out of the boat! "Helpa, hime gonna drrrown, I can'ta swim!" thrashing about in the water. He was sitting in the water, the water up to his chest. Uncle Joe looks at him and says: You &$%@$(&! %^@$*&&^, STAND UP, AND GET BACK IN THE DAMNED BOAT! ITS ONLY UP TO YOUR KNEES!

When my Dad was dying, Uncle Tony was living in Florida and was suffering from Alzheimer's disease and somehow found out about my father who was dying here in New York. He loved my father who sponsored him in a late confirmation, goes to my Aunt while shaving: "Shine a my shoes I'm a gonna visit, Tony."

Not too much later Uncle Tony passed on from a heart attack, and when he did, I thought: "I wonder if he's playing hide and seek up there?" I missed both uncles, they help build my life of happy memories!

ITS ALL NEWS TO ME!

Today I go into the Good Samaritan Hospital and my surgeon gets to do what many people wish they could do: slit my throat and clear out a carotid artery! The lucky winner is Dr. Charles LaRosa, a noted surgeon who won the contest. Congratulations, Dr. LaRosa, get a good night's sleep, please.

Recently the media reported that a newborn kidnapped from a hospital 18 years ago was reunited with her biological mother for the first time, after all, these years! One TV personality mentioned that with all the safeguards in place today, it is virtually impossible to do this again, with protections for both the baby and the mother. I guess the kidnappers will now turn their attention to the fathers?

As you know, with the results of the National Election, Donald Trump is becoming President of the United States tomorrow. This means that our health care insurance will be changing once again. The Republicans first said they would repeal the whole thing for two good reasons. One is that it is an Obama idea, and if it is good, Obama can't get any credit for it, and secondly and more importantly, it is the only government sponsored program with two names, which confuses them! Obama Care is what most of us refer to it by, and of course ‘The Affordable Care Act' which is its correct legal name. Since most people and Republican Congressmen didn't know there is no difference between the two, the Republican controlled congress will change only parts of it, calling it Trauma Care.

Tomorrow we install a new President of the United States. People will stand in the freezing cold to watch hundreds of soldiers, marines and sailors march past the Capitol building in Washington, DC. Now millions of Americans will have to change their habits. Learning to write 2017 on their checks rather than 2016, or turning their disgust from: "That bastard Obama!" to: "That bastard Trump!", both are traditional American customs.

After 148 years, the animal rights groups have achieved something, closing down Ringling Brothers Barnum and Baily Circus. These are protestors that have never had a childhood and never experienced the thrill of going to a circus, smelling the popcorn or elephant poop. This is also a big help to the Handsome cabs that run along the New York Avenues, they won't have to wait for the circus to go by.

Birds took the blame for bringing down the jetliner that "Sully" Sullenberger landed on the Hudson River eight years ago this weekend. They have been paying for it with their lives ever since. An Associated Press analysis of bird-killing programs at the New York City area's three major airports found that nearly 70,000 gulls, starling, geese, and other birds have been slaughtered, mostly by shooting and trapping, since the 2009 accident, and it is not clear whether those killings have made the skies safer. However, the National Association of Car-Washers has noted a 56% decrease in business!

Maj. Gen. Errol R. Schwartz has been ordered to step down at exactly 12:01 PM on inauguration day. This perplexes the general of all the troops on the streets and across the country, after all, says the general, he wouldn't leave a mission in the middle of a battle, so he doesn't understand why he is being asked to step down in the middle of Donald Trump's inauguration. My big concern is replacing an experienced general like Schwartz will place DC in deep jeopardy on January 21st, when the Women's March on Washington begins! There could b around 500,000 women marching! NO country has the manpower to handle that many angry women all at once!

Singer Jennifer Holliday has backed out as a performer at next week's presidential inaugural, saying she did not realize that her participation would be interpreted as a statement of support for President-elect Donald Trump. I guess she doesn't realize that Michele Obama, along with her husband WILL be there at the inaugural!

KNOCK, KNOCK… YOU'RE DEAD

When I was just married, and living in an apartment in East Patchogue I happened to watch a news magazine program one Sunday afternoon, between football games while I uncontrollably anticipated dinner. The subject of the show was surrogate parents and adoptive children. My young and beautiful wife (she's still beautiful) was pregnant with my daughter, and being how we didn't have children yet, it was a little difficult to fully appreciate all the issues raised in the program.

I was sitting in the living room while the little woman was rattling those pots and pans, when the host of the show asked the question: What would you do if there was a knock on your door and a child was standing there and said: "Hi, I am your spouses' child?" Well, I couldn't wait to open my BIGGGGG MOUTH, and jumped up from the couch and yelled out to the Mrs. "Hey Ellen, what would you do if there was a knock on our door, and a child was standing there and said, "Hi, I am your spouses' child?" Well she came into the living room and repeated the question to confirm it, and answered: "I would tell the child, excuse me for a moment, leave, come back to the child and say: I'm sorry, your father is deceased."

I can assure you one and all, there are NO unclaimed children in MY past.

GROWING UP IN BROOKLYN

--> Growing up in Brooklyn, in the grimy streets, I always looked forward to visiting Patchogue on my summer vacation, and where my cousins lived. Patchogue was the country, the place to roam and run and enjoy the green, green, grass of freedom and joy.

Patchogue held a special spell over me, I loved to visit both my aunt and uncle's homes on Norton Street, a duplex home fueled by coal deliveries, pebbled driveways, and porches as I went about shoeless and wearing light summer clothing, it was heaven for the kid from Brooklyn.

There was a certain excitement to visiting Patchogue, it was a special vacation place for me. Carvel ice cream, eating outside and visiting fireworks or special events like air plane shows, made me feel happy that this place called Patchogue existed.

Somehow being in Patchogue created a comparison for me of the sidewalks, buses and Catholic school discipline of Brooklyn to the happy casual feeling of careless life that Patchogue offered. I was free and carefree. My cousins seemed so relaxed and willing to share their joy.

Often, in the early morning, when the dew was prevalent, I could hear the distant sound of the Long island Railroad train engine, tooting my awake in the morning sunrise, sounding so special and making me want to arise from my bed and go out in the joy of Patchogue and enjoy the day.

I would give anything to relive those memories once again, to feel the sense of fireworks exploding through the air on a dark summer's night on July 4th, having a Carvel ice cream or visiting the dock to scoop out a crab, Patchogue you will always be my first love!

SOMETHING, UNKNOWN!

Grandpa!

 

Take my imaginary hand, and let me take you into my past to one of the fascinating places I ever went to.

My grandparents had a cellar, an interesting place as any I’ve known in my life. Down in this cellar was a treasure of antiquity and mystery, history, and tradition, as ever there was in any such a place. The cellar ran the length and width of the house, and it was broken into three main sections. There was the majority of the cellar, and two small separate rooms, one housing a wine press and one for canning.

It had just 2 low Watt overhead exposed light bulbs with a string hanging from them to pull on and off the light. The floors, cast in cement offered no comfort or welcome, as did the surrounding atmosphere of darkness and mystery. It wasn't until you opened the lights did things come into view.

As you entered the cellar from the long hallway that had this almost visible portrait of a devil from the harsh paint strokes that dried on the outer door, (It was my imagination) telling you to tread cautiously and don’t wake up the demons you descended the steps and immediately things started to happen. You came to an old Victrola, with the dog looking into the sound system: “His Masters Voice.” label on the grammar phone or speaker with the big knob-like needle holder that you manually placed on a record. On the sides, it had moveable slats that looked like large vents to direct the music.

After inspecting this relic from the 20's, you moved past the Victrola, there was a free-standing room with doors making up the walls of this room, and I wondered if my grandfather kept a monster in the room, as I gently pressed my ears against one of the doors. I would hear these noises coming out of it and would back away, my knees shaking and the urge was to run. (It was the furnace!)

There were used oxygen tanks from before the war and after when Dad made glass novelties and other things that had an interest to me, but the thing I always went to look at was, my grandfather Joseph, fresh off the boat when the picture was taken. He is in a black pressed suit, black bow-tie, a stiffly starched shirt and black shiny shoes, topped off with a boutonnière on his lapel. This picture amazed me as it had him standing in front of this grayish background from an almost Draconian set, next to a table that stood on three legs, as it was a small table. The picture must have been about 30’ x 40”, and although I was named after him, I never met him. His sharp black mustache trimmed to a pencil thickness dominated his face, and his eyes seemed to tell so many mystic stories. Here was the cradle of American life born from the “other side, an immigrant”!

There were two long factory tables, wooden tops with metal adjustable legs probably where all the glass novelties were placed and sorted before being shipped to customers. Flags, American in kind stood in one corner of the room and pictures of haunting poses of saints occupied the other walls, and as you walked the length of the cellar you could almost hear the echo of days past, each object with its own tale to tell.

Then there was Grandmas gas stove and the wonderful steaks she would make on it. She had what best can be described as an iron wired contraption with a long handle that you lifted to place a steak in, you closed the handle and placed the steak on one of the burners and there you roasted or bar-b-q the steak, leaving a mouth-watering smell that drove you crazy if you were in the least bit hungry!

Then there was a canning room that had shelves lining it, with jar after jar of tomatoes, eggplant and other canned delights that once extracted from the darkness of its home and placed on the plate created all the sunlight you needed in your life.

When Grandma cooked, she reduced things down to the simplest of terms, she cut her garlic over the pan, she tossed her spices by the pinches and stirred her magic to perfection and completion, leaving the diner totally satisfied. When the canning room came alive, while processing the tomatoes, in particular, there were flies everywhere, but grandpa rigged a big fan that kept them out of the room.

Oh, I would give anything to once again see my grandparents, to feel the special love that came from them, in their zest for life, their kindness, and generosity, their love of food and family, because it was family and love that fueled the engine they drove.

I cannot cry that I miss them, but laugh at the memories and take comfort in their lives touching mine.

So what lurked in that cellar?

Love.

GOING FOR IT

We arrived at Good Samaritan Hospital in West Islip and checked in for the "procedure". The "procedure" is something I had done years ago before I had a triple bypass. I was very apprehensive since I had the experience and it wasn't very pleasant.

Remembering the room and the fact that it was very cold, a small monitor overlooked the table and the cardiologist inserted a probe through the arm, causing a painful reaction. I started to sweat under the lead blanket they placed over me and I wanted to heave. The cardiologist asked me if I ever lifted weights since he could penetrate the muscle in my arm!

My life flashed before my very eyes!

I sat in the pre-op room for a few hours, in a hospital gown and no underwear! I missed my underwear. When I pulled back the curtain after getting into the gown, standing there was a nurse who seemed to appear out of nowhere. The round of questions began, and a second nurse arrived with a nurse's assistant, young and sweet.

The first nurse started to ask me questions about myself, what I had for breakfast, when and the time, what medications I took and what they were for. As she is asking, the other nurse is sticking me with a needle, that hurt so bad I stood up almost. Here I am getting stuck and in severe pain and the other one is asking questions. Well, the sticking nurse blew it, causing a big black and blue swelling and she had to switch to the other arm.

Now they have me laying down under a sheet that comes up to my chest. While they are re-sticking me, I ask the sticker to guarantee me that when I leave this place the sheet is no higher than my chin.

The first nurse continues her questions: "Did you come here with clothes?" I look at myself, a hospital gown and little sickies on and reply: "I sure hope so, I know I didn't come like this!" This causes the sticker to start laughing out loud, while the inquisitor makes an annoyed face.

After just a few hours, my ticket is picked for a command performance that I am there for. They roll me out and into this room that has a few nurses and a technician named Joe. It happens he comes from my neighborhood, and we get along famously, talking about the neighborhood. The nurses are all working behind a glass enclosure of some sort, and one is complaining there is no blood pressure! I think: from high blood pressure to no pressure at all, is that sheet going over my head???

The nurse comes out and looks at me and starts to shake her head sideways. "This is not good: your toes have no pressure. This is really not good! She drags the blood pressure thing from my foot and wraps it around my arm!

Then the surgeon comes in, takes a few moments and declares; He's good to go, no need for a stent, medication will take care of the blockage. He was through, I was expecting the worst to come and it didn't happen! What remarkable strides science and medicine have made!

I HOLD THESE MEMORIES

If you were to ask me what were my greatest, fondest or sweetest memories, you might think I'd say my childhood, where I have written extensively, for various Facebook pages and that would not be so! My greatest memories are of my children, my sweetest ones of my wife and my fondest of them both.

I have written about growing up in the Italian-American experience, and it was both educational and historical, as I watched a transgression of lifestyle and assimilation into the fabric of American culture by Italian immigrants. But if I look back, there is a certain air that pervades my thoughts, an air of nostalgic warmth, a certain sweetness that will never be forgotten. The family I helped raised.

There is always a feeling of home when I think of my mom and dad, a certain love and warmth that goes through my veins, yet it is the past, what was, not is anymore. Now when I see my wife or a child of mine, I still see that little kid, the one I would seek to entertain, worry about and most importantly, love.

I look at old pictures and see them once again the way I feel about them now, as a small child, innocent of all wrong-doing and playful, filled with joy and innocence, and no worries in the world, the good of it all!

I see a younger woman, the one I married and yet she is still here, with me, sharing my tears, my pains and mostly my joys! How much more could I want? Where would I go with it anyway? She has made the days and years special, she looks out for me, gives me presents of love and affection not with a material, but with her thoughts and kindness toward me. Anyone who has doubts about me, she ignores knowing I am who I promised I'd be to her so many years ago. She, in turn, has kept her promise too, but enhancing it many times over.

 

I can remember all the years we spent together, quietly side by side in our den, reading or watching TV, knowing I was happy because she sat there, sometimes talking, sometimes not, just there made me happy.

I can recall the despair of losing a child, the strength came from love holding me up for the other children I had, the pain of losing a daughter to a disability that would ruin her life, and greatly sadden us, as we mourn her every day of our lives. The anxiety of depression that invaded our lives, how hard it was for me to adjust to this attack on my children, how I needed to comfort both the child and mother.

 

I recall the baseball, basketball, and sports my sons played, how we rooted and gave support, how proud an accomplishment was to me! I remember the potty-training, the ‘advice' rendered by a three-year-old, the joy of bringing them to work with me for the first time and their meeting my bosses and co-workers and crew, all giving me rave reviews.

I see this all in the memories of the photo box, all four playing once again, smiling, speaking and bringing joy to me as I sit here getting a little older.  Do I wish I was there again? No. Because it would deny me their successes as adults, I'll keep the pictures and take new ones, maybe a get to know the next generation and look back with my wife and think: Look what we did!

I MIGHT DIE FIRST!

After the Cardiologist looked at my records for the OK I need from him for surgery, he shook his head in despair. He was being cautious for my sake, yet I hate him. It seems I needed a few tests, one being a ‘Nuclear stress test’ and the other an ‘Echocardiogram’.

As you might know, the nuclear stress test feels like they placed a hydrogen bomb somewhere in your body and it just exploded!

So, we decide to have the test for a final clearance before the operation for the carotid artery operation on my right side. “We’ll have the results Tuesday, call then,” said the technician. This was Friday, but on Saturday I get a call from the cardiologist’s nurse stating I needed to see the doctor on Monday at 8:30 AM! This ruined my whole weekend.

Come Monday I see the doctor and he tells me something had changed since last year I now have a new blockage and will need a Cardio catheterization.  He suggests we do it before the surgery on Thursday, and he will notify the surgeon to see if we can still do the surgery after the procedure that will occur either Tuesday or Wednesday.

The next day the surgeon calls with the news that the operation for the carotid artery will be postponed a week later. And so I go instead for a Cardio catheterization and wonder if providence is telling me not to have the operation at all. With the issues of insurance, pre-surgery testing and what have you, I wonder? I might just outlive this operation from old age, yes, die from other causes before they actually cut my throat.

OLD PHOTOS

Have you ever gone into your box of old photos and rediscovered your life? Do you see the people in them staring back at you, just like they did so many years ago, speaking to you through their eyes?

Does the black and whiteness of the pictures, with the faded paper and torn edges remind you that it was long ago and that like the paper, your memories were fading?  Does Grandpa in his gray fedora or grandma in her rose-covered dress and ever present apron still call you back home, and when they do, do you respond in your heart and soul? I do.

Do you see the family in front of the large dining room table, all looking back at you, Aunt Angie standing in the background, Aunt rose sitting next to Uncle Joe, Aunt Mary holding cousin Vinny and Uncle Frank next to Grandpa? All with their eyes reminding you of laughs, great food and the love that seemed awash in the spirit just as the photo captured it.

Are there dishes filled with food, maybe a large platter of pasta sitting on the table, a pitcher of home-made wine nearby? Or is it pastry and nuts, empty wine glasses that measured the time in refills, demitasse cups with anisette, and maybe the aroma of a cigar? Pictures hold us to the moment, sweet and lasting.

The sound of Italian, punctuated by the wave of the hands that supplement the passion of the people in the photo, do you miss that too? I do. The men in their ties and the women in their dresses, proudly holding their future, you, somewhere in the picture, remind me that they are the past now and we hold our future, our grandchildren.

How many of us made our First Holy Communion, and stood for the ‘official' portrait outside our home, maybe with a parked car or even piece of a fender sticking out? And how many of us were recipients of money, quietly folded into our little hands by a favorite aunt or uncle, with their index finger guarding their lips to remind us not to say anything. I do, too.

How many of us were squeezed until we couldn't breathe, our cheeks pinched until they hurt, but all loving, even if the fingers smelled of garlic or parsley or even basil? Italian love was all it was, and like a scar, it stays in the heart, forever.

And when you arrived at your grandparent's home, maybe an aunt or uncle, the rainiest day became sunny, the smell of cooking and the question: "Why are you so skinny? EAT! MANGIA! Still, lingers in your heart to this day?

When you gathered with cousins for the first time in a while, you noticed something different; they were bigger or combed their hair different, all showing you the march of time, the march you didn't recognize until you started to get older. Do you see that in an old photo, too?

How many of us were teased about a girlfriend or how we looked or even how we reacted to those stogie old gentlemen we called uncles. And our aunts, makeup and hair combs, all dolled up for a holiday saying: "MY, how you've grown!" In the pictures, they still say those things.

Pictures are a wonderful thing, they are important because they become historical documentation for future generations to trace their blood line, and funny thing, their looks. But beyond that, they reinforce our love for those who passed, we will miss their kindness, their talents, their morals and the lessons of family, love of life and God and country. God bless them all. I know I would.

THE BARRIER CALLED, LOVE!

Growing up in my house, hearing my parents speak was always paid attention to, whether I did what they told me or not. Many times, they spoke to each other in Italian, and it wasn't until I got older did I learn that I needed to know what they were saying.

Both Mom and Dad were born here, and Dad's family spoke Italian exclusively, while Mom's family spoke in English. Her Dad was from Taranto and her mom from Bari, although Grandma herself was born here. Dads' family was from Naples and Rome, and both his parents emigrated to this country during the great influx of Italians during the early part of the twentieth century.

Mom and Dad spoke fluent Italian however they spoke different dialects which led to discussions about the different regions and why one was better than the other. Sarcasm and bickering were the fun parts of their conversations, making me laugh at them until the day they died, and implanted in my brain the never-ending reality that this is what Italians do!

Dad: "My people were of a higher status!"

Mom: "Oh pullleese Anthony, all your people do is shout at one another, now mine are quiet and reserved!"

Dad: "Then how come I can hear you?"

Mom: "My family were craftsmen and teachers (A long list of professions and crafts follow) while yours were peasants!"

Dad: "What are you talking about, my grandfather was an Admiral in the Italian Navy, and on my mother's side we owned an olive grove!"

Mom: "How could he be an admiral, your people lived in the mountains?"

Dad: "That's right, and when we were done eating and drinking, we threw our leftovers down the mountain where your people could place their cups and dishes to catch it all."

When discussions centered around the children, my parents resorted to an alternate language to deceive us, talk about things they felt we should not know about, including gossip and where the presents for Christmas were hidden. It was here that I trod in fear of the unknown, where they had the upper hand.

Mom: "Conoscete che cosa il vostro figlio ha fatto in chiesa?"

You know what your son did in church?

Dad: "Che cosa, ora?"

What, now?

Mom: "Ha messo i tasti d'argento nel cestino di accumulazione anziché soldi!

He put silver buttons in the collection plate instead of money!

At that point Dad spits out his coffee.

I was not sure who I belonged to. It seems depending on my lack of accomplishments and who noticed first, I was dubbed: "YOUR SON!" It was used by both and although nice to know I belonged to one of them, I didn't know which one.

When it came to raising me, they seemed to be on the same page. Dad never hit, but Mom sure knew how! Not only did she hit, but she developed an arm that could throw out Willie Mays from a deep center field with her ability and accuracy to hit you with a thrown shoe and the scariest part of it, you could be in another room a few rooms away and around the corner!

But all the things that happened were in fun, as a family, we constantly laughed at each other, our heads never got big because someone was always around to deflate it.

Me: "Boy, He/she is ugly!

Mom: "And you're so beautiful?"

Me: "I got an ‘A' today in school."

Mom: "So what do you want, a cigar? Go throw out the garbage."

Me: "I got a triple today, Dad!"

Dad: "Yeah, how come no home run?"

Were they proud of me? YES! They just refused to show me any kind of settling for the mediocrity of life.

I REMEMBER

It was like yesterday, the wonderful aroma of mom's homemade chicken soup. When it snowed like it has the past few hours, Mom would make her chicken soup and as she did, the kitchen took on a new light, warm in so many ways, and along with the Italian bread, block of cheese and appetite made me happy to be alive. She would sing a song as she cooked, sometimes an oldie she learned from her childhood days that I learned from her. Life was magical.

Monday was soup night, after all the eating we did on the weekend, she was conscious enough to know all we needed was soup. Rich broth, chicken breaking apart on the platter as she fished it out, and the pieces of onion, celery and carrots all dressed the table like a bouquet of flowers, only steaming in goodness.

Often as an alternate, she would make beef soup, with the bone and small pasta, a broth rich in flavor in both taste and memory, her warm Italian bread sitting there with no attention needed from us, we were going to dip!

Mom's Pasta e' Fagiola was perhaps a special treat. The beans submerged in the tomato broth, spices and a glass of wine, accompanied the sliced loaf of Curialle's fresh Italian bread, made that morning. There were other dishes, made with pig's feet and knuckles, Tortellini minestra and al minestra, all filling a need that made us crazy with delight.

Mom cooked and we ate, we didn't converse once she served, we put our heads down into the dish and didn't come up until it was time for seconds. Espinache, Broccoli Rabe, Swiss Chard, were all vegetables that accompanied sausage or chicken with some garlic, olive oil and red pepper flakes, the real holy trinity of cooking.

Pop was a mild-mannered man, always cheerful on most days, and his presence was the thing that made life special. He would sit there in his flannel shirt and just enjoy his wife's creations.

Speaking of Pop, his most favorite dinner which became all his offspring's favorite was the traditional Christmas Eve dinner of Lobster spaghetti sauce, sometimes crab, octopus, scungilli in a great separate sauce, eels battered and fried, baccala salad, and stuffed shrimp. It was heaven, and frankly, that feeling I had was never the same after Mom stopped cooking back in 1992 after Dad had passed.

Easter was another kind of culinary holiday with traditional foods such as homemade ravioli, or lasagna, the regular platter of Sunday gravy meats, the pork and beef braciole, meatballs and sausage both hot and cheese and sometimes leftover steak. Then if she was ready to hit stride, a ham which no one liked because we ate already. This was true also of Thanksgiving, where we substituted the ham for turkey, and we held on until she brought out her Italian sausage stuffing. Mom's hands were gold, and I told her so.

Mom made other culinary treats, for lunch peppers and eggs, potato and eggs and her "Make believe cutlets" a dish born of the Greta depression. She would scramble eggs in parmesan cheese and bread crumbs with fresh parsley and fry it in the skillet and you and a cheap simple lunch.

The wine was the essential ingredient to Dad's world, homemade by grandpa, some of it allowed to become vinegar, making for the craziest and delicious salads you could imagine!

None of what I experienced will ever be realized by my children, and that is a shame, but I guess I was special to have experienced the warmth and love of home life, born an Italian-American, in the great borough of Brooklyn.

TORTURED!

In order for me to go under the knife to clear out my carotid artery, I had to have a number of pre-tests from my cardiologist, GP, and pre-surgical procedures from the hospital.

As I finished up with the cardiologist, he started to go through my medical records and noticed I needed an Echocardiogram and a nuclear stress test. This is not good for me! It is the worst day of the year and frankly I'd rather die first.

The very first thing they do is the echocardiogram. A young lady, rather gorgeous, escorts me to the room where this procedure occurs. "Take off your shirt and lie down!" she says. OK, I'm hungry, delirious and have a headache, I was just wondering if this was for the test.

If you remember the ban roll-on deodorant, imagine someone taking that and pushing it into your ribs, so hard that you wince in pain, enough so that you want to scream at them to take it easy. Of course, I don't, being a manly man, who is already on the verge of calling for my mommy. This is obviously my mother talking to me from the grave, telling me I am getting it for all the things she didn't catch me at!

Once they are done with the scan, they send me to the waiting room to wait for the next act of torture. Mind you I'm willing to talk if they will let me. By now I am hungry, and I have a headache from lack of coffee.

They come and get me and off I go this small closet, where they will ask me my name and birthday, just as they did with the echo test. I sit in a chair and am interviewed, and they send in this young fellow who is taking everything in stride, including sticking me with a port where they will inject a nuclear isotope into me and cause me more anguish.

Asking me my name and birthday, he asks also if I ever had this test before. I answer in the affirmative and he says: "Well then, you know what's coming!" He injects something into the port and tells me to go wait in the waiting room once again.

Out comes the isotope man and brings me back to another room with a scanner. "Lie on the bed with your arms stretched over your head and lie perfectly still for 9 minutes. Laying down and stretching I feel that same headache in the back of my head, which is now even worse because of the added pressure. When he says: "Lay still" I immediately have an itch I want to scratch but can't, and restless leg is starting to kick in. This is so much fun!

After the agony of the scan, guess what? Again, they send back into the waiting room. I wait and out they come, this time I go in for the big one, the stress test.

Escorted into the very back of the building I enter a room with a treadmill and a bed. The young lady who escorted me says: "Take off your shirt and lie down!" I think: "Wow! Twice in one day, I must be something else!" Then reality sets in. She is sticking sensors on my torso from the treadmill. I ask if I am doing the treadmill and she informs me that I am not, but they will be monitoring my heart during the procedure. I lay on the bed and the executioner enters the room, pulls out a needle to inject the isotope into my veins. Slowly my inner body temperature rises, causing a sick sensation of hot blood, my head ready to explode from the combination of heat and isotopes. My stomach is starting to turn and I am breaking out in a sweat, I want to yell at them to turn the thing off! After what seems a lifetime, the executioner reenters the room and injects something that calms my anxiety and the horrible sense of the isotope.

I get off the table, but I am wobbly, after all, I am 71! They decide to think outside the box, that is: send me to the waiting room.

Out they come one more time, this time the executioner escorts me to the torture chamber where they made me stretch out for 9 minutes. "Lay down on the bed once again and stretch, this time for only 7 minutes!" Great, they're taking pity on me!

After the ordeal, I am able to go home! Glory be to the Highest and peace on Earth!

I go downstairs to take out my parking receipt to give to the valet. It is 5:30 PM, dark and I am in a hurry to deal with the Friday night traffic. There is no valet! There is no key box! I go inside and ask the young lady at the reception desk where the valet is.

"Oh, he went home!" and hands me a set of keys. They are not my keys! "These are not my keys!" "You sure? Did you check your pockets?" "Why the Hell would I take a parking receipt from a valet and pocket the keys?" "Hmm, let me call him."

This is all I need after the day I just had! She calls, the dummy asks a bunch of questions, and tells her to check her area, the key box that is in the closet and in her pocketbook. After a second call to the genius, he comes up with an idea: check the car in the parking lot, maybe the keys are in there. Out we go and I spot my car, we go to it and sure enough, in the car on the console sits my keys, in an open parking lot, where someone could steal it. Happy to see the car I dismiss the young lady and thank her. I get in and start the car, out of nowhere there is a loud noise, it is Spanish music coming from my radio! The idiot was listening to my radio with the sound way up!

THESE THINGS ARE HAPPENING?

I arrived at the pre-surgical office of my hospital for blood work (9 vials) and an X-ray along with 50 questions, all the same, asked by five different people. If you've had an operation they like to ask questions, like: are you who you say you are?

After arriving and signing in, I try the bathroom door (what else) and it is locked. So I go to the receptionist and ask her if it is locked or is someone in it? She replies that indeed it is locked, and you have to sign in first. I tell her I did and she hands me the key and a little plastic cup with a secured top and a plastic bag. In front of a room filled with patients, she says out loud: "When you go into the toilet, fill this cup!" This leaves me sheepish as I traipse from the sign-in desk to the toilet, go in and fulfill one request and one jar. I wonder if you can hear the toilet flush from the waiting room because I flush.

Coming out of the room I decide to look down and find a seat. Sitting I take out my book, ‘In The Garden of Beasts' and start to read. In the corner of my eye, something is disturbing me, and I look up and sure enough there is a lady about two seats over sitting and reading. What is disturbing is she has her legs crossed and the one swung over is swinging back and forth at a rapid rate, the one anchored to the floor is moving up and down from toes to heel! I think, maybe she doesn't know the toilet key is at the front desk?

After watching her do her dance I notice something even stranger, she is reading with her mouth moving, emoting as she does! This made me realize that the poor woman has something she needs to fix and I need to get a life and read my book!

This week I have been to my GP, cardiologist, pre-surgical and to end the week, my cardiologist one more time. All this time I also had to make phone calls to the insurance carrier because it is new, we were picked up as of January 1, and I made the appointment with the surgeon long before we knew we were being changed to the new coverage. The amount of worry and begging with the new insurer that they cover this out of network surgeon was very trying.  Finally, the new insurer agreed! The operation better comes soon, I'm ready to kill myself.

THEY'RE TESTING MY HEART CAUSE ITS FUN!

Yes, today is a bad day for me. Today my cardiologist will have earned enough for a nice college fund for his child who probably isn't even born yet!

Before I can have the good surgeon slit my throat (another college fund or extended vacation of some sort), there are more tests to do. And why not, these tests are designed by my enemies, who have all contributed suggestions. The three best suggestions are chosen from the hundreds submitted. The winners are:
Starve me
No liquids
Make me run until my lungs collapse

All this will be done in the course of about 16 hours and will leave me irritated, angry, pissed off, annoyed and just plain hungry. Being plain hungry usually leaves me: irritated, angry, pissed off, annoyed and I want to hit somebody.

Being retired, I will drive through the traffic I don't miss, deal with people who don't know how to drive and try to stay alive on the road. Get to the office they will conduct an Echo cardiogram on me, then make we wait about two days in the waiting room where they will collect me to either run the treadmill until my lungs are heaved up with the last breath of air in them, or do the nuclear test, that is where they inject an isotope into you and you feel like your insides are on fire (I'm not kidding) then they inject something to end that sense.

You must be wondering why they would do such a thing to a nice kid like me. They are testing to see if I really am a nice kid. As for me, I will smile through it all because I have no idea what I'm doing there.

I haven't had this much fun since I sliced part of my finger off on Mother's Day back in 2014.

A RAY OF HOPE?

Sometimes you have to hang on until the last minute. Take for instance my troubles with the operation I may have to postpone. I tried one more time yesterday morning to convince the insurance company to cover the surgeon bill even though he was out of the network. I was given a phone number the surgeon needed to call to confirm he would do the procedure and they the insurance company could have a record.

I immediately called the surgeons office and gave them the information. Soon the surgeon’s office called back to tell me that we would be having a three-way conference call, and I needed to state that I wished to do this with an out of network surgeon.

I dialed in and we; the surgeon’s office, the insurer (Aetna) and myself were all hooked up. I stated my full name, and other info and the deal was completed. It is up to the Aetna now to give us the final approval.

I will wait and pray, maybe it will happen.

A question keeps popping into my head: what good does this network nonsense do for the consumer other than complicate things? It drives companies to keep changing their employee’s coverage because of high insurance costs, confuses the insured, and also leaves him wondering how much is out of pocket, and how much is non-deductible if any?

CAUGHT IN A TRAP!

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It seems that all good plans Of Mice and Men… well, you know the rest.

In 2016, my health insurance changed to United Health Care through my wife's work. As I went along visiting doctors and what not, we got adjusted to the new co-pays and life was fine. Toward the end of the year, I made arrangements with a surgeon to clear my carotid artery. I set up the date for January 12th and the pre-test for today and all seemed right.

Then I got a notice that our health insurance was changing to Aetna! GOOD LORD!

I checked everyone first, told them the news, gave them the new membership number, starting to feel confident. However, there was one place I hadn't told yet, the surgeon, the guy that does the slitting. His job would be a dream come true, the slitting of my throat! Well, he ain't doing it, no, he's not in the new network!

I call membership services at Aetna, and they tell me how everything will be OK and that there is no deductible, GOD IS GOOD! I call the surgeon's office and tell the lady helping me, and she asks if there is any forms being sent, or a case number. Huh?

I call back and find out that since that phone call about 45 minutes ago, things changed! Drastically!

They can't let the surgeon do the operation, he isn't in the network! Furthermore, the hospital is not in the network! How that is even possible is beyond me, it is a large hospital, around for years. Today I try one more time then cancel the pre-testing, the operation and my patience.

DOES GOD CARE?

I’m a great believer in God. I try to keep it to myself and not try to convert people to any kind of religion, because all that really has done is fractionalize us from achieving our goal on Earth, being part of His great kingdom. I get very uncomfortable listening to pontification from all forms of religion and beliefs.

Trying to avoid the discussion on this blog about religion and how we should pray has een a goal of mine and I don’t think I ever broke that rule until today.

Recently a very good man was offended that someone questioned his religion and the fact that because of it he wanted others to share his beliefs and post their agreement with him on Facebook, that social media that seems at times bigger than God! Frankly, those kinds of posting seem inappropriate to me, professing one’s beliefs in God for public debate, when indeed your religion, not the church you belong to or the particular sect is the only thing that matters. Here is my response to him and his plea. All I say in my response I feel is true about the man himself.

My Friend,

It is good that you indeed believe in God, as I do. I believe that I need not have to convince anyone that I do, nor do I care to. Religion is a relationship between man and God, one that should be private and no one else’s business. If someone is mocking you for your belief, forgive him or her and move on, God will deal with that better than you or I could. Forgive him and do a good work instead, maybe help a widow or feed someone who is hungry, or maybe visit a prison, I understand there are many children in the world who cry out from the injustice perpetrated against them, try helping there. God will bless you more for those acts of love than to post on Facebook a dare. I for one know you are indeed a good man, God fearing, so don’t care what others think of your beliefs, because no one matters, including myself. God loves you for your faith in Him. That is stronger than sitting in a church or with a Bible study, it is you and God, he will judge not attendance in church but actions. I choose to stay friends with you because your beliefs come across as real and truth, God’s truth. Thanks

CHECK OUT TIME???

It seems the closer I get to the operation that is required for my carotid artery, the worst I feel. My surgeon assured me that I was not in immediate danger or a “walking time bomb” as he put it, yet more and more each day I feel something. I have ‘symptoms’ that I am not sure are related or not. On January 12, I go to Good Samaritan Hospital in Bay Shore for the procedure, yet I wonder if I’ll last that long.

It seems that in the middle of the night is when these symptoms appear, starting with a sense of cut off circulation in my left arm followed by a low throbbing pain, then extending to my face and behind my neck. I have a number of theories about what it is and they range from the psycho-somatic to arthritis and the combination of it with the workout I do in the gym. The biggest worry is of course that the artery is clogging quickly and will cut off causing a fatal stroke. That would do it.

The other night I almost took myself to the emergency room at a local hospital, and yet I wonder with all the test I have taken lately in the last six months could it be anything else?

These kinds of things can kill you on the fly, one moment you feel fine the next you are gone. Fortunately, there is no one I need to get in touch with, my wife and kids know my situation and will be ready for it. I’m not afraid of death or even suffering because I had my time already. 71 years is a long time to live, maybe not the life expectancy one would count on today, but it is enough. Living with high cholesterol, high blood pressure, and diabetes, not being able to hear all that well and the pain that seems constant in my foot from an accident I sustained years ago all contribute to my belief that maybe it is time. To add to my list is an aneurysm in my stomach and a suspect kidney, that is being monitored, all for my living pleasure! If this is life: who needs it? I will be sad to leave my family and especially the little one who I adore beyond reason, yet the feeling that I am put up with will be over finally.

And so, without drama I think it prudent to say goodbye, maybe not but why take a chance? If you are happy about this, congratulations and I own no ill will toward you. If you are sad, don’t be, I had an amazing run, I defied odds with a hearing loss that is impossible to live with, I married a great woman and have wonderful children and a most precious and beautiful grandchild. My career was fun, not hard, and I did become president of the Board of Directors, not once but twice, helping people with disabilities. How wonderful is that last item?

I hope the odds are on my side, if not, I go in peace and wish it to you too.




 

THIS IS ME!

You know it's not always about me, just when I got into trouble.

"Mom, he's looking at me!"
"Joseph, stop looking at your sister!"
"Mom, he's still looking at me!"
"Then go somewhere else."

That was a usual conversation that involved me. Notice that I was called either; ‘Him' or ‘Joseph'. Joseph was the formal form of ‘You are one step away from the wooden spoon'.

As the years went on, things started to change, I got married, my kids were, for the most part, good, and then one day, after a search of over 40 years, I found the perfect chair for me. For years, I had envied my father-in-law's easy chair, it was the right height and the distance from the back of the knees was just right, I could never find that. Then one day I did!

Then came birthdays and Christmas, the days of my easy chair became not-so-easy! TLW (the Little Woman) decided that I needed protection for the material that covered the chair and so purchased a cover. It was a nice cover, brown to go with the complexion of the chair rather than gray to go with my complexion. This worked fine until it became a little threadbare, looking tired and shabby, to the point that no one could tell if the cover was the cover or me! When she served a cup of coffee to the chair and I was in the bathroom, she decided I needed a new cover.

Then one day, through the miracle of the Internet, there sat on my favorite chair, a new cover. And just like the old cover it was brown for the same reasons, to distinguish when I was in the chair and when I wasn't. The problem is the new cover refuses to stay put. Sometimes it runs under my butt when I sit, sometimes it drags down over my head, it has a mind of its own. If that isn't enough, #2 Son for Christmas, buys me a chair caddy. Now a chair caddy is a wonderful idea. What it does is goes on the arm of the easy chair, and has pockets that sit off of both sides of the arm. You put things like remotes, the other remotes, a bag of pistachio nuts, an appointment book, a notebook and various business cards. IT HAS A MIND OF ITS OWN TOO! It must be influenced by the cover. As I get up to go to the bathroom/refrigerator/liquor cabinet, it jumps off the armrest crashing into the floor! But I don't mind because both the cover and the caddy are gifts that I appreciate, aI just have to learn how to sit and get up!

When I return to the chair, I have to straighten out the cover, pick up all the stuff that fell out of the caddy, put the caddy back in position, return the stuff and get a lecture from TLW about how I need to counter=balance the weight so that the heavy stuff is sitting inside on the chair. After all this I need a nap, so I sit in my chair, knocking over the caddy and having the back of the chair cover ride over my eyes once again!

LET'S START ALL OVER AGAIN!

It's a new year, and like an old dirty towel, we toss the old year behind us and take out a new one. (Put them in the hamper or washing machine, please!)

After an evening of Christmas Eve fish, and Christmas Day dinner, it is hard to imagine that there is New Year's Eve, and New Year's Day dinner to face.

WHEN WAS THE FIRST TIMES SQUARE BALL DROPPED?
Answer below

The evolution of a resolution:
2009: I will get my weight down below 180.
2010: I will watch my calories until I get below 190.
2011: I will follow my new diet religiously until I get below 200.
2012: I will try to develop a realistic attitude about my weight.
2013: I will work out 5 days a week.
2014: I will work out 3 days a week.
2015: I will try to drive past a gym at least once a week.

As I stood in the gym on New Year's Eve, I looked around me and thought that I would either become the Italian Stallion or an old gray nag.

I'm making my usual New Year's resolution, that is no New Year's resolution. Never made one, couldn't keep it if I tried, so why bother? Let's face it, none of us ever do, we just find an excuse to go back to our old ways.

However, that is not to say I don't make resolutions and some are successful, like when I quit smoking on New Year's Day in 1990. Then there was a resolution to finish school as a freshman in college. With no money, no form of transportation and absolutely no sense, I vowed that somehow I would graduate from college. Through the grace of God I managed, what was a titanic struggle to do so, hitchhiking and starving, and sneaking onto trains, just for the sake of a lambskin?

There is so much football on TV today I decided to give you this joke.

TIME OUT
A guy comes home from a bar drunk at 4 am in the morning. His wife is sleeping and he tries to sneak into bed. He's lying in bed for a few minutes and suddenly let's rip a fart.

His wife wakes up and asks, "What in the world was that?"

He replies, "Touchdown, I'm up 7 nothing."

She thinks to herself, "I'm gonna fix him." and she lets one loose.

He yells at her, "What was that?"

She replies "Touchdown, tied score!"

Now he thinks, "I'm gonna fix her." So for about 10 minutes he's trying to work one up. He tries so hard he craps the bed!

The wife asks, "Now what in the world was that?"

He replies, "Half time, switch sides."

HAVE A GREAT NEW YEAR!!!

Answer: In 1907 the first Times Square ball was dropped and thus began a long tradition over 100 years ago.