THE SHADOW OF HER SMILE

Every organization has a structure from top to bottom. In the Navy you have the Admiral and the guy that swabs the decks. In the army, there is the general who tells the private to dig the foxhole and get in it to sleep. In my house there is the concept of the first female admiral and the swabbing ditch digging sleeper. Guess who is what.

In don’t mind the sleeping, it’s the digging that gets me. The other day I got my orders from on high, as I have been for the past 45 years. It seems we have a situation where years ago we installed a phone service with an answering machine, and it is all there on the kitchen wall, an ugly sight of boxes and wires and a blinking light to give it some charm. TLW (The Little Woman) decided that we needed to get a new system of phones that spoke to us when it rang. Something that said: “The National Association of Homeless Telemarketers is calling” and we would know to run to the phone to answer it. Or if it was saying: “Relatives are calling for money” we would know enough to not answer.

TLW calls it ugly, I call it art

We had this wall phone that would be sacrificed for a table top home based thing with two auxiliary phones set up in our den for easy answering or ignoring as the case may be.

“Joe, I want you to design something that we can cover the ugly boxes.”

Me: “How about a cloth?”

“No, it has to look attractive. Come up with some ideas.”

To ‘help’ me along, she comes home with a “whiteboard” that one can make notes on and we would cover the area where she will be happy and I will be done.

'Home Based'

“This whiteboard needs to be put in a frame of some kind. I went to Michael’s and looked at shadow boxes. They had a chalkboard with gold filigree but that would have to be spray painted white.”

Off I go to see for myself, and as I enter Marshall’s, I notice they don’t look like they sell shadow boxes, so I call TLW.

“What’s the name of the store you want me to go into???”

“MICHAEL’S”

“Oh! OK, see you later.”

Fortunately, the stores are in close proximity to each other.  As a non-shopper un-like TLW, I think it is pretty darn good that at least I remembered the first letter in the store name.

So I enter the store with the proper name and look, listening to ladies discuss macramé projects, the fact that one lady needed a frame for her daughter’s picture who got married in May, completely ignoring the fact that I didn’t give two henweights one way or another.

At this moment I have some ideas, but they need to be practical, and do two things;

1)    Look like it belongs

2)    Make TLW happy

And so like any 71-year old husband worth his overweight, I shall rise to the change, or buy something!

By the way, a henweights about two or three pounds

THE CLARiON CALL

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It is that time of the year when multiple forces beckon us to their clarion calls. The calls are many and persistent and only last over a period of September through December.

The callers? The callers are non-other than Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years along with every four years of political suffering. (I think the word ‘suffrage’ comes from ‘suffering’).

Oh it starts easy enough, you see certain clues, and the last of your sunburn dissipates and you’ve shaken out all the sand from between your toes and underwear, as summer is put away, under the watchful eyes of Madison Avenue. Yes, those buggers who bring you back-to-back commercials with 5-minute intervals of programming.

It seems the big shopping stores like Walgreens etc., start piling the Christmas decorations and cards on display, but being multi-tasked and annoying at both, will bring you Halloween. First, you see a scary mask and crepe paper in orange and black, with corn candy and cut out ghosts, making you remember long lost relatives from your past.

But this is the time of the beginning of the Presidential debates and the messages they put on the air. After they announce what they promise they will do, what terrible things their opponents have done and include their half-truths, misleading arguments and if you are really watching closely their lies, they stamp it with their voice-over: “I’m the lying SOB and I approve this message!” Really! Now how will you get out of it???

As Halloween becomes a short term memory, Thanksgiving takes its place. The fanning turkey that you open into a three-dimensional wall or table top decoration. This brings out all the fussy housewives who now need to set their dinner table on Thanksgiving Day with matching dishes, napkin holders made of some ceramic (all of a sudden we are getting fussy here) that they will put away until next year, and of course replacing the jelly glasses with Waterford Crystal.

Then as you slice the leftovers for the following day, you hear the tingle of bells, the coming of Santa, with religious music as they force lyrics to these songs to sell you. Accompany this with: “I’m the lying SOB and I approve this message!”

Cars are sold on TV with big red bows wrapped around them as the husband surprises his wife with a new car in the driveway. This originality has been going on since Henry Ford. In fact, Henry put his Ford in the driveway on Christmas Eve in a red bow, the next morning he gave Mrs. Ford a small box holding a crank wrapped in Christmas paper. See opened the box and instinctively ran out to the driveway and said: “What the Hell is that?” It was a first after all.

But is won’t be just the Presidential candidates that will put up their messages, so will every two-bit politician who is running for office, or from the office of the DA, who will put up the immortal words: “I’m the lying SOB and I approve this message!” These words are sometimes followed months later by: “I look forward to my day in court, where I will be completely exonerated!”

So to you my friends I wish you a happy holiday season, that once again begins after Labor Day, and laboriously contends for your attention until you pass out broke, fat and drowsy on your couch from watching football all day on New Year’s Day, and the thing they call a hangover from the night before!

THE LAST GENERATION

 "I pledge allegiance

to the Flag

of the United States of America,

and to the Republic

for which it stands,

one Nation

under God,

indivisible,

with liberty and

justice for all."

In life, there are many times when we are filled with regrets. There are times we wished we had said something, or done something that would have changed the course of our personal lives and somehow we are paralyzed to change things or turn back the clock.

If you do know me, I like to recall the past, the things that filled my heart and soul and stay indelibly in my mind. I do this because so many eventful things happened that I took for granted and shouldn’t have, yet there was no other way for these events to unfold!

I talk of course of my wonderful and brave grandparents, braving the unknown, bridling their fears and with great personal sacrifice, came to America, where the streets were paved with gold, where opportunity lie and hunger did not exist so they thought.

We seem to all know the stories, all have a few we can tell, yet many of us don’t tell, either they feel inadequate to tell them or feel the next generation doesn’t care enough to hear them.

From one generation to the next

There is a “Great Generation” one that lived through the Great Depression, a great War and witnessed the world at its maddest, they are of course our parents and grandparents.  Their lives were lived by the events as they unfolded, and those lives taught us as children and grandchildren, what life was.

When I think back to my grandparents, aunts, and uncles, I recall the sounds of home. The gentleness of immigrants who fought the battles of acceptance in a foreign culture and witnessed their children enjoying the benefits. I recall so many of them gently pinching my cheek in affection, asking questions about life as I saw it, going to baptismal and traversing the family events all the way to college graduations, marriages and sadly, even deaths. They could only recall their struggles to come to make a better life that I enjoyed, their pride was my being, their testament was the scar and callouses of a hard life. I remember the look of excitement when a family met for the first time after months of separation, of laughter over dinners and the admonishment of not eating or drinking. I remember their dress, the simple dress, and habits of peasants. I remember the times when Mom cooked special just for me, and Dad came over and lent his assistance, the fawning over grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I remember the stories told about the old country and experiences on the boat that took them here, about the unfamiliarity of the culture and the funny things they did to adapt to a new one. Of aunts and uncles working on jobs, hard backbreaking and sometimes crippling jobs, jobs that fed themselves and their children, helped educate and implant the joy and honor of having a job, the pride of a man’s wealth, his family.

Our generation can to some degree attest to their sacrifices, love, and teachings, and most of all tell them to later generation, but time is running out for us! When we are gone who will know or remember? Those stories, all that were recorded will be all there is, so we will forever close the books on the greatest part of America history. I say this not only to Italian-Americans but those of Irish, Polish, Slavic, German, Asian and other extractions also.

As I write this, it tugs at my heart knowing I will never see these wonderful characters ever again. Gone are my grandparents, aunts and uncles, and parents, all with their beautiful old-world ways and expressions. I can cry for one more day with them, one more questions to ask, on more meal to spend and one more day to remember.

When they first took the pledge of allegiance to this country, they took it as they would a marriage vow, it was the marriage of simple people with a complex entity, they understood their pledge and they lived it every day. But the best thing they did with that pledge; was teaching it to the generations that followed, adding a

love of family and pride in hard work to give it meaning.

MOM THE PROPHET

Jesus was a prophet, he worked the Middle East and became famous, telling parables and making things perfectly clear with miracles and teachings that made an impression on people. They even wrote a book called the ‘New Testament' about him.

Mom was a prophet also. She didn't walk on water unless she was mopping the floors, she could turn a fish and loaf of bread on short notice if company turned up unexpectedly, and while every knee bent and head bowed at the name of Jesus, I kind of ducked and avoided Mom's wooden spoon therapy. She was an amazing teacher, going to great lengths to get a point across, usually four or five laps around the dining room table in hot pursuit, wooden spoon waving menacingly in the air, inches from my head.

Jesus reminded us of the gates of Hell, Mom reminded me of the arrival of Dad. Jesus was nicer.

But Mom's prophesizing had a prediction to it. Here are a few of her better ones.

"Wait! Just wait until your father comes home."

"Wait, just wait until YOU have kids!" She was big on waiting.

"What, do I look like I belong to the Lighting company? Shut all these lights!"

"You are going to make me bust!"

"How much butter are you putting on that toast?  A whole pound of butter???"

"Whoa, stop wasting, what am I made of money?"

"Mom, how come we don't go on vacation more?"
Mom: You want a vacation? Leave me alone.

Mom was a very good money manager; "Joseph, go ask your father for some money for the collection, we leave for church soon."

Being a church goer, Mom made me one at the tender age of 6. She had two hands and I had two ears, and so off we went, ear in hand to church. One Sunday Mom ordered me to go to Dad, wake him up and tell him I needed money for the church. Dad gave me two nickels and off to church I went, ear in hand with Mom. Mom had a pious look akin to Mother Teresa, without the nice, if she detected an infraction upon her world order, someone paid me! I decided one Sunday after I shook down my dad for the two nickels, I would substitute the nickels with 2 silver buttons. This was a mistake, especially when it came to money for Jesus. Since I had an eye on spending the two nickels on something to eat, the usher showed up, stuck his bamboo basket under my nose and so I released the first of my buttons. Mom watched but said nothing. The second collection came along, and just like the first, I released the other button, right under Mom's nose and once again, she said nothing. In fact, she said nothing all the way home, in spite of my willingness to initiate conversations. That all ended on the third floor in front of our apartment door, where I was dragged inside and reminded all day long that, maybe it wasn't such a good idea!

But the best thing she ever gave me was her love. She felt that I should be better than I was, she had faith in the idea and strongly enforced that concept. Later in years, I realized what she was telling me was I needed to be there for others someday, especially my children, to give them a good example and lead the ay by discipline and example. So I never gave MY kids 2 nickels!

I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND IT.

Really.

Have you ever decided to kill a few moments of time, you would put on the TV and say just have a sandwich and when you are done eating, turn it off? So what happens? You turn on the TV, and there you have it, commercials, stupid, lousy commercials, commercials enough to occupy the time to eat the sandwich! How annoying. Then if you dare to change the channel, you only get more commercials.

The other day I was out in my yard and trimming some hedges, and pulling some weeds. Spending a lot of time out there, I started to get tired and decided I would clean up, so to give my back a break before I broke it. I reach down for a clipping to put in the leaf bag, and I drop it, causing my back to ache, so I reach down again and what do I do? I drop it again, like an outfielder kicking a ball he should have corralled to toss into second base.

Why is it my timing's so bad? Ever drive down a narrow road, where the residents park on both sides of the street when they have empty driveways and sure enough as you pass through parked cars, another car is coming and racing to get by before you do, causing both cars to squeak by?

You sit down for dinner, that prized time you look forward to and take one bite, or even two and the phone rings. You are on the ‘Do not call list', you know: the one every Telemarketer ignores. So you answer the phone and no one answers on the other end.

It's a great TV show, filled with suspense and drama, and real nifty who done it, when a crucial part comes on and the phone rings, and it's someone you know and like, and won't be rude to, so you miss the meat of the show, and with it a small temporary hatred for the party who called.

I bought a new car, and a new laptop, neither one is to my satisfaction. Why? Because the morons who designed them tried to make them do too much! My laptop will not function unless I do the same step three times as if I put pressure on the pallet, it does one thing, try again and it does another, but still not what I want. The company put in programs that make me nuts because they are doing foreign things I don't even want! The car? Well the SOB who designed that was working for the laptop company as a night time job, doing the same damned thing, there are so many buttons that I haven't even a clue anymore what the Hell it all means! It reminds me of the many programs I needed to learn when I was working. You learn just enough to get by, and so much remains a mystery.

My I-phone? Glad you asked. God forbid I should ever get caught in the situation where I’m making a call and another one is coming in, first I will panic, then get brain freeze, and finally figure it out enough to fix things, I accidentally hit the wrong buttons, causing an alarm of sorts in my shorts.

Really.

DOESN’T ANYONE DO TEA ANYMORE?

Today I decided on the spur of the moment to go to the gym and get a little workout. It is nearby, convenient and sometimes all the equipment works at once! I go to Retro Fitness, a brand that is established all over the US, so everywhere I go in the US, just doesn’t happen to have one. This is good, it is a good excuse to not workout and sweat.

Years ago, when I was still working, I used to get up at 4:00 AM to go to Extreme Fitness, which at that hour felt like extreme torture. When I started to fall asleep before I got to work driving, I realized it wasn’t working out so I stopped. I liked to get my naps in at work in those days because my office chair was comfortable.

Here I am with one of those girls, only the latest and best equipment.

So today as I enter the chamber of sweat and pain, what do I see? Why every young man of high school and college age working out, middle-aged men pumping iron and old men, just resting on the equipment. These old guys are obviously married and their wives are at home, so they need somewhere to go until bedtime.

My question to you is: WHAT THE HELL ARE ALL THESE YOUNG PEOPLE AND MIDDLE-AGED DOING THERE IN THE FIRST PLACE AT 1:30 IN THE AFTERNOON? Is unemployment that bad? Are there no schools in session? Are the shelters so overcrowded? Are there that many wives at home?

The young college and/or high school kids’ workout in pairs, that is; one watches and one does the workout and tells his partner how it is going. This cuts down on the logjam on the equipment. The middle-aged guys build muscle and show off tattoos, running from one piece of equipment to another, and running seems to be part of the routine. But the old guys? Well, grandpa seems to be just fine, resting his ass on one piece of equipment while his buddy sits and rests on another piece of cardio salvation. And what are they talking about? COOKING! Yes, the steak they made, the broccoli rabe they sautéed and just about the precise amount of garlic they still have left over after they submerged the broccoli in it.

But the answer to my own question might be right in front of my nose. (That entails considerable distance!) Young ladies! Yes, the ones in the tight spandex and I-phone with long hair. She goes from one piece of equipment to the next, walking like a runway model, pretending she doesn’t notice the stares and drooling about her. She does not look one in the eye, but her manner says, look at me, aren’t I beautiful, now go home to your cranky wife and dream! I personally don’t stare, but I’ve been told by others.

JUST A WORD OR TWO IF I MAY

Recently we have all heard of the refusal of a certain NFL quarterback from San Francisco to stand during the National Anthem. Although he has legitimate complaints, his anger seems to be misdirected at the wrong source.

Black Lives Matter is a truism, they do matter, they should. But the killing of people, black people in this case particularly, and the unpunished police who do the murdering should be brought to justice, disrespecting the flag is not how it is done, however.

As a nation, we are imperfect, that is what makes us great. Our imperfections are noted, and the process, sometimes long, begins to rectify the wrongs. We protest freely, we advocate openly, seeking change. We are who we are because of our process, which is owned by the people and not the government.

The fact is that America is aware of the problems, we take note and through the court, Congress, and local governments to rectify the ills that we face. Our government allows us to do this, it gives us the tools and support to make the differences needed to effect change. It is the reason men and women died, fighting for our country, under that same star spangled banner.

This quarterback has made untold millions in contracts and endorsements, in the very country he disrespected, he should re-evaluate his stance and maybe if he is not happy here, find another place that is better and will make him a better life, one that is perfect. Good luck looking for it.

GETTING OLD OR OLDER!

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We all know the facts, simply stated, we will get older. The important thing is that we do it right. Right?

Let’s face it, if we were asked to leave say, a restaurant, we would want to maintain as much personal dignity as possible, so when we get the boot or escorted by the bouncer, we look good doing it.

But being older is not all bad, here are some interesting quirks you get.

• Eyes won’t get much worst

That’s right, you now can perfect your squint!

• No one will kidnap you

Who wants you? You would only slow them down, make them repeat themselves louder, and stop at the minimum 3 toilets every hour.

• You get released first in a hostage situation

Just the time you take, clearing your throat, blowing your noses and passing air would disrupt the crisis situation, giving your host a deep need to throw you out the door!

• Your hypochondria is acceptable behavior

People will now respect the fact that you own all those medication bottles.

• You can eat dinner at 3:00 PM

Not only can you have the ‘Early Bird Special’, you can call him down from his tree.

• You can go to bed at 4:00 PM

Damn Daylight Savings Time, a yawn is a yawn, and you need the sleep before you do die.

• People who call at 7:00 PM asking if they awakened you

It is annoying, waking you up from your favorite TV show, so just for spite, you tell them: ‘No!’

• You check with your arthritis when you want to know if you need an umbrella

It’s reliable and more accurate that the National Weather Service.

• You can live without sex, but not your afternoon nap, or glasses

You need your glasses so it looks like you are doing something important between naps

• Your investment in health insurance is really paying off now.

Reference all your medicine bottles, your days out on ‘Road Trips’ to the doctor’s office.

• Your conversations shift from school taxes to operations

Exaggerations getting sympathy, sympathy begets envy, and when you piss off everyone with your stories, next time they will not interrupt your nap.

• You sing along (out loud) with the elevator music

This leaves for embarrassing moments, causing people to leave on a lower floor, leaving you to finish the song with a flair AND fart in peace.

• Your secrets are safe with friends because they can’t remember them either.

What?

• There’s nothing left to learn the hard way.

You’ve learned it all and screwed it all up already, now you just look back and enjoy the memories.

• You can’t remember why you came into the room where you are reading this.

This is just a pre-cursor to nap time, no point worrying about what you can’t remember.

And so with driving at your own pace, leaving your left-hand turn signal on, leaving your basket in the middle of the aisle so no one can get by, and the soon to be secret writing we will communicate in because no one is teaching cursive anymore to the young ‘uns, we have our benefits to getting old.

LET’S LOBSTER ROLL

The other day my wife said she was out to lunch and decided to go to Panera’s for a sandwich. As she approached the counter she saw a sign for a lobster roll and decided she wanted one. Then she looked at the price and decided she would have a sandwich and a bowl of soup instead. She denied herself as the adult came out of her.

 So many times in our lives we all do such a thing as want something then turn it down for reasons such as price, calories, or distance. We deny ourselves as the adult comes out of us. I had just relayed to her how I had this hankering for Nathan’s hot dog and went out and had two, with fries. I ran through the checklist of why I shouldn’t have it, and discovered my checklist for having it was better in terms of acceptable reasoning!

As she was telling me her Panera story, I reminded her of the fact that the days we spend on this Earth are passed, and in the end what do we have to remember them by? We personally have spent so many days in the past with sadness, things we wish had never happened. To think I would pass up a chance at a Nathan’s because that is what I think I should do is silly. I reminded her that the lobster roll is only a just reward for her days gone by, days that gave us sadness and despair: a child dying on us and one living in a home because of the way she was born. We weathered the storms of our other two sons and found out along the way that life is not fair. I saw my family shrivel from discord and a whole history is wiped away, except for the memories.

So why would anyone deny themselves a pleasure once-in-a-while? Yesterday is gone, there is no replaying it, but at least remember it in some kind of pleasure filled way.

LET ME SHOW YOU, DADDY.

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJxrX42WcjQ

My oldest child is developmentally disabled. For 44 years of her life, I tried to find meaning to it and the unfortunate events that led to this sad conviction. She is a loving person, simple in her ways and doesn’t ask for much. Her family loves her, protects her and only hopes and works for her life to be filled with happiness. She doesn’t speak or have the ability for much reason, even though the reasoning in this world needs some explanation. But Ellen is special, and when I first heard that phrase, I didn’t believe, after all, what is special about a person who can’t talk, reason or even toilet? So many days I sat and wondered what would be the point of a life like hers? Who would ever need her, who would ever care? I joined an organization over 25 years ago, to support it to help me give to my daughter because I could never do for her what she needed in her life, and someday my wife and I would no longer be here for her.

When I am down and oh my soul so weary,

When troubles come and my heart burdened be.

Then I am still and wait here in the silence,

Until you come and sit awhile with me.

Then the unexplainable occurred, for no apparent reason, I got a call from Ellen’s home, telling me that Ellen had broken her leg, accidentally, and without any real reason that anyone knew! Would I come down to the emergency room at the local hospital? She was admitted and an exterior fixator was applied to her right leg, from the knee to her ankle, and in all that time she never complained or whimpered, just took the events in a resigned stride! She was put in a rehab center that was awful, then back to the hospital for a rod that was inserted into her leg. The surgeon wanted to release her back to the same nursing home and I wouldn’t have it, instead along with help from the agency, AHRC Suffolk, we managed to get her admitted into one of the finest there is, which led to the strangest of events, so little I knew.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains,

You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas.

I am strong when I am on your shoulders,

You raise me up, to more than I can be.

In the process of Ellen’s rehab was a woman, maybe in her 50’s who sat in a wheelchair all day without moving. Stephanie was a sweet woman who had no family, or friends and became attached to Ellen. I asked her if she had anyone who came to visit her and she said: No, no one comes.” As I was leaving one day I asked her if she would like to have me read to her when I visit my daughter, and her face lit up, suddenly there was more than just a gentle smile on her face. She was excited and eager. I asked if she got out much, into the courtyard and she then pulled the blanket away from her lap and revealed that she had no legs.

As Ellen progressed, it was time to leave the rehab center for home and told Stephanie.

One arm sits at Stephanie’s side, a mere appendage with no function left, and the other arm her only source of control of her body and the punitive world around her. I told Stephanie that although I would not see her every day, I would come by at least once a week and continue to read to her. Her eyes started to water and she reached out her hand and said: “YOU would do that for me?!” I said that I would see her soon. I wondered if she believed me. I did.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains,

You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas.

I am strong when I am on your shoulders,

You raise me up, to more than I can be.

Every Wednesday for the next few weeks, I visited her to read, and then we would put the book down and just talk. I asked her what happened to her that she was in the rehab center. In a very soft voice, she related how one Sunday she and her husband were driving to church when they were involved in a horrific crash. Over the course of 5 days, she lost each one of her legs and her husband, she had nothing else in this world. Her long-term memory was gone she didn’t even remember her parent’s names or her husbands. But as we spoke, I continued to try to ply her memory of those items locked away. Slowly she was beginning to remember things, names, and places, even jobs people held. She seemed a little happier with each visit. Then one day she told me of a wish she had, to have a prayer book from the Russian Orthodox Church. I said I would try to find one, went home and told my wife who immediately went online, and ordered one.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains,

You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas.

I am strong when I am on your shoulders,

You raise me up, to more than I can be.

The following week I couldn’t find her anywhere that day when I went to visit and was directed to her bedroom, where I found her asleep in her bed, so I left the prayer book on her serving tray and as I was leaving a nurse came in and woke her, so I returned to her bedside. She was pale, hardly able to open her eyes and her voice was weak and very low. It pained her to see me and so I said I had her prayer book and would leave it for her, as the nurse inserted some kind of reader contraption onto the point of her index finger.

I left very apprehensive and felt that maybe the end was near.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains,

You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas.

I am strong when I am on your shoulders,

You raise me up, to more than I can be.

The next week I decided to return, thinking I would call first to get a heads up on her condition. I called the rehab facility and after repeated attempts by the operator, and receptionist I could not get through. So I decided to just go and see for myself how she was. Getting off the elevator at the rehab center and said hello to one nurse I knew, and then turned the corner and started toward her room, down a long corridor, which houses the nurse's station at the end of it. As I approached, I notice the nurses who knew me were watching me as I came toward them, conferring like something was going on. As I passed my friends room, her name was no longer there and though maybe they moved her. But the nurses gathered together and came up to me, it was then I knew my friend had passed, just as I feared. I truly hope that she got a chance to read her prayer book, that it gave her some solace in her final hours, maybe it was what she needed and this was God’s way to give someone who has suffered greatly in her past, without friends or family a chance to find comfort. Maybe my daughter’s broken leg was for a reason, without my daughter in that rehab to recover, my friend would not have met me, and I would not have gotten her a prayer book she wished she had, something she requested prior to her last days and my last reading.

Somewhere up in Heaven she sits, not without legs or use of her arms, but with a spirit that rests from the turmoil and tragedy of her past. She is now an equal to all who have past. Small in stature: never diminutive in heart, but with her soul and spirit now who she is, like all of us will someday be!

From that day onward, I understood, what was happening was Ellen was teaching me, to understand that life is not centered around me, or even her, but by a higher authority than I realized! Because of Ellen, I got to meet and help people, to make wonderful friends and to appreciate my own life better, that no matter how bad it gets for me, I’m still needed and so I can’t quit on myself, or most importantly, them!

You raise me up, to more than I can be.

WHAT WAS IT LIKE?

Over the years I have read about the Italian-American experience, and particularly the coming to American by our forbearers. I have read and seen movies heard eye-witness accounts of the process of immigration and the heroic accounts of crossing the ocean and entering through Ellis Island, where most of our ancestor’s footprints marked the soil for those of us who followed.

But in spite of the reading, comments, and movies, there is still something missing for me, WHAT WAS IT LIKE, WHAT FEELINGS WERE CONJURED UP in the people who entered our shores, and gave us the right to say: “Our shores”?

Crossing that ocean, with its wide expanse, the countless hours of the horizon, that offered a new world, faceless as one waited to see the Statue of Liberty appear for the first time, could only satisfy my imagination through what I feel, not what I know.

What was in the heart when the horizon yielded the lonely profile of Lady Liberty? Was it curiosity or excitement, was it the feeling of dread to face the unknown, or resolve to make a new life? What were the sense of anticipation as the ship docked and the landscape behind the water’s edge, promised a large city, so grand, so bursting with energy it set the tone and pattern for the rest of one’s life?

And the process itself? Being on a line to have your body examined, your passport scrutinized and your being certified? And when it was done, all the questions asked, the paperwork in order, and the physicals over, and the immigration officials tell you to step forward through the doors of freedom for the first time, what was that like?

Ellis Island is sacred soil, it is the story and truth of America, it is the living testament that America with all that is right and wrong with it, is still the greatest country in the world, be it said in English, Italian, Spanish or through the eyes of the Christian and Muslim worlds that survive and thrive because we guarantee their existence. The proudest reason of why I am an American is because my grandparents, who taught us the right things to say and do, the respect for and love of the country they adopted also; choose this wonderful land.

LA FAMIGLIA

We as Americans have seen these words, ‘La Famiglia' and when we do we conjure up a dark world of gangsters and crime, racketeering and extortion, and yes, even murder. The words are associated with the Mafia, a very ugly time for the pride of Italian-Americans.

But if you are an Italian-American living in Brooklyn in the 1950's, it has an all-together different meaning when you thought ‘La Familia'.

As I sat one night with Dad, watching our small screen black and white TV, an Olympic, the Brooklyn Dodgers were playing a game, and at bat was Carl Furillo, a wonderful outfielder for ‘Dem Bums" with a rifle arm who no one dared run on. Dad leaned over and said: "That's Carl Furillo, an Italian boy!" There was a stated pride in Dad's words, he was demonstrating pride to be Italian and was letting me know about.

Dad's pride awakened in me the awareness that Italian-Americans were just claiming their place in America, working the blue-collar jobs and menial tasks that needed to be done before America could step forward in the post-war world. Their struggle of overcoming language barriers, class distinction and the prejudice caused by ignorance was the very struggle to escape the cocoon of isolation every ethnic group faces. If you remember another great Brooklyn Dodger:  Jackie Robinson and the pride of Black People as they filled the stadiums to watch one of their own play, breaking down barriers, then you can understand the Italian pride. There was Joe DiMaggio who made our emergence completely recognized as an entity with his wonderful heroics on the field, and the many Italian crooners that grace the world of popular music of the time. We were making a name for ourselves in our own country! There was Primo Carnera and Rocky Marciano, as well as many others that helped build the acceptance needed to be recognized as one of America's own!

But getting back to the Mafia, the Cosa Nostra was just a dark and evil extension of the Italian mindset of ‘Family', being of our own or from the same family. If you were Italian in an American world, you were family, it didn't matter if you were Neapolitan, Sicilian or Romano, you were a brother or sister, and if you had a business, a profession or not, you almost automatically got support from your "Own kind." It was the very thing that kept immigrants together in the same neighborhoods, and who reluctantly sent their children off to fight wars, go to college or just leave the hood to find their own way as second generation Americans first.

There lived on the bottom floor in my apartment, a family that had three children. The second oldest, a boy went off to college to study, and as he would return home from his studies in NYC as an engineer, left me in awe! He was going to college, that far-away place where the highest esteem was bestowed upon one for his attendance. To the Italian-American, his status as a student filled one's heart and made it swell, he was educating himself, he would go far, just the many other "Medicanos" that filled this country.

Grandma had many visitors to her house, non-family members who knew her from her church or charitable work she performed, as well as neighbors. When they came to her kitchen, they were greeted like family, gushing out in Italian, both verbally and manually, they emoted their joy in seeing one another. They sat down without being asked, ate acceptingly, and drank coffee or a little wine, to finish off the visit, just like any family member. Are you Italian? You are family too!

Inter-marriage was an event to be adjusted to No, not for Italians, for those who were not Italian but daring enough to marry one! You were assimilated immediately, like a treasured sister or brother, you were regarded as untouchable, you had married one of us, that was our honor and we loved you for it, you were family!

GYM RAT

Most mornings I get up I go to the gym to work out a little. At 71, I have lost my vigor for doing anything but sitting or lying down. I once went to my cardiologist and he asked me if I exercised. My response was measured carefully: “Yes, I go up and down the stairs in my house a few times a day!” I figured you have to count moving, climbing and going down steps as exercise. My cardiologist, a young whipper-snapper replied: “I’ll take that as a no.”

Looking at the clock in the darkness of morning, and thinking about getting up, getting my gym gear on and driving to the gym to torture myself is not something I do with relish. I’m a peaceful man, I don’t hurt anyone, so why do I hurt myself? This torture and self-abuse will take its toll, once I stop, because who the Hell wants to exercise on the day they die, the time could be better spent napping, segueing into a peaceful death without changing positions!

Approaching the gym in the early hours of the morning, there is no one on the roads, yet I can’t find a parking space at the gym, but someone is either leaving on their own or being carried away so spaces do open up.

Entering the gym is another story since I must use a scanning device to scan my I-phone for entrance and credit. The problem is the scanner. Like the lady who lives in the supermarket self-checkout, doesn’t get along with me, I pass the damned phone, once, twice and three times, think it is scanned and start to walk off, but the young woman behind the counter gets my attention and shakes her head: No! I try one more time and finally get a nod to go on.

Oh Lord, why can’t my scanning be like everyone else’s? Why do you torture me before I even torture myself?

I do have ‘Gym gear’ as they say. It consists of a black bag that carried my towel, I sweat a lot, a bottle of water, I drink a lot and a place to hold: car keys, wallet, I-phone, workout gloves, and lock for a locker. There is one other item I carry, a small zip case for my hearing aids. Before I start my routine I put my hearing aids in the small zip case so I don’t sweat into the aids causing water on the hearing aids, and rather an expensive disease to cure. There is no pain in the ear from the disease but the wallet needs life support once it occurs!

Now the locker has to be #33, it is a perfect locker for position to the toilet or showers, the overhead TV and like Dr. Sheldon Cooper’s spot, the perfect combination of crosswinds and drafts. I am a creature of habit. If someone is occupying the locker ahead of me, I wish the worst possible scenario on the sob, loss of his scanning ability and technique.

The gym floor is another issue. Past the gym floor is a room that you step down into and there you will find an array of treadmills, step, and full-body workout equipment, under a large movie screen, where you work out and view the daily movie. The movie helps me pass the time away, as I tread on the mill for too long a time. But of the four treadmills there, I like number three, and if it is occupied by some sob before me, I wish the worst possible scenario on the sob, loss of his scanning ability and technique.

Done milling about, I head up into the gym floor, where there is one piece of equipment I particularly need to complete my mission. There is a abs cruncher that you sit and with the arms you force down and hold for a second then raise up, doing this 15 times each, in three sets. If it is occupied by some sob before me, I wish the worst possible scenario on the sob, loss of his scanning ability and technique.

There are others on the floor, people who look like they stuffed their arms to look menacing, strutting around after a set of the dumb bells or resistance hardware, women who are past their prime and still want to look attractive (some are and I appreciate it at that hour) and of course, the old coots like me. Most old coots come to the gym in shorts and sneakers, with black socks, it’s a trend I just can’t seem to adopt just yet!

As I leave the gym, there is a flight of stairs ahead of me, 21 steps that I challenge myself to by not holding the handrail, climbing. With the lack of oxygen to my brain and breath in my lungs from the workout, I meet the challenge, swaying at the top of the landing, watching the parking lot outside shimmy in the early sunrise.

THE FUNERAL

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Never let it fade away
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Save it for a rainy day

It was 1956, and the hit song was ‘Catch A Falling Star’ by Perry Como, and the world was about to change for me. As I was getting adjusted to my new home away from Brooklyn, we got the news that Grandpa Ralph had died.

For love may come and tap you on the shoulder
Some starless night
Just in case you feel you wanna hold her
You'll have a pocket full of starlight

It seemed like the end of an era, how would we ever go on without Grandpa? He never said much but he was always there, for Grandma and for us, a quiet old world man who made his own wine and vinegar, had a phenomenal garden and loved his Francesca. My thoughts went to my grandmother and how sad she must be right now. Dad had a solemn face and I could see him looking back over the years as a child and young man, remembering his dad, and he was doing it through his eyes.

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Never let it fade away
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Save it for a rainy day

It was a cold January morning, and Dad decided he must go out to see grandma immediately, so left us to ourselves with instructions to be ready when he got back, so we could all gather together to go to Brooklyn. When it was time for us to leave, I remember becoming a little nervous, apprehensive and even reluctant to want to go to see Grandpa dead in a coffin. My experience was somewhat limited when it came to the dead. As a second grader, I went to the funeral of my 1st-grade teacher, a very cranky mean old lady, and with my sister, on our way home from school, stopped at the local funeral parlor to view her remains and make sure she was dead. I remember being overtaken by the odor of flowers, as I entered the room and seeing a sea of people and then the open casket. It stopped me short, almost paralyzing me as I looked on. Whenever I smell cut flowers, I think of funerals to this day.

For love may come and tap you on the shoulder
Some starless night
And just in case you feel you wanna hold her
You'll have a pocket full of starlight (pocket full of starlight)

When we arrived at Grandma’s house, I noticed something was different in the storefront, the windows were closed off, so you couldn’t view anything from the street. When we got inside I found out why. Grandpa was in the store, the place where he spent all his time working, he now was working even in death.

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Never let it fade away
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Save it for a rainy day

Laid out at the front door was the coffin, and grandpa was in it! Instead of a funeral parlor, Grandpa, who always wanted to die at home, did, and stayed there! But instead of bins of gifts and shelves lined with items, all that was removed and instead, I see sconces on the wall, a drape covering the front of the storefront and is the backdrop for the coffin. There’s a cross hanging from the curtain over Grandpa and rows of chairs facing the coffin. I asked Dad why the chairs are there and he says to me that the chairs were for people to view Grandpa. Being a stupid kid, I asked: “What’s he gonna do???”

For when your troubles start multiplyin'
They just might
It's easy to forget them without tryin'
With just a pocket full of starlight

Then the sadness sunk in, people, relatives and friends of Grandpa and Grandma came by, mostly old blue collar Italians from the hood. Some came and looked in the coffin with quiet curiosity and respect, some holding their hats in hand, some even placing a hand on the coffin edge for a moment before crossing themselves and turning away.

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Never let it fade away
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Save it for a rainy day

And so the beginning of the rest of my life began, with the realization that we will all end up the same way, not any better or worse, just the same… dead. The time to catch a fallen star is when you are alive and can, and save it for a rainy day, hopefully not the last one.

LORD OF THE FLIES OR SUPERFLY!

If you recall back in the spring, my war with the bird, how utterly defeated I was until the damned bird moved on. For three months the damned bird kept flying into my window, and no matter what I did, it would come the next day and do it all over again. Sitting on a perch outside my dining room window, it would constantly fly into the same spot, from dawn to dusk, nothing would prevent this occurrence. My wife and I both looked on the Internet for guidance, and I followed suggestions, one of which was to scribble with soap on the window, I was so drastic as to write a note in soap telling it to go away!

If the bird wasn’t picking on me, a rabbit was or maybe it was a bunny, every day taunting me to the point that I was chasing it off my lawn, and every day it came back, stared me down and watched as I tried to sneak up and strangle it. As I got close enough to reach it, it somehow evaded my grasp, mocking my attempts.

Now it is the flies that bother me. Just one fly, one so smart that it is intentionally getting my attention and annoying me. He shows up, starting in the heat wave when the humidity is at its peak, buzzing my head and glancing my arm or hand or face and managing to fly out of reach. When I think I have it cornered, it takes off and I lose it in the backdrop. This fly is no ordinary fly, no sir. After repeated attempts on its life with a bug spray to kill flies, it just flies away through the mist. I even started to plan how far I should be from the fly before spraying! But near or far, the fly just flies through the blast, making me frustrated and angry. To add insult to injury, it once landed on top of the bug spray that was next to my recliner, rendering me helpless and frustrated to do anything about it!

I guess I have to throw out all conventional ways of killing it and try some kind of trap, and once it does leave or die, what’s next?

THE WALL OF FRAME

Every house should have one, a place that helps summarize a family’s existence and depot of memories of days long gone by. In my home we have one such place: The Wall of Frame, it is the story of love and remembrance and the reminder of space still open for pictures, that life goes on.
As I gaze upon the wall, it takes me back to both good times and bad, and the aftermath of both, it is reliving all that is dear to me and my wife. It chronicles graphically the lives of our children and the moments of achievement in their lives.

There were days when I was working, places and events when I directed photo shoots for my companies, days of ancient history, my wife and I having our baby pictures and of course all the good things that happened to our children: milestones and markers of joy.

On the Wall of Frame is a picture of one of my sons, and it is taken during the Christmas season, and during that time my next oldest son lay sick in a hospital, and within a month would pass away. To liven my son’s joy for the season, I was playing old Italian-American songs by Lou Monte: “Its Christmas At Our House”, where we substituted words that related to our family, and it made the kid very happy, taking off his mind the awful realities of life as he was facing them. There is a picture, months afterward, when we were still a little shocked over the death of a child, that with family members we decided to go to Disney World in Florida to wash away some of the tear stains.

There are pictures of my youngest in a tuxedo for his High School Graduation and his First Holy Communion clothes, making for a very handsome young man in both cases. And there is a picture of my daughter, sitting with great expression and looking out into the world with a sophistication of a young adult. There is a new wall devoted to our oldest son's family, one that features my gorgeous daughter-in-law and her equally gorgeous daughter, my granddaughter, Courtney and Darby Shea!

We even have a photo of my two sons with the New York Mets General Manager, Sandy Alderson, on a side street in Chicago outside of Wrigley Field. And we even have celebrities on the wall, but the biggest celebrities are our kids and the beautiful memories of days gone by.
posted by Joseph Del Broccolo