Uncle Mike: 1923-2013

Started the new year with the sad news that my Uncle Mike passed away. He would have turned 90 this May. Michael was my mother's younger brother and the last of the children born to Pasquale and Katerina Camardi. I recall seeing the sweetest photo of Mom and her brother, her in a white dress and him in a white suit, taken at the 1939 New York World's Fair. He was a cool character blessed with dark good looks complete with a pencil-thin mustache that he wore all his life. I remember at our Christmas and New Year's Eve family parties when he was still single he would always show up with a lovely girl on his arm to spend some time with the family before going off for the evening's entertainment. 

As a young man, Uncle Mike liked living large, even when his income didn't support it. He always dressed impeccably and carried himself like an Italian Count. He drove nice cars and went to nice places despite a less than stable financial foundation. I remember overhearing the family discussing his lavish (to them) lifestyle and his reluctance to put his nose to the grindstone and settle down with a nice Italian girl. Once he borrowed my mother's movie projector to show some films at a bachelor party. In with the projector was a reel of old film of my parents wedding, a gift from Negri's Furniture, a neighborhood store that filmed your nuptials if you bought furniture there. Sadly the film was lost and Uncle Mike was in my mom's doghouse for a long time. I can't blame her; I'd give a lot to still have that rare film of my folks.


In his 30's Uncle Mike was seriously dating a girl named Ella. She was pretty, vivacious and got on famously with the family. We thought for sure that this was "the one". The next thing we knew there was an engagement announcement, but Ella was not the lucky girl. Uncle Mike had met an attorney named Lola (whatever Lola wants, Lola gets) and decided to marry her. Her family was well off and apparently happy to have Mike in the fold. I remember going to their wedding. It was probably the first "catered affair" I had ever attended (photo left) where dinner was served by waiters instead of the football weddings we were used to. It was nothing like the elaborate weddings of today, but for poor Brooklyn Italians, it was "tre elegante".

The marriage turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to Mike. Aunt Lola was a smart, ambitious woman who would never tolerate a lay-about husband. With her prodding and connections, Uncle Mike crashed the business world and became a purchasing agent for a trucking company. From these humble beginnings he rose steadily in the company, apparently having a natural gift for schmoozing and a good business sense. He worked for many years until finally retiring when he was around 80! Grandma and Grandpa would have been proud to see their son, over whose future they had so needlessly fretted, become a real force in the business community. Uncle Mike also adopted a son, Michael, from Lola's previous marriage, who turned out to be a successful doctor with a practice in Virginia.

A few years ago I was compiling a family history, and Uncle Mike was kind enough to share his written recollections of the old days on Hull Street. There were some lovely details about my grandparents' early lives and Mike's sisters including my mother that I was able to share with my children. There will be a small service this Thursday in Roslyn Heights where Uncle Mike lived. Most of our remaining family members are no longer living in New York, so my sister and I will go to represent the family. I will celebrate Mike's life and remember him as he would wish to be remembered...a guy who loved life and squeezed all he could out of it.

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Old School

Sad to say, but "old school" is in decline. Some might think this is a good thing, but it's not. To me, when you say someone is "old school", that isn't a pejorative but rather the highest compliment that can be paid. Old school means doing things the right way, even when it may not be fashionable. Old school means having principles and sticking by them. It means no shortcuts, not being afraid to follow your conscience, not worrying about being popular, and no apologies. Old schoolers believe in family, God and country. They believe in education for its own sake. Hard work is what they know, and they are not tolerant of laziness. They are respectful and polite to others in an increasingly hostile world.

I grew up in an old school world where there was little tolerance for self-pity and no professional victims who blamed everyone for their problems except themselves. If you wanted to eat and have a roof over your head, you worked. As I think back, many of the jobs people did were hard. There were still ice boxes around in those days. Before electric refrigeration people used wooden boxes that held blocks of ice to keep food from spoiling. These blocks were delivered by muscular men who drove trucks and delivered the ice blocks from the ice house to their destinations. I remember they wore burlap sacks over the shoulder onto which they hefted the heavy blocks using a large metal pincers. Oftentimes they delivered to second or third floor apartments. The work was brutal, but they did it with dignity. This is how they fed their families. They were old school.

For many neighborhood people, education was something of a luxury. They had to quit school and go to work to help out the family. It's no wonder that they vowed their kids would not suffer the same fate. Many dipped into meager incomes and found the few dollars to send their children to parochial schools. Others relied on the public schools which were exceptional in those days. Kids were encouraged to learn and parents allowed the schools to do their jobs without the incessant interference teachers must put up with today. At graduations, you would see these old school parents bursting with pride as their sons or daughters received their diplomas. Having a college grad in the family was almost unheard of. For them, an education was everything. They were old school.

Being poor was no excuse for being rude. There were standards, and people abided by them. You respected your mother and father, not only because the ten commandments required it but because it was the right thing to do. You respected elders and people in authority like policemen, clergymen and teachers. Men held doors for women; young people gave up their seats on the bus to older people; profanity in mixed company was looked down on; manners were actually something we cared about. I remember learning things in school like how to make a proper social introduction, how to act at the dinner table; not to stare at people who were different; and how the words "please", "sorry", and thank you" could take you a long way in this world. Courtesy is old school.

Clearly attitudes about things like work, education, and family have changed over the years. I see kids saying things to their parents and teachers that would have got me a wooden spoon upside my head. I see punks taunting cops and the cops bending over backwards to avoid responding. An old school cop would have planted his foot in someone's ass and administered a much needed lesson. Teachers get hassled by bratty kids with no manners and no fear of reprisals because they know Mommy will back them up. Bullies electronically terrorize the odd kid out until the poor kid does something to himself or someone else. This is the world we live in and I think we are all worse off for it. We could use a little "old school" to turn things around.

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Crumbs

Sometimes thoughts come into my head about things I remember from growing up in the Fifties, but they're not substantial enough to devote an entire blog to. (Sorry about ending that sentence with a preposition; Miss Baumann would be horrified.) There is no rhyme or reason to these random recollections, still, I wanted to share them, like breadcrumbs being cleaned off the table cloth with one of those fancy silver restaurant sweepers that adds ten bucks to the price of your meal. 

My church, Our Lady of Lourdes in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn, used to ring the "Angelus Bell" every day. The Angelus Domini, shortened to "the Angelus," is the ringing of the church bell -- in three groups of three chimes with a pause in between each group, followed by 9 consecutive strokes -- and its associated prayers, which spring from the old monastic practice of praying at the sound of the Angelus Bell. As Catholic school kids we were instructed  to stop what we were doing wherever we were and say 3 Hail Marys in honor of the Incarnation. As we got older it became harder to follow this practice for fear of being teased (or worse) by our jeering friends. Only those guys who were very religious and very tough continued to pray unmolested.

One of man's cleverest creations was the wooden desk that school children sat at. (Sorry again Miss Baumann.) These marvels featured a writing surface complete with an inkwell (yes Virginia, we used real ink and plastic quill pens) and a carved-out notch where you could rest a pencil or pen without it rolling down the slanted desktop. There was a shelf under the desktop for storing books that kept them accessible, yet neatly out of sight. Also built in was a wooden bench that could be folded up to facilitate getting in and out of your seat. The final touch of genius was the way these units were bolted together so that the backrest of each seat supported the desk behind it. They were assembled in rows of maybe 10 desks, and served many generations of Lourdes boys in their white shirts and blue ties.

Street kids had a definite pecking order. At the bottom were kids who were hopeless at sports or who had some distinguishing characteristic like a lisp, a stutter or eyeglasses that could be made fun of. (See previous Miss Baumann apologies.) . In the middle were kids who could play sports passably and knew enough about their limitations to not press their small advantage. The alpha boys excelled at sports and usually were chosen first when games were played. There were also guys who were good with their fists who, regardless of their sports prowess, found their way into the upper echelon just because those who might disagree with them didn't like getting beat up. I sometimes wonder how many of the bookish, bottom-tier kids wound up as corporate CEOs making ten times more than the alphas now working many levels below them. Karma is a bitch.
  
For me, the ultimate candy store treat was an ice cold egg cream. There were some "musts" for serious egg cream drinkers that separated those truly in the know from the amateurs. First, it had to be served in a large Coca Cola glass, NEVER a cone shaped paper cup. Next, it had to be made with Fox's U-bet chocolate syrup. Finally, it had to be prepared in the proper sequence. Chocolate syrup followed by milk filled to about 25% of the glass's capacity and then cold seltzer stirred with a long spoon as it was being added so as to create the signature creamy head that formed on top. That first sip (no straw please) would coat your upper lip with white foam as the cold chocolate goodness hit the back of your throat. (No, there is no egg in an egg cream; if you thought that you never lived in Brooklyn.)

Once in a while I am confronted with something that triggers one of these dormant childhood memories and the connection is almost electric. 

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How I Became Me

It has occurred to me that the number of people who may remember Brooklyn in the 1950s is a shrinking population. Even if they were there, getting older is no friend of memory. I started out writing this blog mainly so my children and grandchildren might know what life was like back in the day. I have been pleasantly surprised by the comments I receive from people who are total strangers, but who want to let me know that they were there too and share some of my recollections. I have acquired a new friend, Joe, who lived around the corner from me and shared my experiences growing up before his family moved to the wilds of Long Island. He writes his own funny and sometimes poignant blogs that I read with great pleasure. DelBloggolo

A typical day for a Brooklyn kid was relatively simple and uncomplicated. We woke up, went to school, and then out to play. Weekends were pretty much the same, minus school and including a Sunday dinner with the family and whoever might be visiting. Mom always made a big pot of "gravy" with enough meatballs, sausage and braciole to feed any drop-ins. Often our upstairs tenants, my cousins, would stop down, if not for dinner, then for coffee and cake. The routine became so familiar to me that I never realized its value. That time spent with my family, the table conversations I only half-listened to, the arguments that grew loud when the battling Caruso side of the family visited, all of that exposure to people and ideas, helped make me who I am today.

My family values, politics, religion, views of people and of life all were being formed over stuffed manicotti or pork-in-the gravy. My empty head was being filled up with street smart, Italian-flavored philosophy. Unfortunately, that also included misinformation and worse, prejudice, traces of which I carry to this day. My Dad was often at the center of these discussions, never bashful about voicing his opinion, especially after a few Rheingold beers had loosened his tongue. My Uncle Joe and Aunt Mae were like Ali-Frazier; even sober they were combative, but homemade wine brought out the worst in them. Sometimes my sister and I would scurry under the table to get away from the hostilities. In the midst of this sat my mother, smiling, rarely speaking except occasionally trying  to negotiate a cease fire.

One of the reasons I value humility so much is because it is the single quality that defined my mother's life. I never heard her brag once in spite of doing one hell of a job raising the three of us. She never spoke ill of anyone, and would even go out of her way to offer a kind word on behalf of some absent soul  being castigated by the family between the fruit platter and the cannolis. I know in my heart that any goodness in me came from her. She had a hard life but rose above it. Each day she quietly went about her business of running the house, managing on a meager budget, and making it all look so easy that we foolishly took it for granted. Of course our meals would always be on the table, our clothes pressed, and our rooms cleaned up. Mom took care of that.

I realize that this blog meandered a bit, but my main point was families play a big part in shaping our outlook on life. Despite the cacophony of noise and the plethora of opinions surrounding me (double points for using cacophony and plethora in the same sentence) my Mom Frances was like a beacon of quiet goodness in my life. I wish I could be more like her.

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Christmas Shopping

Well it's that time again...Black Friday...only worse. At least the stores used to wait until midnight of Thanksgiving Day to admit the hoards of lunatics who lined up at their doors waiting to get trampled to death. Now they are opening at 8 pm on Thanksgiving night. God forbid their customers and employees have a full day to be with their families and celebrate being together. This is a spectacle that really sickens me. Instead of encouraging people to give thanks for what they have, they are urged to go out and get more. As far as I know, this execrable tradition is uniquely American. Maybe we have too much and need to stop and consider why we feel so compelled to spend money we don't have on stuff we don't need.

Shopping has come a long way since the 1950s. Malls didn't exist. There were "downtown" areas in every town that featured one or two department stores like Kresge's or Sears...Macy's if it was an upscale town.  These stores would decorate their windows to lure shoppers inside. In New York, Saks Fifth Avenue, Macy's in Herald Square and Abraham and Strauss in Brooklyn were famous for their holiday windows. The stores were decorated with trees (before they became politically incorrect) and festooned with garlands and giant Christmas balls. They also featured elaborate Santa's Workshops where kids bundled in snowsuits would wait in line to tell Santa what they wanted for Christmas and have their pictures taken. The scenes in the movie "A Christmas Story" where little Ralphie and his family visit Higbee's Department Store got it exactly right.

I find it interesting that 1950s kids believed in Santa Claus for so long compared to today's kids who mostly pretend just to ensure their gifts appear under the tree. We really didn't have a lot, and we needed the hope that a magical fat man in a red suit might bring the things we so badly wanted, even though we knew our parents couldn't afford them. Oh sure, we had doubts, but wanted to dream that we had a shot at that big Erector Set or the snazzy Shwinn bike we would eye greedily in the store window. We would diligently make up our Christmas gift list, putting the thing we wanted most on top, double-underlined. We wished we could pool the money that well-meaning aunts would spend on practical things like clothes and books, and use it to buy the Red Ryder BB Gun that every boy wanted but knew in his heart he never could have.

In our neighborhood, a lot of shopping was done locally. We had a Woolworths, a John's Bargain Store, Vim Furniture,  and all the stores along Pitkin Avenue. There were shoe stores like Thom McAn, Buster Brown, and A.S. Beck (where Tony Boots worked part time), McCrory's Department Store and clothing stores like Moe Ginsberg's and Abe Stark (who gave away free suits to any ballplayer who hit their outfield sign in Ebbets Field). Downtown Brooklyn was another shopper's mecca with A&S, Mays, Martins (where the lovely Jasmine worked in the bridal department after school) and a new chain, E.J. Korvette's. There was no online shopping, no gift cards, and no credit cards...just cash or a check if you were well off enough to have an account.

These are wonderful memories for me. If you've seen the movie "A Christmas Story" (soon to open on Broadway by the way) you will know exactly what my holidays were like. Those times with family and friends will stay with me no matter how much more senile I may get.

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People

I mentioned in my last post, which I wrote just before the lights went out for 9 days, that I remembered snow storms better than hurricanes. Obviously that has now changed. Sandy made a believer out of me...hurricanes beat snowstorms, hands down. People who live in hurricane-prone areas are gluttons for punishment. If you have to keep a supply of plywood in your garage to board up the windows once or twice a year, you might want to think about relocating. We never saw hurricanes in 1950s Brooklyn...even they were afraid to come into the neighborhood. I was trying desperately to think of a way to link Hurricane Sandy to the theme of this blog and I think I found it; the essential goodness of people. 

I am so proud to see the way 99% of Staten Islanders and others in hard hit storm areas are stepping up to help their fellow man in any way they can. Volunteers are everywhere, handing out food, cleaning up debris, directing traffic, and maybe just letting a total stranger cry on their shoulder. Restaurants are giving away free meals, stores are donating clothing, cleaning materials, power outlets to charge cellphones, or just a place to stay warm for an hour or two. There are a few world class a-holes engaging in looting, but they pale in comparison to the brave and good deeds performed everywhere you look. This goodness is what I remember about the people I grew up around in the East New York section of Brooklyn.

It was common on my block for people to help each other. Men would do things like shovel the walks of older neighbors, or get together for a "painting party" when an apartment needed a fresh coat. My father Tony was not big on painting and would often ask our next door neighbor, Frank, to "help" him. Frank was a prince of a guy and wound up doing most of the painting while my Dad fetched the beer and talked about the Yankees. Women on the block were like Wardens: they kept an eye out for any kid who might think about doing something dumb, and chew the kid out, closing with the ultimate threat: "Don't make me tell your mother!" 

We had neighborhood cops, big, beefy Irishmen, that actually walked a beat. They knew us and we knew them. It never occurred to us to cross them because they were not reluctant to swipe that nightstick across your behind. Many store owners knew families on the block who struggled and always threw a few extra sliced baloney slices onto the pile knowing it might be someone's dinner. I've talked before about the baker who delivered fresh, hot bread to my wife's grandparents every day for two years after Grandpa got hurt and lost his job. He never asked for a cent. People in need would find canned soup or boxed cereal left in their milk boxes anonymously by neighbors who wanted to help without injuring anyone's pride.

Even us kids knew what it was to share, whether it was sports equipment, bicycles, roller skates or bringing someone home for lunch. Somehow our Moms always found a way to stretch a meal for one more. We would routinely go to the stores for seniors who couldn't go themselves, and we gallantly refused their offered nickel tips knowing they needed the money more than we did. If there was a death in a family, enough hot dishes were brought to the house to feed that family for a month. We didn't think highly of ourselves for behaving this way, its just the way people grow up when they are surrounded by families barely eking things out.

The reaction of disaster-struck New Yorkers and New Jerseyans has been so different from the people in Louisiana hit by Hurricane Katrina. While I'm sure many people did what they could for neighbors, too many others stood by waiting for the government to come to their rescue. Good luck with that.

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Storm Memories

I'm sitting here with the wind howling outside my window trying to remember if we had storms like Sandy when I was a kid. We lived in an attached all-brick row house in Brooklyn, so I'm guessing we weren't as vulnerable as people living in the suburbs. I checked the history of hurricanes that hit New York when I was a kid, and although I recognized some of the names like Hurricanes Agnes and Connie, back then most of the information on the storm's progress and aftermath came the next day in the newspaper. Television stations didn't have reporters and cameramen out all hours of the day and night with updates every two minutes. Sometimes I think we were better off not knowing. My recollection is that our electric service wires were underground as they are in some parts of Brooklyn, so we almost never lost power. 

The storms I remember better than hurricanes are the snowstorms. It's probably a combination of my failing memory and my tendency to exaggerate, but it seems to me that winters were a lot harder then. We routinely had  three or four serious snowfalls a year, when the streets were blanketed in white and everything came to a standstill. As much as I absolutely hate snow now, that's how much I loved it as a kid. For one thing they closed the schools, every boy's fondest wish. For another, there were few cars on the streets so we were free to use our sleds without fear of being run over. Every family had a Flexible Flyer sled that had been handed down through the generations. These were not the flimsy plastic numbers around now, but solid, well made chariots of oak and steel. 

Our mothers, happy to have us out of their hair, would layer us up and shove us out the door. The meeting place was the vacant lot across the street from my house. Kids from blocks around would gather there because of the lot's enviable geographic location: it was elevated about fifteen feet above the level of the street, creating a natural hill for staging the poor kids' winter Olympics. We would pile four or five kids on a sled and push them down the hill. Sounds like fun until you realize that their route took them directly into the path of oncoming traffic! Good lookouts were a must. We also built ramps and moguls over which to ride our sleds, finally slamming to a halt in a snowbank trying to laugh with our mouths full of snow.

When we tired of sledding there were other snow-based activities like building anatomically correct snow men and women. Or we constructed snow tunnels that were fifty feet long, or elaborate forts with windows and ledges to hold the dozens of snowballs for the big battle with the fort across the street. The unwritten rule that every kid followed was no rocks packed into the middle of the snowballs. Sometimes, if things were really slow, we'd ring the bells of the old people on the block and offer to shovel their sidewalks. They showed their appreciation when Spring came around and we had to retrieve a ball from their back yards to keep the game going.  

Now, if two inches of snow are in the forecast, the weatherperson/doomsayers with their serious faces fill our television screens warning people to stay indoors until it's safe to go outside. If I had heeded that bad advice, I would have missed some of the best times of my life! 

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Past Meets Present

Sometimes things happen for a reason. We were trying to get to Belmont Racetrack for a little thoroughbred excitement today. Sadly we had to take the Belt Parkway (known locally as that goddamned Belt Parkway. Sure enough, around Sheepshead Bay, everything in the eastbound lanes stopped cold. No warnings, no explanations, no reports of why on the local radio stations, just stopped. With no relief in sight we limped off the parkway at Knapp Street and u-turned into the westbound lanes. With nothing better to do on a beautiful sunny day, we headed for Coney Island. I have written extensively about my childhood connection to this wondrous place, and I could hear it calling to me.

We parked on Surf Avenue, right near the Parachute Jump and a few blocks from the original Nathan's Famous hot dog stand. With the warm sun on our faces we strolled up West 16 street and onto the boardwalk. In an earlier blog I mentioned how the boardwalk has been restored and the old food stands given new fronts. We had seen this wonderful improvement during an earlier visit. I assumed the restoration of the boardwalk was limited to the stretch immediately along the section that housed the amusement rides, but I was wrong. We covered a good part of the 2.5 mile boardwalk length from around the Scream Zone rides in Luna Park and Astroland toward the eastern tip of Brighton Beach, and our favorite swimming spot when we were young. (Bay 3) 

The boardwalk was clean as a whistle and crowded with people of all shapes and sizes. The language we heard most was Russian; probably at least 75% of the strollers were of that ethnic heritage. There was a time when people didn't feel safe going to Coney Island, but I'm happy to say that day is past. As we walked by the handball courts where the sun-bronzed old men were schooling the younger ones in the finer points of the game, the memories came flooding back. There were grand bath houses along the boardwalk where people could rent lockers and shower after leaving the beach. I stopped for a soft ice cream cone,,,vanilla and chocolate swirl. Pistachio and banana, my all time favorite flavors, were no longer to be had. A small cone now goes for $4 bucks, a bit higher than the 15 cents we used to pay.

As we passed the NYC Aquarium and the balconied apartment houses down toward Brighton Beach, we began noticing a series of Russian restaurants and bars built to attract the locals. They lent an exotic holiday air to the surroundings. Old men and women sat on benches gazing out to sea. Maybe in their minds, they were young again and it was the Black Sea in mother Russia they were looking out on. Young couples hand in hand, women pushing strollers, bikers, skateboarders, hairy men with their shirts off to catch some rays, and Jasmine and me. We sat here so many years ago, covered with Coppertone, sitting on a beach blanket and listening to Alan Freed on a tiny transistor radio. The future was off in the distance, and nobody knew what it would bring. I'm happy to say we are back at Brighton Beach nearly fifty years later, wistfully revisiting the past.

I felt good as we walked back to the car. I'm grateful to the Russians for reclaiming Coney Island and restoring it to glory. Knowing that a place I enjoyed so much as a kid is still around and thriving gives me hope that we might grow old together.

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Vincenzo and Gelsomina

Every year we have three group parties to celebrate the birthdays of family members whose birth dates are close together. Usually we hold them in July, September and November. This past Saturday we toasted my nephew Alex, my son-in-law Malcolm and my son Matt. We can't celebrate individual birthdays since it's so hard to gather everyone together. Also, the work that goes into these parties is significant; between the shopping, cooking, cleaning and hosting overnight guests, it can be tiring, but also great fun. I mention this as a lead-in to a discussion of how Italians used to treat Sunday dinners. Back then, most families lived within walking distance of each other so the logistics were simpler. My wife was talking about the Sunday dinners she remembers at Grandma and Grandpa Salamo's house held every single week.

Vincenzo and Gelsomina (Italian for Jasmine, my wife's name) came separately to America from Italy in the great immigration wave of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Vincenzo came from Calabria and traveled to America as a ship's cook. (I'll bet the ship's captain was surprised to find himself one cook short after Vincenzo decided he liked America and jumped ship!) Gelsomina came to America from the town of Gaeta near Naples under someone else's passport at the age of fourteen. She was indentured as a domestic servant to the home of a family acquaintance. Her family's desperation to get her to America, and to what they hoped would be a better life for their daughter is an indication of just how difficult living in Italy had become at the time, especially for those living in the "Mezzogiorno" or southern regions of the country. 

Vincenzo and Gelsomina met, married, and brought eleven children into the world, one of them being Erasmo or Raymond, my wife's father. Vincenzo was very industrious and hard working, and eventually bought a brownstone in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn which is no longer in the family. (Too bad...it would sell for a cool $2 mil, even in today's soft market.) This is the house where my wife's family gathered on Sundays for a typical Italian dinner. In those days, the cooking was done mostly by Grandma and Grandpa, who shared the house with two daughters who never married, and a bachelor son, Michael. Vincenzo and Gelsomina's married children, with their children, would come to the house every week and gather at the big dining room table. I sat in at a couple of these dinners and can give this first person account of the event.

The long table was surrounded by mismatched chairs, and everyone had assigned places. The menu rarely varied: chicken soup to wake up the taste buds followed by antipasto, and pasta with meatballs and other "gravy meat". Then came a roast, usually veal, with some vegetables like escarole, potatoes or stuffed artichokes. After this came a pause during which family discussions took place. These were sometimes loud but never ill-tempered; it's just the way Italians made room for dessert. Coffee and/or espresso would be served in the kitchen accompanied by Italian cookies, a cake from Ebinger's Bakery, or maybe something homemade like chocolate pudding pie. A bottle of anisette would make the rounds, either sipped as a cordial or poured into the tiny espresso cups to liven up the coffee. 

After dinner the ladies would clean up with some assistance from the men. I can see all their faces in my mind's eye...My wife's dad Ray and his stylish wife Belle; Uncle Anthony who was a kind and loving father, and his smartly dressed wife, Chris; Uncle Frank,who served in the Navy, and his quiet wife Mary; Uncle Gregory, the rogue of the group who never met a scheme he didn't like, and his sweet, patient wife Mary; Uncle Mike the bachelor professor and resident intellectual; Aunt Julia, who spent hours and hours playing with our kids at any game they wanted, just like she played with my wife and her sister when they were growing up. She never once displayed any sign of impatience, and the kids adored her for it. Aunt Nancy was a little "Adams Family-ish", and had a set of idiosyncrasies that made her a bit of an oddball. Throw in some scattered kids and Grandma and Grandpa, and the cast was complete.

When Jasmine and I host one of these Italian dinners these days, it's hard to imagine how these wonderful people ate and drank like this every week! It was a time when families lived near one another, making weekly gatherings more feasible. Sometimes, in the midst of such a party, I sit at the head of the table and watch my children and their cousins having five loud conversations simultaneously, and I feel so blessed that the Italian tradition of Sunday dinner is in our DNA. The sense of "family" is paramount in the Italian culture, and these gatherings help me remember and be thankful for my own childhood in the bosom of a nurturing, caring, and yes, sometimes crazy family. I know that even though they are living many miles apart, that somehow my children will find a way to honor their heritage after we are gone, and pass along this beautiful custom to their children. Alla famiglia!

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Back in the Neighborhood

The other day I was meeting my wife for dinner at the Greenhouse Cafe in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.  She was coming from Manhattan and running a little late. While I waited, I sat on the wooden bench in front of the restaurant and soaked up the vibes. When you're in a real neighborhood, it doesn't matter where, the feelings are pretty much the same. I'm referring here specifically to an urban neighborhood as opposed to the suburbs where most people retreat to the protection and privacy of their three-bedroom fortress with the neatly mowed lawns in front. It's not that people in the suburbs are unfriendly, they're just not out and about like city dwellers. They have to climb into their cars to go get a cup of coffee and a bagel, and rarely encounter their neighbors for a casual chat.

From my vantage point on the bench, I watched the neighborhood beehive. An enormous heavy guy wearing a Yankees t-shirt double parked his battleship-sized SUV to run in and pick up a pizza. Across Third Avenue, two women in their fifties, who looked like they stepped off the set of Jersey Housewives, chatted outside the salon spa they had just exited. Both were deeply tanned the color of an old baseball glove, and wearing earrings the size of hubcaps, I imagine they were discussing the latest sensational tidbit passed along by Gina, the nail girl. Next door a chunky, Italian looking kid was pulling down the metal grate in front of a neighborhood hardware store that Home Depot hadn't yet bankrupted. I watched him unlock the chain securing assorted step ladders to the metal arm of the store awning and bring them inside. Tomorrow morning he would reverse the process and hope that somebody bought one. 

At the bus stop in front of the Greenhouse Cafe, an elegant looking man stood waiting for the bus. He was tall and bronzed, well-dressed with impeccably combed silver hair...a Cesar Romero look-alike. If a couple of muscle bound goons knelt in front of him and kissed his hand, I wouldn't have blinked an eye. I couldn't help wonder why such a distinguished gentleman would be waiting for the bus. I half expected a black Mercedes driven by a trophy wife to pull up and whisk him away, but no...as soon as the bus arrived, he boarded and went on his way. Young working people walking home from the subway stop on Fourth Avenue strolled past me, nearly all chatting intently on their cell phones, oblivious to the world around them. Mothers with baby carriages running errands, delivery boys on bicycles bringing delicious take out to neighborhood customers, and waiters from the Greenhouse having a cigarette outside before the evening rush.

A heavy-set woman pushing one of those chairs that double as walkers wheezed to a stop and sat down next to me on the bench. She told me she had asthma and a bad back and needed to sit for a while to get her breath back. She started to complain that there were too many Arabs moving into the neighborhood, but abruptly changed the subject after looking at me and realizing I could be one of the hated Arab invaders. She asked me if it was raining or whether it might be the spray from the window air conditioners in the apartments above the restaurant. After a few minutes she struggled to her feet, bid me good evening, and walked off toward 86th Street where all the neighborhood shops. Other than a large Century 21 discount outlet, all the businesses are storefront, Mom and Pop operations. Double-parked cars line the street as Brooklynites exercise what they believe is their God-given right to flout all parking regulations. 

A few doors down, dark-skinned Arab-looking men who drive for a local car service sat at a card table playing dominoes, while sneaking peeks at the young women passing by. Up the street is Skinflints Restaurant, a neighborhood institution that's been there forever. On Thanksgiving Day they invite local senior citizens who may be alone for the day to come in for a free dinner with all the trimmings. A few avenues up is Hinch's Ice Cream Parlor, a landmark soda fountain recently sold by the original owners to people who promised to keep it like it always was. Neighborhood people don't love change. Churches, delis, bakeries, laundromats, gift shops, pizzerias, beauty salons, even a shoemaker who still repairs shoes...all part of the hustle and bustle that is the neighborhood.

I sat there taking it all in, and for a moment drifted back to Somers Street off Rockaway Avenue in Brooklyn where I grew up. A lot of who I am is bound up with that neighborhood. It's a funny thing, I hung around with guys from different ethnic groups, religions  and races, and although prejudice was alive and well, we pretty much got along. Our allegiance was to our neighborhood and those living in it. Guys from another neighborhood were the enemy. I enjoy living in the suburbs; I have my little garden and we are blessed with wonderful neighborhoods, but it's not a neighborhood, and that's what I miss.

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The Great American Pastime

 One of the things that defines America is the game of baseball. Called The Great American Pastime, baseball has been part of our culture since the early 1800s. Based on the English game of "rounders", American-style baseball is popularly believed to have been "invented" by Civil War General Abner Doubleday, but in reality, there is no single person responsible. "Alexander Cartwright (1820-1892) of New York invented the modern baseball field in 1845. He and the members of his New York Knickerbocker Base Ball Club, devised the first rules and regulations that were accepted for the modern game of baseball. The first recorded baseball game was held in 1846 when Cartwright's Knickerbockers lost to the New York Baseball Club. The game was held at the Elysian Fields, in Hoboken, New Jersey. In 1858, the National Association of Base Ball Players, the first organized baseball league, was formed." (History of Baseball by Mary Wells.)

No matter who invented the game, baseball became wildly popular in the United States. One of the reasons the game caught on is that it requires very little in the way of equipment. A grassy field, a ball and a bat are pretty much the only essentials. We played in a vacant lot littered with stones and broken glass. Pieces of cardboard were used for bases. If you were lucky enough to own a glove, you shared it with the other players, often leaving it at your position when you came in to bat so that the kid playing that position on the other team could just pick it up and use it while in the field. Bats were scuffed and nicked from years of use...sometimes even balls, as the seams began to unravel, had to be taped to keep the game going. We enforced our own rules with no adult supervision. Baseball was our God, and we played every day until the sun went down to hone our skills .

We now go to the local Double A class Staten Island Yankee games in their beautiful ballpark in St. George down by the ferry. I still get a little thrill every time I see that emerald green grass and those painted baselines. The players look about 15 years old to me, young, strong and having the time of their lives. Each one chases the same dream I once chased...to become a professional baseball player. They shag flies in the outfield and warm up their arms. They do exercises to stretch out their calf and back muscles to minimize the chance of injury. Before the game a nervous high-schooler sings the Star Spangled Banner while older patrons stand reverently with hands over hearts, shushing the young people around them who don't yet fully appreciate their great good fortune at having been born in America. 

The stands are filled with families who come here partly because they can't afford to go see the New York Yankees up in the Bronx. Young kids in oversized team jerseys and hats bound up and down the stairs to make another run for the "all-you-can-eat" concession food that comes with their game package tickets. They pester the bullpen pitchers and catchers to sign things, and the players do their best to look aloof, all the while pinching themselves at the thought that kids actually want their autographs. The dads in the crowd look a little dreamy-eyed as they time-travel back to their baseball days. Eyes were keen enough to pick out that perfect fastball and line it to left field; legs were strong enough to run hard around the bases trying to stretch a single into a double; and hearts were untroubled enough to throw themselves totally into the game they loved and played with abandon.

Sadly, our local team had a bad season, ending up dead last in their division. Winning is great, but baseball is not all about winning. It's about hope...cheering for your team, clapping your hands during the dopey chants...Let's Go Yankees, clap, clap, clap-clap-clap. It's about hollering CHARGE as the home team organist plays: Da-da-da-DAA-da da. It's coming out of your seat as that weak grounder slips between the third baseman and the shortstop, putting a man on first. "Hey, you never know" somebody always says, "one long ball and we're back in it." Even if your team loses, it's about looking at the kids watching the fireworks after the game. Their eyes grow round the way yours did when you saw you first real fireworks display and not some guy in a pizza-man undershirt shooting Roman Candles into the night sky. 

What kind of game is baseball? Grown men bring their old gloves to the ballpark, still hopeful that one day they might catch a foul ball. That's the kind of game baseball is. Baseball is America.

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