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Every Sunday morning Pappa would come home with Il Progresso, and read it to Mamma. As a girl in Italy, she never learned to read. It was only important to learn to cook, sew and take care of a family. My brother Enzo and I would lie in bed and pretend to be asleep, certain they wouldn't want us to hear what we had waited for, ridden with morbid fascination, for the past seven days. From what the front page heralded we’d glean tidbits like, “Eh, Maria………. they found another head by the sewer, just 3 blocks from here on Hester"… Then he told Mamma the chopped up body was, no doubt, already under the East River ensconced in cement or better yet, it was transported to some Zoo to be eaten by lions. "Zoos are always good for that purpose" said Pappa. I don’t know if he actually was reading that, or if he himself had some inside information. Yes, hungry beasts did what was natural. I guess that was more pleasant than thinking about dead chopped up bodies in cement in the river a few blocks from here. My brother wondered if the lions ate the bones too. Pappa said something else about a consigliore and then mentioned Meyer Lansky. I couldn’t understand what he said, but Meyer Lansky’s name always stuck out because it wasn't Italian. Yes, Meyer Lansky, this, Meyer Lansky, that name just simply stuck out like a sore thumb from Pappa's Sicilian. My brother and I raced to get dressed and flew down the four flights of stairs to Broome Street hoping to beat out the scubaduras (street sweepers) who would come to clean up the crime scene. But they always beat us, always, always, and we never ever would get to see any blood. (Mamma’s brother, Uncle Tony, the rimbambitu, (he had something big wrong with his head right from when he was born) was a scubadura and he worked seven days a week.) Enzo didn’t even care that I was a girl anymore, and a tomboy at that, which was probably because we lost our brother Michelino to a really bad fever last winter. Momma would shake her head in a wistful way, as she watched me run down the stairs tagging after Enzo. She knew I would soon get to an age when my freedom to roam was no longer permissible.
Every Sunday afternoon, my other Uncle Tony, Aunt Rosie and my five cousins would take the train to NYC from Brooklyn, where they had just moved, just one stop over the bridge, at Marcy Ave. There, they had a 2nd floor apartment with a bathroom right in it. I could see it just off the kitchen when we visited them. They did not have to share the one in the hall with the other families on their floor. They had a German landlord right downstairs who used to count the number of times they went up and down the stairs, and complain about it every day. Mamma would prepare dinner with Aunt Rosie, and Vincenza and Antonia, my big girl cousins who were 13 and 14. It was nice that on Sundays we didn’t eat fish. Aunt Rosie would bring sausages, and Mamma would make meatballs with the sauce. Sunday dinner was always a giant family affair, as we all squeezed around the table in our little kitchen. On hot afternoons the children were allowed to eat out on the fire-escape. We had to be careful not to mess up the clothes that were hanging out there. Sometimes though, I used a clean rag to wipe my mouth. After the my other Uncle Tony’s wine was finished, while the women cleaned up, he, Pappa, Enzo, my boy cousins Tony, Massimo, Cosimo and I would walk down Catherine St, to South Street, on the East River, where we were sufficiently downwind from the fish market. Even from that far away, when it was a hot day, you could still smell all the dried fish blood and guts from the week's catch. That's where Pappa worked, the Fulton Fish Market, gutting fish of all kinds for ten hours a day, and moving them out quickly to the pushcart vendors who waited in long lines. They’d get mad if he didn’t hurry because their ice would be melting all over the place. Of course, he saved the very best fish for the restaurants. We always had lots of fish to eat every day because Pappa was allowed to take home what was about to spoil, and Mamma would cook it right away. So, we’d walk a long time by the river, sometimes even passing under both the Manhattan and Williamsburg Bridges. When the water was still, Enzo and I would like to imagine the bodies underneath in their cement tombs. I think we even might have seen one a couple of times. The alcohol man, Angelo, who used to deliver alcohol and cuatro cumpadri essence to our apartment building every week, was supposed to have be under there too. He was a nice man, and always smelled good, and gave Enzo and me licorice candies.
When we came home Pappa and my other Uncle Tony would play cards, and sometimes we’d all join them. My other Uncle Tony was really good at poker and taught us all how to play, and especially about how to have a straight face…or at least he tried to. He used to make a lot of money playing poker, Pappa said, but some men got real mad and told him to stop. I guess that why he likes playing with us. I was allowed to have a tiny drop of anisette in the strong espresso coffee Mamma served me with hot milk and lots of sugar. I always looked forward to the big plate of pastries that Aunt Rosie would bring from the bakery. My cousins and I would fight over who got what, since we all had the same favorites, and there were seven of us. My very favorite had a hard crust with nice creamy filling inside; it was the kind you had to be careful when you bit into it, or it would cut the roof of your mouth up. Although Pappa had to be at the fish market at 3AM, he spent the whole day with us, even until it got dark. Sometimes Enzo would go to help him at the market when he wasn't feeling too good. Pappa suffered from a cough he got from working in the tunnel. My other Uncle Tony got him into the fish market when he could no longer do the hard work in the tunnel. Enzo was growing very skillful in using his knives. Sometimes, late at night he'd show me his blades. He had a big collection, eight curved ones used for filleting, and four larger, straighter ones for sawing through the bones of the bigger fish. Tomorrow morning he was going with Pappa, that’s how I knew he wasn’t feeling too good. Enzo packed up his knives real careful in the old towels Mamma saved for him, letting me see my reflection in the biggest one. I knew I would never have a job cutting fish, but at that moment I so much wished I could. Aunt Rosie, my other Uncle Tony and my cousins left to take the train back to their Brooklyn apartment with the bathroom in it. Then the German landlord could add one more trip up the stairs for them. School was tomorrow, and I didn’t know why I needed to go, but Mamma was insisting. So I had to go. I mean, I could already sew, and knew how to pick the fruits and vegetables out from the pushcarts, and I really, really knew a lot about fish. But Mamma said I had to learn to read my own newspaper. Then I would understand what a capo di capo was, I guess.
JoAnn Bertone Chmielowski
November 17, 2009
ZIA
Zia was the matriarch of my mother’s side of the family. My grandmother’s brother’s wife, she was many, many years a widow and perpetually dressed in a severe black dress and a large 18 karat gold cross. It is possible she had more than one black dress, but they certainly all looked the same. Her hair, which rumor had said was down to her buttocks, was braided and twisted up into a very tight, elaborate bun They called her Zia Guiseppina (or Signora Giampiccolo) to her face, but behind her back they referred to her as La Zia, “the aunt”, which in Sicilian was pronounced Aht Zia, taking on a guttural sound that was reminiscent of the soldiers in Germany’s Third Reich.
Zia, as I think of her now, was the closest thing I experienced to exotic as a child. She lived on the avenue right above a hardware store. No one I knew ever lived on the avenue. It was fascinating to me that someone could actually live over a busy store. My parents would tow me up a steep flight of uneven stairs, to visit Zia in her very tiny, dark apartment. We would immediately enter into the kitchen. Blinds drawn, windows shut, the handmade lace curtains, made for Zia by her mother as part of a wedding trousseau, lay very still in an attempt to overcome the starkness. The heat, always suffocating, was too warm in the winter and too warm in the summer. There were never any windows open. The windows were shut not only to keep the evil spirits from blowing in, but also to keep the candles from blowing out, and especially to keep the canaries from catching cold.
On a metal stand, there was a large statue of the Blessed Mother surrounded by votive candles, so numerous, it seemed that there should have been a little slotted offering box next to them like the kind they had in church. But there were not quite enough candles, or quite enough lamps for that matter, to ever make it bright in Zia’s apartment. I think I would have found the shadows scary, but they reminded me of church and I really loved that statue. Despite the austere presence of the old woman we were visiting, the Blessed Mother statue made me feel comfortable. In the far corner were white canaries, a gift from her eldest son Salvatore, whose hobby it was to breed canaries and finches. If we were visiting in the day, the cover would be off the cage, and they would be singing. Who could feel afraid upon hearing canaries singing?
My mother, father and I had to sit at the tiny kitchen table to pay our “respects” to Zia. It never seemed we were there for a casual chit-chat. Anyway, the chit-chat would have been in Sicilian, and although I understood most of the conversation anyway, they still spoke in hushed tones. I thought they probably didn’t want me to understand them. Despite their whispers, I could certainly hear them well enough at the tiny table. So I tried even harder to take in what they said, that was, when my mind wasn’t distracted from looking at the Blessed Mother and her candles, or at Zia’s two gold teeth, or the singing canaries. Zia was easy to stare at since I never recall her making eye contact with me. The conversation was always about something somber, mostly about who wasn’t getting along with whom, who didn’t want her around, or which of the four daughter-in-laws was drinking too much. And why oh why her “baby” Gregorio, who was already 40, still couldn’t find a good woman. This was all actually pretty interesting to me, still a young girl. I had a crush on Cugino Gregorio, with his dark, good looks and expensive, imported cologne. I was very happy he couldn’t find a woman. He always brought me Capezio ballet slippers that he hand-sewn for the company where he worked, and they were always too tight, but I wore them every day even though I didn’t dance. I can still imagine the smell of that wonderful cologne, and feel the numbness of my squashed toes.
My parents would always bring Zia a box of Italian pastries, the miniature ones I loved. I could never figure out how to untie the knot which held the white paper box tightly closed. My father would cut it with a knife. There would always be a candy dish on the table filled to the top with individually wrapped little licorice hard candies that were imported from Italy . They were smaller than my pinkie nail. I’d fill my pocket if no one was looking, and eat one or two a day for several days. The strong taste of licorice still reminds me of those visits. Zia would always offer my parents some black coffee, which my mother would get up immediately and prepare. With it there would be bottles of Strega, or Grappa, strong Italian liqueurs set on the table, nothing like the Anisette I was allowed to taste. That was the real stuff. We never left the table until it was time to go. Strong Sicilian glue bound us to the chairs. It was all for the best since the orange couch and matching chairs in the living room were covered in plastic. In the dozens of visits, I never saw the bedroom. It was too dark to discern any distinguishable features other than the bed from the vantage point of the little table I was marooned at. I imagined it was just like my grandmother’s bedroom, only darker. Although Zia was her sister in law, my grandmother never came with us on those visits. Not even once. There surely must have been a dark side to that relationship the details of which I couldn’t extract from the hushed Sicilian dialect.
It wasn’t until many years after her death at age of 96 that I discovered some details regarding Zia’s life before the little apartment. Originally from a family of peasant farmers in a feudal system, Zia, emigrated to the United States from Sicily after the World War I, with her youngest son Gregorio. Three of her sons, Gesualdo, Barbarino, and Vincenzo (all under the age of 12 at the time) were given over as indentured servants in order that she could make the passage to join her husband who emigrated in 1911. (Guiseppi Giampiccolo left Italy to avoid having to fight in Libya, which later became an Italian colony in 1912) With a bitterness they never let go of, the three sons, finally free of their servitude, arrived on Manhattan’s Lower East Side 15 years later, to join their mother. By then, Zia was already a widow, having lost her husband to some illness that no one dare spoke about. There were three older sons and their families that remained in Italy . They all later emigrated, after World War II, two to Australia , and one to the U.S.
With the final arrival of her eldest son Salvatore, all the sons and their families settled in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn , where they remained until their eventual deaths. A mother, five sons and their families, all living out their lives in a 10 block radius of one another. They each did their duty as Italian sons, looking after Zia, their widowed mother. They supported her, shopped for her, took her on trips back and forth to Italy . She had lived with them all at one time or another until they all chipped in and rented her an apartment, the very place I remember visiting. I never determined which son or daughter-in-law had finally thrown her out, whom it was that finally had enough. It was hard to discern from the hushed Sicilian dialect. Maybe the canaries, the candles or the gold teeth distracted me at a crucial moment. But I knew, even then, this was not one warm, fuzzy family. Zia, outlived all but two of her sons, and stayed in that apartment on the avenue until her death.
At the funeral parlor, people said she lived so long for spite. For spite that the sons threw her out of their houses. For spite that Gesualdo, Barbarino, and Vincenzo, never forgave her for giving them up to indentured servitude. Perhaps it was only her statue of the Blessed Mother that was beseeched for forgiveness. Interestingly, the two sons that outlived her, Orazio, and Toto (short for Teodore) came all the way from Melbourne , Australia for the funeral, although they had never visited her since she left Italy in 1919. The omnipotent sense of duty. My last memory of Zia Giuseppina was from a picture I took with me from the funeral parlor. Spread there, on a table, were dozens of laminated cards of “Aht Zia”, lying dead in her coffin, in her new black dress, braided hair twisted into a very tight elaborate bun, large 18 karat gold cross, replete with the hushed Sicilian dialect filling in the stifling air around her. I could see it in that little picture with the “Hail Mary” printed in English on the reverse side.But I couldn't see the gold teeth because she wasn't smiling.
JoAnn Bertone Chmielowski
April 9, 2009
VERMILION SHOES
There she is sitting on her porch again.
The flowering hanging baskets are fully in bloom. I can barely see her through them.
But I know she is there drinking herb tea and reading some intellectual magazine (a $70 subscription probably) with her bare feet up on the railing. It's that fragrant kind of tea too, the one that smells soooooooooooo good but barely has any taste. The smell is wafting my way. She's drinking it to annoy me, I'm sure. But I love that smell. So there.
I want to stare, but I can hardly stand to be in her presence, so close.
I am ever watchful, you might think I was obsessed with her. She reminds me of how inadequate I am. I don't know why I dwell on her so. Well, I keep quickly moving on to make the post office before it closes. This bill has to go out, or they'll disconnect me for sure. No more warnings. I take that seriously, you know. I notice her friends are joining her. They pass me and smile sweetly. People always smile so sweetly at you when you are in a wheel chair. Maybe they feel sorry for me. Everyone is wearing new shoes. Vermilion ones. It's this year's color. Doesn't go at all with her pink toenail polish though.
Her three beautiful preschool age children are napping. She just got done tending the two orchid greenhouses her husband built for her last summer. Those same greenhouse where she wrote her last two New York Times best seller books. I am in awe of the place. I pass it every single day on my way to the bust stop. I can't even read a best seller, let alone write one. It won't be too long before the plants from that greenhouse are in bloom and she'll take them to sell at the market. They command a stiff price her orchids, since they are rare specialty hybrids. Yes, those rare specialty hybrids are supplementing their family income nicely...
It's late afternoon, and I'm thinking of preparing dinner after I get back from the post office.
How in the world does she have time for tea on the porch? Especially that one that smells nice. I know they eat a late dinner. They make a lot of onions. They smell good. I leave my window open even when it rains so I can smell them. It's my favorite food smell.
Husband and wife together after the kids are tucked in. That's so nice.
Some nights she has her Madrigal Choir group practices to attend and their dinner gets delayed until 10PM. He cooks her a light supper.. They leave the dishes for the morning. My bay window faces their kitchen, that's why I get the good smells you know. It's where my bed and my chairs are. That's why I can see and smell what's going on so good.
Of course she is up early to greet the two day care children she tends, so the dishes are done before 6AM. She is one of those people who does nicely on five or six hours of sleep. The children rise and they all eat the breakfast she has prepared before starting their day. The trumpet teacher comes at Tuesdays at noon for her child prodigy 5 year old budding trumpeter. She steals away for a little exercise session with the younger children, and keeps in fine shape..They jump a lot and there is some kiddie music playing. I don't like that kind of music.
Yep, the place is in a hub-bub until 1PM. Hub-bub, hub-bub, bub-hub, you wouldn't believe it! Lunch is simple, then a little fresh air and nap time. Then greenhouses await, they are also a nice place to write. In fact her last two New York Times Bestseller List books were written right in there. It's like I'm in awe of the place. I pass it on my way to the bus stop. Oh yeah, I told you that already. Sorry. Just can't get over this book thing.
It's Wednesday, dinner out, the sitter arrives 15 minutes early. Hard not to see everything from my front room bay window across the street. Exhausted, but gorgeous, she pops on her new vermilion shoes and gets in the new car, still smelling of that new car smell. There is no new bus smell, or I would have noticed. I've been on some new buses in my time. New bus smell. They don't make it for an air-freshener, like one of those little pine trees, HAHAHA. New bus smell pine trees.
Yeah, I notice it all. Yeah, I probably need a life. It's as though I'm waiting for something bad to happen to her, so I don't have to feel inadequate. Then she'll be just like me, I think we could be even be friends if she has time for me. Maybe today I'll buy that tea that smells so good. Give it one more chance. But I really don't want anything bad to happen. I just want to get rid of this feeling. I don't know why she doesn't talk to me.
I'm know I'm living vicariously through her, if I really got to know her I would certainly lose that luxury. I don't know what it is about her, I don't wanting to keep thinking about her.. Wish I had a colicky set of twin baby girls. Or a pedigree dog that chews all my carpets. Boy, do I need a life. I don't even know her name.
JoAnn Bertone Chmielowski March 2, 2009
THE ACCENT ENCOUNTER
It wasn't quite summer by the calendar, but the dreamy, warm, Sunday afternoon we had been awaiting since the extremely harsh winter which left Eugene and I without power for nearly a month due to an ice storm. Our ceilings, still black with the oily smoke of kerosene, called with voraciousness for white-washing. My dear friend Jolene and I were strolling languidly through the bucolic, mostly sleepy, most of the time, town of Hillside Haven. Everyone had opened up their great houses to us, in a manner that was known only to dwellers of the Victorian Era circa 1890. I could picture them as the sprawling boarding houses where well-endowed, very heavy-breasted city maidens armored in corsets which gave them the look of architecture, would come for healthful breezes and to escape the cloying heat of the crowded apartment back in days before central air. Most undoubtedly, they came to frolic in the lake without their corsets, and without the men. Many of them were named Mabel, Gertrude, Gladys, Stella, Sadie and Daisy. They usually occupied the upper floors of the boarding houses, since the ground floors had traditionally been set aside for the brothels. On occasion, in the height of the season, some poor maidens had to reside on the first floor where they would hear the comings and goings of gentlemen and ladies of the evening. This certainly is what set these poor maidens of the first floor off to seek un-corseted, un-bridled sexual escapades with the luckier counterparts from the second, third and fourth floors.
Alas, upon second glance, what I actually saw was the archetypical staged welcoming that modern people only extend for special events. Today was the famed Annual Hillside Haven Historic House Day. Best to have probably let my imagination carry me on, but the reality of the social perspective of the day came like a bee sting. In fact, it came in the form of a bee sting. The air hung very still, opulently scented with old growth lilacs that were in bloom everywhere, on tall, leggy bushes that were as ancient as the houses they adorned. And posing in front of them I was stung right on my ass, the left cheek to be precise, whilst Jolene snapped and laughed hysterically in that obnoxious guffaw of hers that I really, really hate.
Then like God’s voice coming out of the heavens in the “10 Commandments” (if heaven were indeed the United Kingdom), I detected a British accent drifting in the air. Every place we set alight, Jolene and I heard it. Its tone and nuances resounded, very much akin to a tour guide giving a lecture on the ancient mummies whose “final” resting place is currently the British Museum. That experience as a child was the start of my fascination. Now, I find all accents erotic, even those of people on the help-lines that the majority of US technology companies outsource to. I have especially fond memories of the Jamaican guy from Hewlett Packard Help that told me all about his sex life while I downloaded a patch to speed up my Windows Vista Operating System. Fortunately, I had a chance to get out my vibrator when he put me on hold. He certainly had me on hold, I’ll tell you that! There is no describing to you what accents do to me. Even a staid British one can put me in a trance. Yes, I confess I sometimes call technology help-lines just to get off on the accents. Jolene and I followed the voice, finally arriving at its source.
A mist surrounded an older man seated on a bench, a wooden bench that green paint, the color of homemade pea soup, clung to in little tiny chipped pieces. He was saying good bye to a nicely dressed, but austere young woman who could have been his daughter. It was a scene like in those old black and white movies about old British men who question their morality while watching the ankles of young girls; not particularly a scene one would immediately take notice of, or remember unless you were me. However, unconsciously, one always knew what the lecherous gentleman was thinking about. Anyway, the mist hung low about this fellow on the bench; low like testicles of a bull would hang on a hot Texas day, although the day was clear and we weren’t in Texas.
Continuing to walk past him, we stopped at the Quaint Café. The café was refreshingly cool because the indoors hadn’t had the chance to heat up yet. No one had ordered any hot sandwiches that would have heated up the grill, an old style diner grill blackened with many years of Fontina cheese and Pancetta Paninni cuisine. No one had left the door open too long either. It was probably a wise precaution, given the abundance of bugs outside; bugs that had bloomed as profusely as a field of wildflowers after a heavy rain on a high desert plateau, on this suddenly warm day in Hillside Haven. Tastefully decorated with Andy Warhol posters, framed in period appropriate colors, such as midnight black, deep reds and the blues of the Mediterranean sea at dusk, the Quaint Café seemed to be an intriguing enough place to have a bite to eat. We were contemplating a myriad of expensive paninnis with sensual, creative names such as Jean-Pierre's Pulled Pork Rosemary Stuffed Long Croissant. Help was being proffered, and then suddenly he, he arising from the mist which hung as low as bull’s testicles on a hot Texas day, was standing next to us.
"There is a barbecue around the corner". He spoke that rich sentence in a low tone aimed right between my legs. And to my infinite delight, there was no long-distance, other-side-of-the-world phone line between me and this accent! I immediately stopped my ordering the Jean-Pierre's Pulled Pork Rosemary Stuffed Long Croissant and excused myself. "Would you like to go to the barbecue?” he repeated. Never had those words affected me so deeply. It was like I was being hypnotized, drugged by the word - - - barbecue. Not that I was such a barbecue aficionado, but I have been definitely known to sink my teeth into some juicy meat every so often. Jolene and I both passively followed, exiting the Quaint Café, single file, little duckling style. Though it was clear he wasn't interested in my friend, he recognized my need for her rather as a security blanket. Jolene herself admits she likes to watch my antics and sexual trysts anyway, so I never worry about Jolene. It’s like I’m doing her a favor. She’s rather shy with men actually. I left the six pack of the Japanese beer, the one with a name no one can attempt to pronounce correctly without sounding like they are choking on hotdogs, behind. We left, and I would say for the unknown, but the town was so small and the barbecue, he assured us, was right around the corner.
He said his name was David. A very short but stately-looking man, he had the appearance of a cross-country skier, minus the skis He was an ice climber, and more importantly, a mountain climber that was about to embark on a 2 week trip to Mt. McKinley, mosquito capital of the entire world. He was retired from a career as an aerospace engineer for NASA. He spoke at length about his brother, Barry, the renowned international concert pianist - - what, we had never heard of him? On top of all this, he liked to race cars. That was his favorite hobby. In fact, the main reason he had this place was that it was only 15 minutes from the big NASCAR track. All this information was relayed to us in the one block it took to get to the “barbecue”. We were walking that slowly.
David had a home in London. David had a a home in NYC. David had a home in Hillside Haven. Arriving at his place, a sprawling Victorian painted periwinkle blue with coordinated vanilla cream and apricot trim, we gazed upon property so cultivated it could have been in Kew Gardens, London itself. The barbecue wasn’t even lit; in fact it was in a cardboard box. It was a charcoal grill, the kind you buy in the supermarket for $5 on sale at the end of the season, that you have to put together yourself in only 2 ½ hour, and it falls totally apart if you put a steak that weighs over one pound on it. There was a full, sealed can of Kingsford lighter fluid on a table carved totally out of slate with butterflies neatly engraved on the top and legs, nearby. “Beer’s inside love, and damn, I’m out of charcoal”, shouts David, picking up an empty bag and shaking it like it was a can of Rustoleum spray paint, all the while speaking in a singsong manner that led me to believe he never even had any charcoal around in the first place in my place and that it was a ploy to get me there. Well, damn, I am thinking, did he know how I felt about his accent? I swear men, and some women who are of another persuasion, can read it on my face. There is something printed on my forehead I’m sure.
Jolene has made herself comfortable sitting in David’s red Jaguar convertible parked in the carport behind the house. Despite a proliferation of flying insects she never seemed hassled. She always carries a book in her purse, a purse large enough to fit a small camel in. It’s always the same book, Stranger in a Strange Land, by Robert Heinlein. It’s her manual, like a Bible, or something I’d venture to guess. She’s tried to get me to read it for years, but I keep putting it off, like I’m terrified it’s going to change my life in an unexpected way. She’s bought me at least six copies which I always misplace. Jolene opens the book to read knowing full well I’m going to be a while. I’m hoping I’m going to be a while……. David shows me his home, we walk around the entire downstairs, refreshingly cool, it still has not felt the heat of day, just like the Quaint Café I imagine, unless they’ve made any of those FontinaPancetta Paninni’s they are so famous for. We go up a wrought iron spiral staircase to his bedroom, it almost makes me dizzy. A $200 bottle of red wine, Fitzgerald’s Emerald Liquor Emporium price sticker in full view, sits on the nightstand, a shiny black ebony Japanese piece with pearl inlay, straight from a 1940’s movie. I am offered a crystal glass, must be Waterford I am thinking. A Waterford glass has become my Waterloo. I think of Eugene so far away in Johannesburg, do they make fine expensive wines there I ponder. I think of the condoms I always carry. Finally, I am feeling the heat of the day, as he opens the wine.
“Cheers, to a jolly good time!” I toast my accented lover, adding him to an extensive international collection. As David’s hands touch me for the first time since our accent encounter, I realize it has only been his voice me remove my panties.
JoAnn Bertone Chmielowski
October 19, 2009
UPON MY FATHER'S PASSING
John Bertone
August 29, 1920 - January 4, 2010
BACKGROUND:
It was a trip, and a trip it was to my father JOHN BERTONE'S wake at Miraglia Funeral Chapels, the family's favorite Brooklyn funeral parlor, presently co-owned and operated by my childhood friend and sweetheart, Funeral Director/Catholic School Biology Teacher Joey Miraglia. He has five children. Joey took the business over after his father Dominick Sr. died of old age about four years ago, along with his older brother, the red-headed Nick Jr. who used to threaten and chase us out of his room for trying to steal his records when we were kids. I finally made restitution for my pesky behavior by leaving him an alligator topped pencil in the funeral parlor office pencil holder. The fact that my best friend Roseann used to live with her backyard facing the rear of the funeral parlor building (housed in what was formally a Spinner’s Supermarket) and she and I would make ghostly noises upon spying the ghastly scene of the undertaker taking in the dead bodies, gave Miraglia Funeral Chapels even more of a personal touch.
LOCATION:
Miraglia Funeral Chapels is located right under the "El" (elevated D-train, formally the B-train, subway line), so, every ten minutes or so, a train goes by and vibrates the whole building including the big old chandelier in the lobby. Especially the big old chandelier in the lobby, And, it is right down the block from my favorite pizzeria of my youth, Lenny's. It was there, in that very Lenny's Pizzeria in fact, and on that very block, they filmed a famous scene in Saturday Night Fever. This was a marvelous location for the place because I was able to run out in the sobering cold wind to get the best slice I've had in 20 years. It made the whole trip worth the trouble. And Lenny's even now has a Starbucks conveniently located next door. Imagine that.
DESCRIPTION:
Three wakes going on at once. Two chapels each replete with dozens of dark-haired, very well-rounded, very well-endowed Italians who all look the same, and all sound the same by virtue of their extreme Brooklyn accents (myself, my husband and half-Polish family, an exception of course, although the way I've been eating due to stress may qualify me shortly if I darken my hair). And another chapel was overflowing with small Korean people. So fittingly, my eldest daughter arrived in her Muslim head covering with a Grande Starbuck's Café Mocha Latte in her hand to successfully complete the picture.
Chapel A, our chapel for the day, was decorated with many of my father's old hand tools, including the beautiful old saw and drill that have been hanging in my kitchen for years (except for when I need to cut or drill something). It may have even looked like a strange work site strewn with large spectacular floral arrangements, if only had I remembered to bring along his old ladder. My father was by trade, a master carpenter for nearly his whole life. He discovered his talent, when, as a teenager he was banished to an unfinished basement in the family's Maspeth house, to make room for his newly-wed sister and her husband who did not have a job. They needed his room to consummate their newly married life. They eventually had 11 children. So my father Giovanni, not even out of high school, finished the basement for himself, and even put in a bathroom and kitchen.
The tables of Chapel A were strewn with screws, nails, nuts, bolts of all descriptions. I had to explain to my daughter Julie that the nails without heads, round or oval wire nails, are used when they need to be punched below the surface of the wood, and that the nail I gave her wasn’t “broken”. In my pocket were some rusty nails of my father's that I was giving out as mementos to the family members and friends who attended. A very nice and very gay florist named Matty made up a huge, and hugely expensive floral arrangement in the shape of a hammer for me.
SPECIAL MOMENTS:
After reading aloud an Albert Einstein quote that my son Andrew texted to me “The illusion that we are separate from one another is an optical delusion of our consciousness”- - - - the most beautiful moment of this day came as I was speaking to everyone in an improvised eulogy of sorts. I realized upon looking out, that nearly each and every person sitting there had something either repaired or built in their household by my father, who regardless of whether he just worked a long day or not, loved his trade and loved helping family and friends with his master talents. And certainly he had also been the “giver of repair” to many others who, though they could not attend this service, hold him in their loving thoughts and prayers. Dad never complained in his life about having to go to work, with the exception of the Sunday night “heebie-jeebies”. I must say his pet-peeve though, was about door-knobs that didn't work properly. This would turn a loving man into a raving maniac with tools. Anyone who knew my father well would certainly agree with this. He even had door-knob plaques given to him upon retirement in 1982 from the Board of Education Carpentry Division, where he had spent much of his work career. I had just brought them through airport security for this occasion. Two security agents, despite their job requirements to look serious and sound cold, broke up laughing and told me they liked my knobs, which they subsequently whisked off to an x-ray machine for scanning.
My husband Joe took many painstaking hours compiling old photographs of the family which included many of the people present and their grandparents, parents (including my mom Connie who died 28 years ago), sister and brothers, and aunts and uncles that went before them. I tried not to interpret this display as a reminder me that I am in the next generation in the line up to join the dearly departed, but that simply, I am now an orphan. My cousin Bernadette, who is my age, especially chuckled at that silly thought as we were discussing the ravages of time.
The Irish priest with a shock of wild white hair came in while we were all laughing hysterically and reminiscing about barbecued steaks, clams, fruit, pulpo, Italian bread, scungilli, and anchovies, to lead us in prayer. It was a hard transition no doubt, but he was skillful in capturing the attention of the talkative Bertone and Rallo family members and friends. He too took special note of the Board of Education, NYC, Public School doorknobs that adorned Chapel A. The priest mentioned the doorknobs in his homily the next day, of course, in an entirely different vein than the security agents at the airport!
The light on the wall with the closing time message was gently flashing. Yes, closing time came, goodbyes were exceedingly difficult to make, as it was so wonderful to see everyone. My father's body lay in its casket, its face, the only one in the room unaffected by the taking of these fare-thee-wells. Oddly, in death, he looked so young and handsome. I am seriously thinking the mortician had aspirations of being a cosmetic surgeon at one time or another or that he had definitely missed his calling.
THE NEXT DAY:
The next morning came quickly. We arose in our Bay Ridge hotel room, after not too much sleep, to attend the funeral mass at St. Finbar's, what Saint is that, St. Finbar's Church. I always took pride as a child that my church had an unusual name no one had ever heard of. I can’t recall what St. Finbar was canonized for, but at least now, I can Google him. It was a bright sunny day and the stained glass was even more beautiful than I had remembered it. This was the church Joe and I got married in over 32 years ago.
To the pagentry of the Irish priest with the shock of white hair, the copious incense, the rhythm of the pot-bellied pall bearers steps (who all looked alike with their black coats) and to the music of the pipe organ and chant of the singer, we followed my father's casket down the long aisle. St. Finbar's, what Saint is that, St. Finbar's has these great big marble pillars so we needed to strategically place ourselves in the pews. The mass began, and my family comprised mostly of heathens so far as I can discern, seemed impressed at my being the only one able to sing all the psalms and hymns, both difficult words to spell at any rate. (Not everyone knows I teach in a Catholic school - it hones my skills since we are required to attend mass in the school chapel with our students at least once a month). But I did take delight and comfort at singing, loudly. Especially the Ave Maria. My apologies to everyone.
Exiting the church, Josie, my second mother, her daughter Maria, my "sister", my daughters Emily and Julie, and I embarked on a limousine ride through the old neighborhood which is now more colorful than when I was a child, both literally and figuratively. The funeral procession followed slowly along, their flashers flashing and hunter’s orange funeral stickers prominently displayed. How this turned into a high-speed chase over two boroughs and two bridges to the cemetery in New Jersey where my dad would join my mom, I honestly don’t know, but it did. That’s just the way they drive in the city, hearses included. Interestingly, the areas in the cemetery are divided by trade unions, obviously, they had been the target of the cemetery plot salespeople at one time. Carpenters union buried next to teamsters union, next to mill workers union, next to machinists union etc. Joey Miraglia gave a final eulogy and prayer for my Dad adding some memories from his own childhood. His eyes welled with tears; this took me aback so, because this is what Joey does every weekend after being a teacher all week; his business. In gusty winds, we all placed a beautiful red rose on the shiny black casket with its chrome handles. I was glad I wore my ugly black down coat.
FINALE:
My cousin Barbara, who lives only 15 minutes from the cemetery, invited us all to her beautiful home for a delicious meal, which she and her husband Lenny lovingly prepared. She is my Uncle Bob's daughter. Uncle Bob died about 17 years ago, and was my favorite uncle. There were about 20 of us in all that were present. I am so grateful to her for doing that for us as it gave us a chance to recharge and relax before the long ride home. Most importantly, however, it gave us an opportunity to make plans to get together again under different circumstances. My Dad was his happiest around large gatherings of family and friends; a very social man, he would have loved the party my cousin gave in his honor. My husband was very patient for the long Sicilian goodbyes that ensued at our departure, which took us in all, over an hour. May we all eventually come to learn that saying goodbye is a process, not a word.
Goodbye Dad. You have climbed the final ladder which leads to heaven. I’m sure even there you will find busted doorknobs!
JoAnn Bertone Chmielowski
January 11, 2010
BOBBY'S HAT
by JoAnn Bertone Chmielowski
March 5, 2012
After yelling for Mamma to find his silver tie tack (it was really white gold with a big diamond in it), Pappa never returned to the bedroom to finish getting dressed. It was our last night with my brother Enzo before he was leaving for army in North Africa. He was going to be deployed to the Fifth Army under General Clark. Mamma had not been herself for many weeks since Enzo had enlisted and left for basic training. He even showed her the country Algeria on the map and she was surprised how close it was to her Sicily. Although she was praying more than ever, she still worried, even when he was just learning to be a soldier in Death Valley. A candle was burning, day and night, under her statues. Enzo sent me a postcard from some place called Yuma, and although he said the army was hard work, he made it sound nice too. I can't even imagine what she will be like when he is with General Clark in Algeria.
My
other Uncle Tony was taking us out to a special place where they were
going to serve us food, and everyone knows him by a different name.
Mamma told me I would have to put a big white cloth napkin on my lap,
and I couldn't figure out why, but because it was
Enzo's special evening and Mamma was so nervous, I was just going to do
it without asking any questions. I thought about the napkin all day
though. And I rehearsed my other Uncle Tony's new name over and over,
even saying it out loud. I wasn't supposed to talk to the men, but just
in case they asked me any questions, I didn't want to say the wrong name
by accident.
It
was a very hot for a March day, but Mamma insisted on my wearing my
heavy wool stockings, as she was always afraid of my getting sick again;
I had just got better after something the doctor called rheumatic
fever. Whenever Dr. Scarborough came to our apartment, everyone in the
building knew it was serious. One person he visited before was Pappa,
and those visits were becoming more and more frequent. Pappa had been
unable to work, even at the fish market job, because Enzo was no longer
there to
help him any more since he joined the army. And the doctor cost a lot
of money. I was scared when he came to see me, about what he was going
to do to me, and especially about the money, but Mamma told me he was
very nice, and would help me be able to get out of bed. Anyway, I hated
the cold baths she was giving me to cool my fevers. And she was right,
he was very nice and was even able to speak some Italian so Mamma would
understand what was wrong with me. I had missed school for a very long
time. Now, I could finally look forward to returning because my teacher
Miss Baldwin was going to talk about something called biology.
Being
home alone all winter wasn't so bad as I thought it would be; I was
sleeping a lot with the fevers. Up until the war, Mamma always worked at
home . When the old Jew from Rogers Peet died, Mamma was out of work
for
almost two weeks. She was so lucky there were lot of sewing jobs in
factories and Mamma got one working on Eisenhower jackets for the
officers. It was in the same factory where her friend Dolly downstairs
worked. Dolly downstairs' husband had joined the army a less than a
couple of months ago, and now she was pregnant and kept throwing up.
Mama said it was not a bad thing for all the women to be working now
that the men were off at war. But, the days were very,
very long and Mamma was thankful to have a half day on Saturday off to
do all the housework that I couldn't do being that I was so sick. Right
now, I was happy thinking about the napkin that would be on my lap, and
rehearsing my other Uncle Tony's other name, but mostly, I was busy
pulling on those thick black wool stockings. They were way too small,
since, despite being so sick, I had grown a lot taller over the
winter.
I
heard Mamma shout to Pappa she had found his tie-tack, and then she
started to scream. I ran with my stockings half pulled up, and saw her
through the open bathroom door, lying on the floor by Pappa. There was
blood all over and it was coming out of his mouth. We never made it to
our dinner.
A few men came back the next day and put Pappa's body, in his best suit, tie and tie tack, the things he was going to wear for Enzo's going-away dinner at the nice restaurant, in the front room. People started to come to the house to visit him, and it was all I could do to keep filling their wine glasses and wash the plates they had used. Aunt Rosie and my girl cousins spent the whole time in the kitchen preparing food, and plating it up with the help of Dolly downstairs, while Mamma, in her black dress and veil sat at the casket, moaning and moaning, her face looking paler than Pappa's white shirt. Her knuckles were as white from clenching her rosary beads, the only possession she had brought with her from Italy. This went on for three days, and so many people came and went. Enzo got special permission from the Army to stay with us. Pappa's friend Bobby Reesch (he had changed it from Ricciardelli for his job) had seen to that. After three days of unusually warm weather and a house full of people, the apartment smelled very, very bad. It was the worst thing I ever smelled and I was not in the least bit sad to see them close the casket and take Pappa to the church and then to the cemetery in Brooklyn. Bobby said he would take care of us; his staying close by Momma, with his arm around her made me feel very strange. It turned out that Enzo wasn't going leave for the army after all; Bobby took care of that too. And he got him work to help the family since I was only 13 and Mamma wouldn't let me work instead of going to school. I was going to learn everything she didn't have a chance to learn, she said, and now I knew it was especially important since Pappa wouldn't be able to read Il Progresso to her anymore.
Enzo kept his handsome uniform and even took some pictures in it, which puzzled me. Bobby Reesch got him a lot of work collecting quarters from the Time Square girly machines. Though it didn't seem as exciting as his other job running medicine up to Harlem, he could pocket a few quarters, that was understood. Either way, he was enslaved, screwed he said, if he was to quit. He was smart and knew far too much about the boss. "A job is a job, anyway. Helps to feed the family" he told me, stoically accepting this new burden. He had worked with Pappa gutting and fileting at the fish market since he was 12, so he was used to working.
I felt guilty not working, it seemed like Mamma had stopped doing everything except sewing the buttonholes. I even went to the market after school with the money Enzo told me to tuck into my stockings, which barely covered my knees. I put the leftover money in the collection box at church. It seemed like no one came to our apartment like they used to, only Bobby. Aunt Rosie, my other Uncle Tony and my cousins always came every Sunday, and, well with Mamma the way she was, and with Pappa gone, I guess they didn't want to anymore. I was glad that Dolly downstairs had a daughter my age, Josephine, and we became good friends.She explained to me how her mom was pregnant, and I knew she was right because I asked Miss Baldwin. The baby was due at the end of the summer, and she was very excited she was going to be helping to take care of it, although it meant she also would have to leave school and work because her mother wouldn't be able to for a while. Dolly downstairs was teaching us both how to sew the buttonholes and mine looked perfect. I was proud to run upstairs and show Mamma, but she wasn't interested. Bobby's hat was on the table.
JoAnn Bertone Chmielowski
June 2011
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