for these products, but you were extended credit even before credit cards became commonplace—you were trusted and charged no interest. You left the money you owed in cash in the company’s envelope and placed it securely in the milk box until tomorrow’s delivery. I still have a metal Roberts milk box trying not to rust away in the garage like many forgotten things of the past.
A big yellow truck hauling three men collected the neighborhood trash like clockwork every Wednesday in our neighborhood. Recycling was not in vogue. There were no plastic trash bags, only aluminum or metal trashcans. Each and early every Wednesday morning during the summer, Mark, my back door friend and I, sifted through the trashcans of the neighborhood looking for discarded Stokely van Camp company canned vegetables, fruits, etc. Armed with our trusty razor blade cutters with no thought of malice, delinquency or terrorism, we slashed the can labels that could be mailed to the packing company and bartered for prizes—just as magnificent as Battlecreek, Michigan. It was a time when you did not fear sticking your hands into somebody else’s trash of life.
As a child, you really enjoyed the summer because you were actually out of school for at least three months because the next school year did not commence until after Labor Day. Schools did not legislate wholesale group testing, 185 days of attendance, or made-up snow days—and yet, children of the time did not grow up uncouth and stupid! Summer days were long back then and summer evenings seemed forever endless. You had time to decompress from the school year and enjoy a good part of the summer before thoughts of schooling reentered consciousness. What you forgot over the summer usually was something you were not going to use as adults anyway. As a young child, it was your most favorite time of life that you hoped would never end even though year by year you knowingly felt it slip away, as being childlike gave way to maturity.
Summer ice cream cost a nickel or a dime, as the ringing bells or music of the Mr. Softy truck or the three-wheeled bicycle with the icebox lodged in front of the handlebars beckoned you. Children searched their family’s couches and chairs, or begged for coins as others ran into the street ready to make their purchases. You rode your bicycles everywhere, especially to the local prescription or drug store where ice cream and sodas were on tap. You played baseball or football in adjoining yards and did your best, albeit not always successfully, at not breaking glass—what a pane!
My parents were proud of their Italian heritage and participated in the Italian celebrations at the time. The annual Little Italy festival occurred each summer at a local parish south of downtown. The sites, sounds, and foods of Italy filled one’s senses and brought familiarity and comfort to first generation Italians. Also, there was an army camp in the southern part of the state that played a major role in U.S. efforts during World War II. This camp was constructed early in 1942 when the American government purchased tracts of land to build a key military installation in our state. During World War II, the camp was home to some 15,000 Italian and German prisoners of war. During their internment, the Italian prisoners of war built the Chapel in the Meadow, in part due to their appreciation for their humane treatment at the hand of their captors. Every year thereafter in late summer, Italians gather at the army camp to celebrate the Mass outside of the Chapel in the Meadow before joining each other for Italian food, drink, and fun.
Well, those are the sum of my parts that I remember today and shared with the peers of my yesterday. These are the experiences that influenced my parents and, in turn, impacted on my life choices.
Now, let me tell you about another beginning in my life…
This beginning was some 22 years ago. Charly and I were married on a cold January morn in 1984 having proposed to her six months earlier. We had many discussions about our marriage, as I am Roman Catholic; Charly is not being a generalized Christian. Catholicism is steep in deep ritual, rules, and Canon Law. Doctrine dictates that a Catholic can indeed marry a non-Catholic Christian; however, permission from our region’s Bishop would be required. Also, Charly must learn and accept the teachings of the Catholic Church on Christian marriage. In turn, I, with Charly’s knowledge, must promise to continue practicing my faith and to bring up our children in the Catholic faith. Although Charly did not summarily reject out of hand the conditions of faith, she was never one who wanted her choices to be predetermined. After much discussion, we opted to have a civil marriage recognizing that a more proper Catholic or Christian wedding was a future prospect. Ironically, Charly participated in Catholic instruction and was baptized into the Catholic Church one year later.
So, our wedding day was not a particularly enchanting day—at least from the point of view of ritual, pomp, and ceremony. We were not blessed with a grand church wedding attended by all the relatives and friends of the bride and groom; instead, an everyday Justice of the Peace ‘gave up his good life’ just to unite us. The wedding sanctuary was a sterile office setting with row upon row of desks and filing cabinets. The mechanical taps of electronic typewriters forced by the fingering of hurried clerks echoed in the background. Neither the tune nor the cadence produced was remotely reminiscent of the wedding march.
Fortunately, not everyone was a stranger as there were several people present that Charly and I knew. My brother Rick, and his family stood by our sides as witnesses to our formal mating. As we waited for the Honorable Justice, the kids became restless and pranced around the well-worn wooden chairs. Twenty minutes after our date with destiny, the Justice arrived and introduced himself as the “Honorable Justice Justin Justwill.” After we exchanged customary pleasantries, the Honorable Justice’s opening remarks were notable, steeped in tradition, and forever etched in our minds: “I can make this as short or long as you want. You don’t even need me. You have your marriage license.” With such fiery passion and ritualism, Charly and I were overcome with wedded bliss . . . and tradition be damned!
The ceremony continued long enough for a single wedding picture to be snapped. It was not your ordinary wedding picture for it accentuated the incomparable marriage motif in the background: the American flag and unending rows of mundane-colored filing cabinets. In a very short time, Charly and I were certified man and wife. For a moment, I was uncertain as whether to kiss the bride or salute the flag! Since I am not one to tempt fate, I ended up doing both. We had nobody’s blessing in particular—neither God nor church—but we were just as married and just as happy. Why not? After all, we were completely in love and cared deeply about each other.
Charly and I met several years before our wedding. I frequented a local toy store for though I had no children, they were very much a part of my every day life—nephews, nieces, kids of close friends, and children seen in my professional contacts. My parents lived far away at a distance separated by five states. The children of friends were considered my family—at least I often thought of them that way. Sometimes “feeling” part of their family can be a painful experience. You share in the family experience, but these experiences unkindly remind you from time to time that you are not a family member. You care and you are cared about. You give and they give back. You love and they love back. The cold realization, however, is that eventually you leave as everyone else stays. Even your friends can at times be unkind without intending to do so and they typically have no awareness or knowledge of their silent transgressions.
Having said all that, children and having a childlike nature were the common threads that brought Charly and me together. Being immature or I believe the politically correct identification of being maturationally challenged can have its benefits. Charly was the assistant manager of a local family-owned toy and hobby store. Although it was a very large store, the owners were quite family oriented. They took interest and pride in serving the shopper, including the smallest ones who otherwise were typically admonished for touching, dropping, breaking, or innocently staring at amazingly awesome store merchandise. Charly was perceptibly charming and accommodating. I attributed her charm to her kind temperament and warm smile.
