that romantic idiom. She had, excuse the cliché, the kind of smile that made your troubles melt away as soon as you walked in the store. Charly paid attention to detail and her compulsiveness showed in the assistance that she provided you. It was not long before I shopped at the toy store for self-serving reasons. I shopped more often than needed. Charly seemed aware of this, but she did not appear to mind, complain, or file a protective restraining order.
I was surprised, fortunate, and content to have met somebody like Charly, let alone fall in love with her. Surprised? Well, yes. You see, I went through a period in my life during which time dating was frowned upon—actually, I was not permitted to date… did not consider dating… and willing accepting it. I later found myself in the position of catching up with my male counterparts in the social arena. However, I am getting ahead of myself once again . . .
Let me start at another beginning. This is the beginning of the end that we all share in common, the universal type: the day of delivery… Deliverance? Do you hear a banjo or two? I was born in October of 1951. My beginning of the end was, of course, linked historically to my parents. That goes without saying, but I decided to say it anyway. My mother was born in Carrara, Italy in May 1924. My father was of strong Italian heritage, but born in Memphis, Tennessee in June 1914. My father was in the armed services and they met during the waning years of World War II. Well, “met” is not exactly true. A mutual friend introduced my mother and father the old fashioned European way. My parents later married in New York in May 1948.
It would be less than candid to say I remembered anything about my entrance into this world, and based on the unfolding events of the time, quite fortunate as well. As my birth approached, my parents were experiencing a devastating beginning of the end coinciding with my beginning: the illness and subsequent death of my paternal grandfather several months before my birth. Grandpa Edgar was an Italian sculptor who worked in marble and stone, as he created many sculptures for buildings and museums that are still exhibited today around America. He was born in Southern Italy in 1884 and immigrated to the United States in 1909. According to the American Family Immigration Center at Ellis Island (http://www.ellisisland.org), more than 22 million immigrants, passengers and crew passed through Ellis Island and the Port of New York between 1892 and 1924. The Center documents that my grandfather traveled on the ship Barbarossa built in Hamburg, Germany in 1897. The Barbarossa had a service speed of 14.5 knots and carried 2,392 passengers. Historically, the Barbarossa was seized by the United States Navy for a troop transport in 1917 and renamed the USS Mercury. It was reportedly scrapped in 1924. Interestingly, World War II history buffs will recall that Barbarossa was the code name given by Adolph Hitler to the German attack on the Soviet Union in June 1941. Historians have referred to this attack as Hitler’s worst single military blunder because of the massive conflict that he unleashed ended four years later, in May 1945, with his reported suicide in his Berlin bunker.
The registry indicates that my grandfather traveled under the first name of Egisto. His port of departure was Genoa, Liguria, Italy. My grandfather immigrated to America in 1909 at the age of 26 stating that he was visiting his uncle Catozzie at 400 Bay Street, San Francisco. He arrived at Ellis Island on March 19, 1909 and received his certificate of naturalization in the United States on June 16, 1944 at the age of 61. At the time of his immigration, grandpa was described as having dark hair, brown eyes, and a stature of 5 feet, 6 inches. The ship’s manifest identified my grandfather’s marital status as ‘married.’
My paternal grandmother was born in February 1806. Why my grandmother, who called herself Adunia in Italy but changed her name to Antonetta in America, did not voyage with grandfather at that time is another story. I will only say that she immigrated to the United States some five years later in 1914 when, as it was told to me, grandfather demanded that she span the Atlantic soon or he would find a new life partner. Five other married men from Carrara, Italy traveled with my grandfather. Curiously, they also traveled without their spouses—well, that’s also another story.
Grandpa Edgar was said to be a kind man, spry in his old age and full of youth. I never met him, of course, but I saw my elderly grandfather laughing and running swiftly in several vintage black and white 8 MM home movies. Grandpa Edgar developed emphysema and other respiratory problems, which were attributed to the dust from his carvings that progressively hardened in his lungs over the years. He was bedridden for several years and weakened steadily until his death at age 67. His sculptures adorn many museums and buildings throughout the United States. Among his works are a bust of Abraham Lincoln, which stands in the Nancy Hanks Lincoln Memorial, and a bust of our state’s ex-governor at a state university. Grandpa also sculpted statuary in the state’s federal building and local high school. I was unaware of my parents’ struggle with their bipolar feelings of happiness and sadness as these two events collided horridly. I was safely protected in my mother’s womb, as my grandfather died on August 30th, several months before my birth. Perhaps coming along at the time that I did eased or distracted the ache of my parents and grandmother. I do not know because my family never discussed this tragedy.
My mother recently gave me a photograph snapped shortly after my birth. It was an old black and white photo that you knew with immediate confidence was taken with an original Brownie camera. In the photo, a nurse draped in hospital white held somberly my 19¼ inch frame and 7-pound, 11¼-ounce body. The nurse wore a white gown, white cap and white surgical mask across her mouth. She appeared as sterile as her uniform. I was wrapped in a white cloth and looked quite bored. The occasion apparently did not impact on me as a particularly invigorating one. I was giving the new world in which I found myself a big, wide yawn as my little fingers covered what they could of my mouth. The photo documented that good manners are as much instinctual as they are learned. God only knew what I thought about being held by this masked stranger, but I guessed that Tonto must not have been far away! I was a cute baby, and obviously destined to grow up and do great things… at least that was my subjective take of the photograph.
My earliest recollections begin at about age three years. My older sister came before me and my younger brother was born after me just like clockwork. Yes, I can hear you again with that ‘hmm… the middle child…” Diplomatic? Manipulative? Chip on the shoulder? Tired of being left out of things? Why doesn’t anybody listen to me? Why doesn’t anyone understand me? It is said that one can escape the effects of birth order. Even if I cannot, I am in good company with other middle children: Dwight Eisenhower, Jack Kennedy, George Bush, and Tony Blair. Perhaps I missed my real calling and should have gone into politics! But I digress…
I remember that our father drove to work early in the morning. We often accompanied him since my mother liked shopping downtown… or perhaps she liked escaping the boundaries of our home to which she was confined 24/7 with us three munchkins. At that time, women were not career minded and homemaking with its many care-taking responsibilities was the singular career of “choice,” especially for European women. “Keep them barefoot and pregnant” was not just an idle idiom. It was certain that we three musketeers shattered our mother’s nerves now and then, maybe even more often than that. We unquestionably frazzled each other’s nerves and resolved our differences rather bluntly. The physical approach to conflict resolution is not uncommon among young children as an initial response and our behavior was no exception.
Unfortunately, my father began work at the state’s highway department several hours before the customary time for store openings. The impact of these early risings stayed with me as I am still cursed with rising with or before the roosters, and crowing just as loudly because of it. The downtown ritual was unbending. My father dropped off mother and her brood in front of a little church. The church was built in the early 1900s and neatly tucked away on a circular, brick road that identified the center of the city; hence, ‘The Circle.’ The church doors were opened 24/7 back in those days. Vandalism against a church, of all things, was unheard of at the time. Churches were the center of miracles, not the victims of sin. I was raised Roman Catholic and always thought it ironic that God’s home is now opened only certain hours of the day. It is like a realtor
