Forty one years ago tomorrow my grandfather died in my father's arms. A little more than thirty eight years after that day my father would die in mine. Nonno would be one hundred and thirty two years old were he alive today. My vividest memories of him involve those dominated by the senses of smell and touch, the former, I understand, being closely related to that part of our brains dealing with remembrance. In 1955, a typical visit to my Nonno and Nonna's house on "The Hill" (a sleepy semi cul-de-sac across from the huge and lengthy stone wall of the east side of New Calvary cemetery, separated from it by and mostly parallel to a small segment of the then cobble-stoned 58th street in Woodside, Queens, N.Y.C.) would, of a Sunday afternoon, involve many pleasant and some not so pleasant odors, tactile treats or at least curiosities, and sights and sounds too that a pre-kindergartener reveled in, free for a few months more, from the bland socialization of ethnically neutral rules and the credo of "learning to play well with others" that an urban American public school education entailed at mid-century. Not that I was a free spirit roaming my father's parents' home fearlessly and heedless of adults and others. Mischievous cousins, my brother and I whooped it up assuredly, but this was balanced by fretful aunts and my high-strung mother and even the occasional cautionary talk by my serene Dad and uncles of varying temperaments that ensured that my socialization was well along if not yet moulded in quite the same way by the aforementioned didactic forces.
But back to the fun: Nonno would greet one and all with a big wet kiss. This was your first adventure into this very different world of the senses. What was that salty/peppery, sneezy phenomenon that assaulted your nose's little receptor cells when Nonno "smooched" you? And wow! Why did his face hurt your face? You knew he liked you a lot, but why did the encounter scratch so much? At 76 then, Nonno was working, but only occasionally in his garden of fig trees and "basilico" or on the little patch of land that he owned and grew zucchini on behind our former backyard (we lived only a block away until '51), and was retired for all practical purposes. Shaving was neither required nor fussed over at this stage of his life, hence the scratchiness, especially for one whose skin was still little different than a newborn's. A fondness for imported, powdered snuff (that he kept in a small silver box or one of dark wood and of the horn of an animal and trimmed with silver too), had formed a habit almost as ancient as he was and explained the wrinkling and wiggling of the edges of my nostrils (much like those of the baby rabbits Dad gave us, and then upon Mom's veto, to Nonno one Easter) whenever they came near to his.
Nonna was yet another "trip" for one's quickly developing olfactory nerves. She was ten years Nonno's junior and a mesomorphic woman, (unlike Nonno with his slight rotundity), prematurely white haired (since her thirties) of grinning, gregarious ways and quite sly. She worked very hard and perspired freely with her summer dresses more often than not revealing a drooping white strap from her slip below one of the outer garment's shoulders. Her kitchen's odors seemed to follow her into any room in the house to which she often and energetically ambled. A moist buss from Nonna came to mean that tomato sauce, olive oil, various cheeses, fresh fruits and vegetables plus her sweat, spittle and cologne were all part of a strong and exotic mix that was uniquely hers and that, were you magically struck blind and deaf a moment before entering her door, you'd know, even before being embraced, that you were in her presence.
Their house itself became this familiar but special universe of unique adventure, its furniture and infinitely varied objects mostly available for a little one's inspection like a huge prop box backstage from where a period play was being performed. A particularly fond memory and microcosm of this analogy was a heavy drawer of a utilitarian piece of furniture in the dining room between the living room and kitchen whose height was just right for the line of sight of a curious pre-schooler. In this amazingly cluttered space one could play undistracted for what must have seemed hours to impatient grownups. Herein, small objects abounded, earmarked for attention and some future usefulness by Nonno and Nonna, but their histories told a story of the passage of time, inertness and benign neglect. Not truly ancient "stuff", but to a child's eyes, here was a wondrous treasure trove of mysterious, enthralling gewgaws and gimcracks of really not then distant earlier parts of the twentieth century that were experienced as seemingly endlessly singular curiosities that no toy store could equal in riveting one's attention and that were free of prohibiting boxes and scolding clerks. The waxy white head of a helmeted knight, still scented after its long ended function as the top of an after shave lotion bottle, a Junior Birdmen of America rubber stamp, electrical wires hopelessly tangled, mousetraps, buttons galore, military shoulder patches from the relatively recent greatest war in human history, with a sprinkling of Axis forces' patches and metal accessories included with the U.S. forces' items, matchboxes, cartoons for grownups with bilingual gags (English and fractured French) imprinted on paper cocktail napkins, and countless other marvels to our way of thinking: these were just a very few of the surprises in this "grab bag" of things.
There was, within and right by the entrance and big door to the house (which was at the top of a long set of stone and concrete steps), a large glass candy dish on a tall narrow table by the room's light switch, never empty of green and purple globes of cellophane wrapped treats: sweet "marbles" that never disappointed. One was immediately in the living room upon crossing this threshold and was standing on a huge red carpet, its brilliance perhaps dimmed by time and dirt, and with an indeterminate design of black and gold flowers. There was big stuffed furniture: easy chairs covered with doilies, coffee tables and a hassock, drapes (for the big picture window as well as, from ceiling to floor: for the archway to the dining room and behind a very big sofa) and covered radiators, an Admiral black and white television/radio/phonograph encased by dark wood forming enclosing doors with brass handles and definitely not portable, two floor lamps with pull chains: one with three light bulbs and one of them of painted red glass, the aforementioned massive sofa covered by dark green toothbrush-like tufts of material, similarly scratchy to Nonno's beard for a five year old's arms and legs, a towering china closet in a corner (technically off limits, but its many curiosities, including dolls with porcelain heads and a translucent blue cream pitcher with a Shirley Temple decal/photo on it, accessible with an indulgent adult's supervision). Hanging on the walls were photographs and paintings, the former in gilded ornate frames: an image of my father in a sailor/soldier suit, complete with puttees and a child's size rifle by his side and one of him several years older yet perhaps still not in his teens donning a three piece suit, his hair parted in the middle, confident and poised. This photo was actually above the second floor landing looking down upon anyone ascending the stairs which was located in the far right corner of the living room. A window on this landing was a mute reminder of the oft told tale of the early morning that Dad was aroused by a shouting Nonno who, in the adjacent bathroom, had fallen backwards into their old free standing bath tub while shaving (thus indicative of an earlier time). Dad had somnambulistically charged forward from his bedroom just opposite the landing, not turning left, and had run through the glass pane, not defenestrating, but of course magnifying the emergency for the cops and firemen who responded. But I digress (the abundance of memories must share culpability): Nonno's living room contained a closet that was really a tiny separate storeroom as it had its own window to the outside and for some reason was blocked completely by the big dark green couch. This area had once contained many bird cages wherein Nonna kept an aviary of canaries before I was born. Another family story was the occasion of my Uncle Dom's wedding in 1941 when his soon to be brother-in-law, Aloysius, a convivial man who enjoyed a glass or two, was alone on the couch when he thought he heard birds tweeting. When his wife arrived soon after, he complained to her, but an interval of silence at that point, resulted in the strong admonition to ease up on the imbibing and "Wishy's" quick agreement was nudged along by fear for his own sanity.
The paintings mentioned included two that were always gazed upon by me and my brother no matter how often we passed them. One was in oil on a fairly thick, rectangular wooden board. It was a possibly eighteenth century scene or even earlier of a couple seated and languishing amorously alongside a dinner table covered by a white cloth and in an outdoor setting, perhaps a park. Wine and fruit on the table and a picnic basket with other items on the ground completed the scene. The other was an amateurish water color of a modern day couple embracing ardently in a close-up exhibiting the cufflinked male's arms disproportionately long however passionate was his (and her) body "language." Seven more rooms and a delightfully mysterious attic and an even spookier unfinished basement, plus a two-car garage comprised the rest of the house and I could detail the items in and happy memories evoked by each one, but time and the original intention of this essay compel me to return to the person for whom it is entitled. Who was Nonno, beyond being one of many subjects for my joyous reminiscences of a blossoming world of childhood sensuality that was, and usually without intentional disabuse of the illusion by loving adults, my inviolate, and solely my "oyster?"
Nonno was, of course, a man and an extremely hardworking one who came to New York about 1906 from Arinella near Palermo, Sicily. The family history tells of his first meeting with Nonna taking place aboard the vessel they both were passengers on: in steerage. One of his first jobs was in the Ladies' Feathers business (if the that's the correct description). I believe he was self-employed in this field at some point. It was clearly a time when women of all social ranks wore feathers, mostly those of ostriches, on their headwear. He also worked on the construction of one or more of the subway tunnels connecting Brooklyn and/or Queens to Manhattan, serving as a "sandhog" in a job that no doubt entailed routinely considerable risk but no more perilous than his work with dynamite both in New york and back in Italy. His main, lifelong career was that of a grocer and fruit and produce vendor, a calling in which my father assisted him at an early age (before his teens) and which Dad continued and soon after also, by opening his own stores by the mid-1930s. Nonno, like Dad, worked 12 to 16 (or more) hour days, six days a week for decades. They were men of a certain fortitude that, even in my prime, I don't believe I could have matched. Reality, economics and a total incredulity about a mindset that would have countenanced help from the government or assistance from any non-family entity, however altruistic or benign, were what powered them and enabled them to live their fiercely independent and wonderfully giving lives for their family's sake. He was also, evidentially and genetically, so much like my Dad. I can only belatedly express how much I love him, anachronistically, and in a sense, impossibly, unlike through the eyes of the child that I was. Like Dad, I can now see that he was no saint and yet saintly. Like Dad, I can now see how gentle he was, though living in a world demanding great physical endurance and affording little time for navel gazing and self-analysis. I can see why Dad loved him so much and was devoted to him both as a business partner as well as a son. Their communication of love was not of the verbal or effusive kind. Their bond was total and was not conditional or merely for mutual advantage. It was very deep and was reflected in the story of the window accident: Dad was committed unstintingly, even in his sleep, to protecting his father. I experienced this feeling with Dad myself, but I always envied the longevity and scope of their relationship that was truly lifelong. My closeness to Dad was there, but it did not deepen until I sensed the start of his declining years. I am grateful for having learned to not take him for granted in these later years.
Like Dad, Nonno, perhaps not amazingly, was a real and really good guy. I'll bet, even had I not been his grandson, that he would have tolerated the prank of the doily that I stealthily placed on his balding pate while he snoozed one Sunday in one of those easy chairs in his living room. And even if, as a stranger's kid, I had also upped the ante, as I actually did, by trying the trick again with a small cloth square of olive drab camouflage mesh from one of our toy Army tanks we played with on the rug beside his weary bones, I believe he would have, as he actually did, chuckled and mumbled something in Sicilian and gone back to sleep. I prefer to believe though, that he was especially tickled, even quietly overjoyed, that this was his grandson learning the playfulness of love and trust. May he continue to rest, now in blissful, everlasting peace with Dad and with all my family members who have departed this vale of tears.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
To Serve
In Zaragoza, Spain there lived one Heriberto Blazquez who served with General Rafael Garcia Valino's forces at the Battle of the Ebro during that country's civil war in 1938. Blazquez was a Nationalist soldier or an insurgent, an anti-Bolshevist or a dirty Fascist, a defender of the Faith and the monarchy or a lackey of plutocratic robber barons. Perhaps he was none of the above. A description of who or what he was so often depended on one's view of the issues that were putting the flower of Spanish manhood (and much of the civilian populace) almost literally through a meat grinder whose cranking power was supplied by the maniacal hand of prehistoric hatreds of tribalism and class, as well as the rather new godless religions of socio-political ideology. At the start of this final year of peace throughout most of Europe, Heriberto was twenty three years old and had earned a fairly decent living working in his father Nestor's jewelry store as a watchmaker and repairer and helping to tend a quite small olive grove several kilometers outside of town with his cousin Jorge on weekends. The latest call to arms came early in the year when frosts were frequent but most everything else was smoldering or already in flames. Generalissimo Franco had exhorted those of his camp to redouble their efforts and expand the lists of volunteers. Heriberto was not a political animal, his psyche being something of an anomalous one in the universe and cultural temperament of his time and nation. Still, he had seen and heard much in the last nineteen months since the conflict began and his phlegmatic nature was slowly but surely being aroused. A local parish priest who was friendly with a visiting Italian pastor from Genoa who had assisted a mutual friend and photographer working for the Diocese of Madrid, had shared with Heriberto some of the gruesome photo albums on loan to him that were compiled in the early months of the war. Garroted or shot civilians, including clergymen and nuns, were all carefully chronicled with stark black i.d. tags with white lettering indicating registration numbers and dates of death that were hung about the necks of each victim. Included too were children, wizened laypersons of either sex as well as nondescript young and middle aged adults, more than a few of each group with shattered eye sockets or undamaged eyes, but with half-opened, unseeing orbs and the occasional dried streaks of blood etched vertically down each corner of the mouth like the telltale signs of the lifelessness and mockery of a ventriloquist's dummy. Heriberto had never seen a "raw" corpse before, only prepared and lovingly treated ones at funerals in church. Stories of defecations in churches or on the bodies of religious left him incredulous, then frightened and finally, angry. Until then, though the seeds of his hatred had already germinated (if only by degrees almost as imperceptible as those of his grandmother's favorite hot Portuguese peppers) he had not been in lockstep with the bugle blast of the national maelstrom. Now he was ready to heed the call.
His induction process was rather brief and within a fortnight he had already trained with live ammunition and the sounds of the battle were heard with increasing frequency, leaving little (or much) to the imagination of an untested youth. A mail call (his first) surprised him. That is, the celerity of the delivery caught him off guard. Yet the bigger shock was the envelope extended to him by his distracted and unpleasant sergeant. Its borders were black and a shiver went through him despite a self-assessment of placidity. Dreamlike, he poked a slender finger into the tiny space at one of its corners and ripped at the upper portion of the flap. It was from his mother. His brother Horacio, who lived and worked as an accountant in Barcelona was dead. "Shot through the heart at close range" read the local constabulary's report. Six of his co-workers met a similar fate on the same day. "They should have not worn their suits and ties in that neighborhood" his mother reported she had been informed. "My cousin Antonio lives in that city also", thought Heriberto. "He also does not dress in 'proletarian' clothing. He's a court clerk. Does mother know how he is?" he further pondered. Reflection and prayer were not, however, priorities of the army unless the former was the glint of the sun off the helmets and bayonets of Heriberto and his "camarades." The Falangist anthem "Cara al Sol" was no empty slogan and at the least, it allowed an opportunity of escape through "machismo" from the terror and loathing that war engendered in sane and introverted men like Heriberto. And events swiftly swept all, along this river of action and monolithic emotion and purpose: "Save Spain! Kill the Reds and their Sovietic minions!" Yes, Heriberto went to war and could not, for the moment, spare another conscious thought for his brother, his cousin or anyone else. Preparatory to, during, and after the successful crossing of a literal river, the snaking Ebro, Senor Blazquez had further continued to see and hear much. Attacks, counter-attacks, sieges and trench warfare not unlike the epic struggles in France barely twenty years earlier: the Zaragozan lived through these calamities with but one small sliver of shrapnel gouging his flesh above the right nipple and yet, so many invisible wounds accumulated, their rawness crowding his brain and stealing many an evening's rest with or without shelling and other bellicose disturbances. By the end of summer there now occurred enough of a lull in the fighting for him to realize how much he now longed, uselessly, to see his brother again and for the tedium of his little shop on Calle de la Corona de Aragon. Their superior artillery, their air forces nearly unopposed in the skies, better supplied and well fed: the morale of Heriberto and his friends was heightened particularly by the prospect of going home that such riches in materiel might allow rather than simply by his army's likelihood of assuming the role of vanquisher.
His near fluency in French and a rudimentary if halting facility in conversational English (early summers spent with cousins in the Pyrenees and a beloved school teacher uncle from Philadelphia ensconced for many summers with his family) made him a belatedly popular choice as acting interrogator (upon the death of his predecessor) on the rare occasions that foreign Republican troops were captured. His assignments to attend to the watches and other timepieces belonging to several colonels, including an assistant to General Valino, were cut short one day when a seeming "big fish", his beret festooned with revolutionary pins and hortatory slogans stitched along the sweatband, showed up between two hulking Morroccan guards, his ears bleeding, crazed eyes stabbing the ether with pain and defiance. "Nombre?" said Heriberto who now caught himself on this occasion of his first interview of a foreign prisoner: "Nom, name?" "Rango--rang, rank?" "Numero serial, serial number?" Sullen silence and a quick sizing up by the captive revolutionary of Heriberto's owlish visage and rimless spectacles brought the mute assessment: "foolishly decent shopkeeper type, a pantywaist and no soldier!" The captured man's right arm was raised, elbow locking rigidly as it formed an acute angle with his humerus and the ulnar/radius. The arm was held as high as the wounded man was able in the predictable clenched fist of international Marxism. Heriberto stared, as was his habit, no different than when examining a timepiece whose innards were not performing as desired. "Madre de mierda! Vaya con El Diablo!" croaked the Red soldier. Heriberto reached methodically, no rancor evinced, and brought down the taller man's arm and back to his side. A peculiar new kind of silence had all in the room alert and eyes focused solely on the man from Zaragoza. He coughed twice: first to hide a nervousness that he convinced himself only he perceived. The second was purposefully throat-clearing in a sincere wish to communicate clearly with the prisoner. A small fraction of a second after forming the thought "What is the position of your unit and its strength?" Heriberto realized the energy involved in fashioning a worthy translation and he then in another instant warmed to the fact of this man's hardly idiomatic Spanish and obvious "Norte Americano" accent that perhaps warranted another approach. But it was really impulse, uncharacteristically, that outraced what his training manual had dictated, and tumbling out of his mouth he heard himself utter in English: "Stranger, do you know of the Hall of the Independence in Philadelphia?" More weird silence. Heriberto's comrades were impressed though in the dark about what he was saying and why. Had he been a more whimsical man, Blazquez may have wondered too, at least why, he was posing this question. A mirthless smile began to curl the corners of the prisoner's mouth and he enunciated slowly and contemptuously: "Sergeant Rory Philmont, 45th International Division, 139th Brigade, formerly of the XV International Brigade, Abraham Lincoln Brigade, neither a slave to serial numbers nor to Fascism, SIR!" Philmont delighted in his non-linear, disobedient way of timing his answers and when Blazquez had at last formulated his translation and posed the question about troop strength and position, the prisoner eagerly bellowed "Nice guess, Four Eyes. The right state, but the wrong city. Pittsburgh.....makers of steel, men of steel, Pirates and bituminous coal. And you're gonna taste more black steel from Democracies' arsenals and our Soviet brothers' factories than you ever dreamed of, SIR!" Heriberto recognized the tone but not the meaning of the rapidly spat out English words. He had other matters to attend to and the American had an overblown estimation of his value to his enemy as opposed to the curiosity he engendered. Philmont's pride and loose tongue almost invited pity despite his imposing height. Motioning to a guard, Blazquez quietly said "Carcelero, por favor." Whisked away while humming the American folk song "Red River Valley", Heriberto knew that he had some time to pick Philmont's brain, but not much. He had fleetingly and childishly hoped for an animosity-free exchange about the history of Philadelphia and its famous Hall, but he remembered where he was and the sanguinary and heartless circumstances he had to operate in. Paperwork and an antique watch and fob belonging to Col. Lerida were still waiting on his desk. An hour and a half later he was permitted to sup: pigeon peas and brown bread with the rare luxury of a small slab of butter. "Una taza de cafe" and a quarter tablet of Mexican chocolate sated the weary young man. His moth eaten bedroll upon a very thin layer of straw in the corner of his tent seemed very inviting though he wished a flap could be cut through the moldy canvass wall adjacent to his sweaty balding head. He tried to sleep.
END OF PART 1
His induction process was rather brief and within a fortnight he had already trained with live ammunition and the sounds of the battle were heard with increasing frequency, leaving little (or much) to the imagination of an untested youth. A mail call (his first) surprised him. That is, the celerity of the delivery caught him off guard. Yet the bigger shock was the envelope extended to him by his distracted and unpleasant sergeant. Its borders were black and a shiver went through him despite a self-assessment of placidity. Dreamlike, he poked a slender finger into the tiny space at one of its corners and ripped at the upper portion of the flap. It was from his mother. His brother Horacio, who lived and worked as an accountant in Barcelona was dead. "Shot through the heart at close range" read the local constabulary's report. Six of his co-workers met a similar fate on the same day. "They should have not worn their suits and ties in that neighborhood" his mother reported she had been informed. "My cousin Antonio lives in that city also", thought Heriberto. "He also does not dress in 'proletarian' clothing. He's a court clerk. Does mother know how he is?" he further pondered. Reflection and prayer were not, however, priorities of the army unless the former was the glint of the sun off the helmets and bayonets of Heriberto and his "camarades." The Falangist anthem "Cara al Sol" was no empty slogan and at the least, it allowed an opportunity of escape through "machismo" from the terror and loathing that war engendered in sane and introverted men like Heriberto. And events swiftly swept all, along this river of action and monolithic emotion and purpose: "Save Spain! Kill the Reds and their Sovietic minions!" Yes, Heriberto went to war and could not, for the moment, spare another conscious thought for his brother, his cousin or anyone else. Preparatory to, during, and after the successful crossing of a literal river, the snaking Ebro, Senor Blazquez had further continued to see and hear much. Attacks, counter-attacks, sieges and trench warfare not unlike the epic struggles in France barely twenty years earlier: the Zaragozan lived through these calamities with but one small sliver of shrapnel gouging his flesh above the right nipple and yet, so many invisible wounds accumulated, their rawness crowding his brain and stealing many an evening's rest with or without shelling and other bellicose disturbances. By the end of summer there now occurred enough of a lull in the fighting for him to realize how much he now longed, uselessly, to see his brother again and for the tedium of his little shop on Calle de la Corona de Aragon. Their superior artillery, their air forces nearly unopposed in the skies, better supplied and well fed: the morale of Heriberto and his friends was heightened particularly by the prospect of going home that such riches in materiel might allow rather than simply by his army's likelihood of assuming the role of vanquisher.
His near fluency in French and a rudimentary if halting facility in conversational English (early summers spent with cousins in the Pyrenees and a beloved school teacher uncle from Philadelphia ensconced for many summers with his family) made him a belatedly popular choice as acting interrogator (upon the death of his predecessor) on the rare occasions that foreign Republican troops were captured. His assignments to attend to the watches and other timepieces belonging to several colonels, including an assistant to General Valino, were cut short one day when a seeming "big fish", his beret festooned with revolutionary pins and hortatory slogans stitched along the sweatband, showed up between two hulking Morroccan guards, his ears bleeding, crazed eyes stabbing the ether with pain and defiance. "Nombre?" said Heriberto who now caught himself on this occasion of his first interview of a foreign prisoner: "Nom, name?" "Rango--rang, rank?" "Numero serial, serial number?" Sullen silence and a quick sizing up by the captive revolutionary of Heriberto's owlish visage and rimless spectacles brought the mute assessment: "foolishly decent shopkeeper type, a pantywaist and no soldier!" The captured man's right arm was raised, elbow locking rigidly as it formed an acute angle with his humerus and the ulnar/radius. The arm was held as high as the wounded man was able in the predictable clenched fist of international Marxism. Heriberto stared, as was his habit, no different than when examining a timepiece whose innards were not performing as desired. "Madre de mierda! Vaya con El Diablo!" croaked the Red soldier. Heriberto reached methodically, no rancor evinced, and brought down the taller man's arm and back to his side. A peculiar new kind of silence had all in the room alert and eyes focused solely on the man from Zaragoza. He coughed twice: first to hide a nervousness that he convinced himself only he perceived. The second was purposefully throat-clearing in a sincere wish to communicate clearly with the prisoner. A small fraction of a second after forming the thought "What is the position of your unit and its strength?" Heriberto realized the energy involved in fashioning a worthy translation and he then in another instant warmed to the fact of this man's hardly idiomatic Spanish and obvious "Norte Americano" accent that perhaps warranted another approach. But it was really impulse, uncharacteristically, that outraced what his training manual had dictated, and tumbling out of his mouth he heard himself utter in English: "Stranger, do you know of the Hall of the Independence in Philadelphia?" More weird silence. Heriberto's comrades were impressed though in the dark about what he was saying and why. Had he been a more whimsical man, Blazquez may have wondered too, at least why, he was posing this question. A mirthless smile began to curl the corners of the prisoner's mouth and he enunciated slowly and contemptuously: "Sergeant Rory Philmont, 45th International Division, 139th Brigade, formerly of the XV International Brigade, Abraham Lincoln Brigade, neither a slave to serial numbers nor to Fascism, SIR!" Philmont delighted in his non-linear, disobedient way of timing his answers and when Blazquez had at last formulated his translation and posed the question about troop strength and position, the prisoner eagerly bellowed "Nice guess, Four Eyes. The right state, but the wrong city. Pittsburgh.....makers of steel, men of steel, Pirates and bituminous coal. And you're gonna taste more black steel from Democracies' arsenals and our Soviet brothers' factories than you ever dreamed of, SIR!" Heriberto recognized the tone but not the meaning of the rapidly spat out English words. He had other matters to attend to and the American had an overblown estimation of his value to his enemy as opposed to the curiosity he engendered. Philmont's pride and loose tongue almost invited pity despite his imposing height. Motioning to a guard, Blazquez quietly said "Carcelero, por favor." Whisked away while humming the American folk song "Red River Valley", Heriberto knew that he had some time to pick Philmont's brain, but not much. He had fleetingly and childishly hoped for an animosity-free exchange about the history of Philadelphia and its famous Hall, but he remembered where he was and the sanguinary and heartless circumstances he had to operate in. Paperwork and an antique watch and fob belonging to Col. Lerida were still waiting on his desk. An hour and a half later he was permitted to sup: pigeon peas and brown bread with the rare luxury of a small slab of butter. "Una taza de cafe" and a quarter tablet of Mexican chocolate sated the weary young man. His moth eaten bedroll upon a very thin layer of straw in the corner of his tent seemed very inviting though he wished a flap could be cut through the moldy canvass wall adjacent to his sweaty balding head. He tried to sleep.
END OF PART 1
Friday, April 15, 2011
Nobody Home
In my hometown there was once, a small, wooden frame house with shutters painted white and umber shingles flecked with fulvous streaks, evidence of damage by time and weather. It was on the far right corner of the intersection of Burnside avenue and 7th street, as viewed diagonally across from my grandfather's little cottage where I spent many a happy Saturday morning (weekday afternoons as well, until my school day expanded to 3 p.m. with the start of second grade). The only person ever seen going in or out of the corner house was a petite lady with gray hair and a sunny smile for any child who wandered by. She walked with a deeply stooped gait though her visage was always upturned as if she were expecting something or someone. I would watch her secretly while atop my grandfather's workbench shielded by his vine's grape leaves, the afternoon sun behind me. Her face's expression when she thought she was alone was something I could not help but gaze upon. She seemed to be crying but without tears or sound. With my tender years, I thought she was playing a game with her face and that the change in expression was her private "fun" or her own "toy" that she manipulated up or down, on or off, when I or my childhood companions appeared or departed. She would sometimes sweep the slate and flagstones of her improvised walkway with an old corn broom while the smell of baking chocolate would often waft towards me, especially when her screen door swung open.
One morning, the "Flower Girl" strolled by. Rather, she made her way alongside the dilapidated picket fence surrounding the corner house in the erratic way that little ones do, their seemingly will-o'-the-wispish meanderings, dictates of brains besotted by furiously busy reverie. Maryanne was a little girl of Irish descent who seemed to go almost every morning to the church that was straight up the hill along the avenue. Sometimes she would carry small bouquets of wildflowers that I saw her pick from fields that were really empty lots that human activity would soon make increasingly less pastoral in the coming years. Maryanne delighted in her collections and of a Sunday she was instead given cut flowers by her mother to place near the altar before the first mass of that day. These occasions especially brightened her always sweet demeanor. On this particular day in late April, the little girl was clutching some poesies that included very tiny petals of a quite deep yellow that were attached to stiff stems of plants that were, by adult standards, simply weeds. The lady with the hunched form espied her going past and called out: "Maryanne! Maryanne! Oh, what lovely flowers you have today. How is Grandpa Kiely? Please remember me to him." "Oh, he's fine, Mrs. Beck. I'll tell him. I have to go to church now!" "Goodbye, sweetheart. Say a prayer for Mr. Beck now." "I will. Goodbye!" The closer Maryanne came to the churchyard with the church itself just beyond, the less flighty became her movements as she concentrated marvelously to complete her task with the flowers.
The days grew warmer and I spent more of them with Grandpa especially after school had ended. I played on my new bicycle having given the old tricycle that my brother and I shared to little Corey, the neighbor's child across from my house at the south end of 4th street. One day someone in the neighborhood told Corey's Mom about a cardboard box "loaded with newborn kittens" on Mr. Knapp's front porch (he lived around the corner from Mrs. Beck's place) and that any child could have one with a parent's permission and as soon as these babies were a little older. I asked and then begged my Mom to let me take one home. I changed my strategy to asking if I could try enlisting Grandpa to share ownership. She relented when picturing Grandpa's likely indulgent assent and realizing her disinclination to impose on his time. So biking and the happy fondling of the tiny calico fuzz ball that was Hector began to fill my summer days with joy and love. With playmates Charley, Luther, Richie and Johnny and the discovery of baseball, the summer was a wondrous expanse of seemingly endless doings, boundless plans and marvelous schemes of exploring or just luxuriating in the early evening in front of our t.v., or enjoying the fresh scent of the tobacco from one of Grandpa's newly opened packs of cigarettes, learning to blow bubble gum while standing in front of his shaving mirror and, of course, petting Hector's chest or between his ears.
It wasn't until almost the end of August that I first began to think about the annual trip to the discount-variety store (housed in an ancient cast-iron building and former dry goods store built when our town was still a sleepy whistle stop shortly after the Civil War) where we would soon begin our pre-school shopping for notebooks, pens, pencils, rulers and other objects that marked the approaching end of fun and freedom. It was at about that time too that I noticed something was different. Except for Hector's genus traditionally acknowledged to epitomize femininity in some primal way (the concept not yet within my ken), and because puberty was still a half dozen summers away, the subject of girls had occupied my thoughts not a whit nor was there a sense of anything missing in my "snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails" existence. Nevertheless, it now began to occur to me that I had not seen the "Flower Girl" for a long time. Before I could even articulate silently to myself a nascent curiosity about her, I heard the sounds of Grandpa's voice and that of Grandpa Kiely on the sidewalk near our house. They were too far away to hear clearly, but as I approached them I heard Grandpa Kiely thanking Grandpa and saying a word that I wasn't sure I knew the meaning of. It sounded like "tuna" but it was not that word. That much I somehow knew. There was something serious about the way that Grandpa stood there that told me that this was grownups' conversation and that I ought to keep a respectful distance until they were finished talking. I tried to look busy with a large twig, an end of which I pushed and twisted into the middle of a dusty square of grassless dirt between our sidewalk and 4th street. I wanted a very, very cold bottle of Coca Cola then and there, but I didn't have the dime that Grandpa could provide. The walk to the gasoline station, about a block and a half away was still a possibility because Sylvester, the friendly colored mechanic would very occasionally give us kids credit and temporarily "treat" us to one of the remarkably frigid little green bottles, its sticky, sweet and brown fizzy fluid somehow tasting best because it came from that particular bright red vending machine in the service station's little office. Though the late summer sun and Grandpa's conference had seemed unending in their respective intensities, my interest in the soda pop now slowly gave way to wanting to speak with Grandpa and needing him to speak with me and somehow knowing that he would soon cease to shut me out.
"Little Maryanne is sick" said Grandpa to me almost immediately after he shook Grandpa Kiely's hand and had walked with me several yards closer to our house. "I haven't seen her since before school ended. Does she have a cold Grandpa?" "No, son. She is very sick and your parents and I will visit her this afternoon in the hospital." "Can I come with you to visit her too?" "No, you must stay with Aunt Helen and we'll come for you tonight." "Is she going to die, Grandpa?" "She may die, yes. God may call her to be with Grandma and Uncle Lawrence." I was scared, but I didn't want to tell Grandpa. "Did she do something wrong, Grandpa?" He said nothing but swept me into his arms and after a long moment said "No, son. She is a good girl and God loves her very much."
The weeks passed quickly. My Mom sent get well cards to Maryanne and she came home a little before Columbus Day. I was allowed to visit her on that Friday that school closed for the holiday. She smiled that special "Maryanne" smile when she saw me. I asked her why she was wearing a scarf around her head and she showed me by taking it off. We both giggled until her Mom asked us to be quiet because Grandpa Kiely was resting in the next room. Her hairless little skull quickly seemed less funny, I think to her, as well. I asked her if I could kiss her and she looked puzzled. "What for, Robby?" Then she seemed to sense my sadness and smiled in that toothy special way. "Oh, sure, but only on my cheek." I quickly leaned over before she could change her mind and the strong whiff of wintergreen filled my nostrils as I noticed how very small she was. "Just a girl" I thought and wished I could swing my new bat one more time, though the kids were kicking footballs now down by the park. "Your mother just called Robby. Supper's almost on the table" called out her mother from the kitchen. "Goodbye Maryanne! I'll see you soon." "Can you come over tomorrow? It's Saturday." "Sure. Goodbye." Adjusting my baseball cap I waved to her and then turned, remembering to address her mother: "Goodbye Mrs. Dolan. Thank you for the cookies."
The next day it rained and Dad had some errands that included me. Shoes and a winter coat were on the agenda. I didn't visit Maryanne. The next time I was able to see her my parents came with me and they held my hand which they hadn't done since last Christmas when the ice was a big deal and my galoshes had been misplaced. It was perhaps one of the last wakes to be held in a private home in our town. The old Irish tradition in this case, most certainly did not feature the stereotypical raillery directed at the corpse replete with interactions, or imagined ones, between the quick and the dead and "the old glass".... just softly weeping people, rosary beads in more than a few hands and flowers. Hundreds of flowers were a beautiful sight. Maryanne held some of her favorite wildflowers. I learned years later that one was called Queen Anne's lace. Oh yes, she was laid out in her first holy communion dress from last May which then reminded me that that was the last time I had seen her before October eleventh. I too had made my communion then having had, the day before and immediately after Confession, with childish anxiety, sung to myself in church, somewhat more than above a whisper, the Elvis smash hit of the day "All Shook Up." Now I was more than shook up, thinking that death really only happened to certain old people and pets.
On Halloween I had my first cold of the season and Mom would not permit any Trick-or-Treating. When a mild second week in November found me hale and hardy and eager to roam the neighborhood on a Saturday, I speedily pedaled towards Mrs. Beck's house for the first time since mid-summer. She was not outside. I had never been inside her house. I wanted to say hello to her though I had never done so before except in reply to her cheerful greeting whenever one of us passed by. In fact, except for the rare times when Mom's hands were occupied holding presents and Dad was still parking the car at the start of a holiday visit to a relative's home, I had never rung anyone's bell before except my own or Grandpa's. My shyness waned as I convinced myself that this was not inappropriate. I could hear the buzzer, a low vibrating sound that didn't sound like it could be associated with the lighthearted Mrs. Beck. But then I thought of her other face. There were no sounds except for a dirty cooing pigeon bobbing his ashy-green head and waddling in my direction. It probably wandered over from our old train trestle on 9th street. I decided to ring again but stopped after a second or two when I spotted a fluttering sheer curtain two windows over from the front door. I looked in but the glare from without blinded me and I didn't want to appear too nosy. Next, I turned to see on the other side of the path a large piece of paper the color of Mom's shopping bags from the A&P that was nailed to a big flat stick that was stuck into the little garden across from a another window with a flower box on its sill. There was handwriting on the heavy paper and I found the reading simple to decipher despite my late blooming progress in literacy. "FOR SALE. CONTACT OWNER. Illinois 8-6887." I turned toward the picket fence's rusty gate and was surprised by what I saw all along the inside of the fence's left side. There, were all of Maryanne's flowers: the tiny deep yellow ones, the Queen Anne's lace ones and a couple of more that I remembered her holding tightly over her heart. Dad had explained to me what a "first hard frost" meant on the day last week that it happened: All Soul's Day. I was bewildered. The sky darkened very swiftly but a heavy shower did not come before my tears had welled up and sobbing had been stifled by the crook of my arm as I biked the very short distance to Grandpa's. I did not know nor would I have cared about a future pop song whose lyrics' chief conceit was the decision of the grieving singer to "do my crying in the rain." I just wanted to be with Grandpa.
One morning, the "Flower Girl" strolled by. Rather, she made her way alongside the dilapidated picket fence surrounding the corner house in the erratic way that little ones do, their seemingly will-o'-the-wispish meanderings, dictates of brains besotted by furiously busy reverie. Maryanne was a little girl of Irish descent who seemed to go almost every morning to the church that was straight up the hill along the avenue. Sometimes she would carry small bouquets of wildflowers that I saw her pick from fields that were really empty lots that human activity would soon make increasingly less pastoral in the coming years. Maryanne delighted in her collections and of a Sunday she was instead given cut flowers by her mother to place near the altar before the first mass of that day. These occasions especially brightened her always sweet demeanor. On this particular day in late April, the little girl was clutching some poesies that included very tiny petals of a quite deep yellow that were attached to stiff stems of plants that were, by adult standards, simply weeds. The lady with the hunched form espied her going past and called out: "Maryanne! Maryanne! Oh, what lovely flowers you have today. How is Grandpa Kiely? Please remember me to him." "Oh, he's fine, Mrs. Beck. I'll tell him. I have to go to church now!" "Goodbye, sweetheart. Say a prayer for Mr. Beck now." "I will. Goodbye!" The closer Maryanne came to the churchyard with the church itself just beyond, the less flighty became her movements as she concentrated marvelously to complete her task with the flowers.
The days grew warmer and I spent more of them with Grandpa especially after school had ended. I played on my new bicycle having given the old tricycle that my brother and I shared to little Corey, the neighbor's child across from my house at the south end of 4th street. One day someone in the neighborhood told Corey's Mom about a cardboard box "loaded with newborn kittens" on Mr. Knapp's front porch (he lived around the corner from Mrs. Beck's place) and that any child could have one with a parent's permission and as soon as these babies were a little older. I asked and then begged my Mom to let me take one home. I changed my strategy to asking if I could try enlisting Grandpa to share ownership. She relented when picturing Grandpa's likely indulgent assent and realizing her disinclination to impose on his time. So biking and the happy fondling of the tiny calico fuzz ball that was Hector began to fill my summer days with joy and love. With playmates Charley, Luther, Richie and Johnny and the discovery of baseball, the summer was a wondrous expanse of seemingly endless doings, boundless plans and marvelous schemes of exploring or just luxuriating in the early evening in front of our t.v., or enjoying the fresh scent of the tobacco from one of Grandpa's newly opened packs of cigarettes, learning to blow bubble gum while standing in front of his shaving mirror and, of course, petting Hector's chest or between his ears.
It wasn't until almost the end of August that I first began to think about the annual trip to the discount-variety store (housed in an ancient cast-iron building and former dry goods store built when our town was still a sleepy whistle stop shortly after the Civil War) where we would soon begin our pre-school shopping for notebooks, pens, pencils, rulers and other objects that marked the approaching end of fun and freedom. It was at about that time too that I noticed something was different. Except for Hector's genus traditionally acknowledged to epitomize femininity in some primal way (the concept not yet within my ken), and because puberty was still a half dozen summers away, the subject of girls had occupied my thoughts not a whit nor was there a sense of anything missing in my "snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails" existence. Nevertheless, it now began to occur to me that I had not seen the "Flower Girl" for a long time. Before I could even articulate silently to myself a nascent curiosity about her, I heard the sounds of Grandpa's voice and that of Grandpa Kiely on the sidewalk near our house. They were too far away to hear clearly, but as I approached them I heard Grandpa Kiely thanking Grandpa and saying a word that I wasn't sure I knew the meaning of. It sounded like "tuna" but it was not that word. That much I somehow knew. There was something serious about the way that Grandpa stood there that told me that this was grownups' conversation and that I ought to keep a respectful distance until they were finished talking. I tried to look busy with a large twig, an end of which I pushed and twisted into the middle of a dusty square of grassless dirt between our sidewalk and 4th street. I wanted a very, very cold bottle of Coca Cola then and there, but I didn't have the dime that Grandpa could provide. The walk to the gasoline station, about a block and a half away was still a possibility because Sylvester, the friendly colored mechanic would very occasionally give us kids credit and temporarily "treat" us to one of the remarkably frigid little green bottles, its sticky, sweet and brown fizzy fluid somehow tasting best because it came from that particular bright red vending machine in the service station's little office. Though the late summer sun and Grandpa's conference had seemed unending in their respective intensities, my interest in the soda pop now slowly gave way to wanting to speak with Grandpa and needing him to speak with me and somehow knowing that he would soon cease to shut me out.
"Little Maryanne is sick" said Grandpa to me almost immediately after he shook Grandpa Kiely's hand and had walked with me several yards closer to our house. "I haven't seen her since before school ended. Does she have a cold Grandpa?" "No, son. She is very sick and your parents and I will visit her this afternoon in the hospital." "Can I come with you to visit her too?" "No, you must stay with Aunt Helen and we'll come for you tonight." "Is she going to die, Grandpa?" "She may die, yes. God may call her to be with Grandma and Uncle Lawrence." I was scared, but I didn't want to tell Grandpa. "Did she do something wrong, Grandpa?" He said nothing but swept me into his arms and after a long moment said "No, son. She is a good girl and God loves her very much."
The weeks passed quickly. My Mom sent get well cards to Maryanne and she came home a little before Columbus Day. I was allowed to visit her on that Friday that school closed for the holiday. She smiled that special "Maryanne" smile when she saw me. I asked her why she was wearing a scarf around her head and she showed me by taking it off. We both giggled until her Mom asked us to be quiet because Grandpa Kiely was resting in the next room. Her hairless little skull quickly seemed less funny, I think to her, as well. I asked her if I could kiss her and she looked puzzled. "What for, Robby?" Then she seemed to sense my sadness and smiled in that toothy special way. "Oh, sure, but only on my cheek." I quickly leaned over before she could change her mind and the strong whiff of wintergreen filled my nostrils as I noticed how very small she was. "Just a girl" I thought and wished I could swing my new bat one more time, though the kids were kicking footballs now down by the park. "Your mother just called Robby. Supper's almost on the table" called out her mother from the kitchen. "Goodbye Maryanne! I'll see you soon." "Can you come over tomorrow? It's Saturday." "Sure. Goodbye." Adjusting my baseball cap I waved to her and then turned, remembering to address her mother: "Goodbye Mrs. Dolan. Thank you for the cookies."
The next day it rained and Dad had some errands that included me. Shoes and a winter coat were on the agenda. I didn't visit Maryanne. The next time I was able to see her my parents came with me and they held my hand which they hadn't done since last Christmas when the ice was a big deal and my galoshes had been misplaced. It was perhaps one of the last wakes to be held in a private home in our town. The old Irish tradition in this case, most certainly did not feature the stereotypical raillery directed at the corpse replete with interactions, or imagined ones, between the quick and the dead and "the old glass".... just softly weeping people, rosary beads in more than a few hands and flowers. Hundreds of flowers were a beautiful sight. Maryanne held some of her favorite wildflowers. I learned years later that one was called Queen Anne's lace. Oh yes, she was laid out in her first holy communion dress from last May which then reminded me that that was the last time I had seen her before October eleventh. I too had made my communion then having had, the day before and immediately after Confession, with childish anxiety, sung to myself in church, somewhat more than above a whisper, the Elvis smash hit of the day "All Shook Up." Now I was more than shook up, thinking that death really only happened to certain old people and pets.
On Halloween I had my first cold of the season and Mom would not permit any Trick-or-Treating. When a mild second week in November found me hale and hardy and eager to roam the neighborhood on a Saturday, I speedily pedaled towards Mrs. Beck's house for the first time since mid-summer. She was not outside. I had never been inside her house. I wanted to say hello to her though I had never done so before except in reply to her cheerful greeting whenever one of us passed by. In fact, except for the rare times when Mom's hands were occupied holding presents and Dad was still parking the car at the start of a holiday visit to a relative's home, I had never rung anyone's bell before except my own or Grandpa's. My shyness waned as I convinced myself that this was not inappropriate. I could hear the buzzer, a low vibrating sound that didn't sound like it could be associated with the lighthearted Mrs. Beck. But then I thought of her other face. There were no sounds except for a dirty cooing pigeon bobbing his ashy-green head and waddling in my direction. It probably wandered over from our old train trestle on 9th street. I decided to ring again but stopped after a second or two when I spotted a fluttering sheer curtain two windows over from the front door. I looked in but the glare from without blinded me and I didn't want to appear too nosy. Next, I turned to see on the other side of the path a large piece of paper the color of Mom's shopping bags from the A&P that was nailed to a big flat stick that was stuck into the little garden across from a another window with a flower box on its sill. There was handwriting on the heavy paper and I found the reading simple to decipher despite my late blooming progress in literacy. "FOR SALE. CONTACT OWNER. Illinois 8-6887." I turned toward the picket fence's rusty gate and was surprised by what I saw all along the inside of the fence's left side. There, were all of Maryanne's flowers: the tiny deep yellow ones, the Queen Anne's lace ones and a couple of more that I remembered her holding tightly over her heart. Dad had explained to me what a "first hard frost" meant on the day last week that it happened: All Soul's Day. I was bewildered. The sky darkened very swiftly but a heavy shower did not come before my tears had welled up and sobbing had been stifled by the crook of my arm as I biked the very short distance to Grandpa's. I did not know nor would I have cared about a future pop song whose lyrics' chief conceit was the decision of the grieving singer to "do my crying in the rain." I just wanted to be with Grandpa.
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