This is the starting lineup of the 1957 Tuckahoe High School varsity football team, a group with whom I had the privilege of growing up. I attended school with them from grammar school through junior high before transferring to a Catholic High School. Starting in second grade, most of the boys, myself included along with a few others, played football every autumn, facing teams from neighboring villages. To the best of my knowledge, we never suffered a defeat during those years.
In the photograph, you can see my closest friends: Peter White, Don Lundy, Frank Suppa, Lou Constable, Philly Pinto, and Peter Cerricione (who is not pictured). We were a tight-knit group, often hanging out together, much like the boys in the movie “American Graffiti.”
At the time, Tuckahoe High School had a student population of approximately 92 students, and the football team comprised almost half of the male students in the school. Prior to the appearance of this group in the photograph during their freshman year, the school’s football team had not been particularly noteworthy. However, from that moment until their graduation, they remained undefeated, ultimately clinching the State of New York Football Championship for their class. Furthermore, beginning with that year, their high school continued to rack up an astonishing number of regional and New York State Championships in football, basketball, and baseball for a school of that size.
It was Saturday afternoon at about 4:pm. Naida was upstairs taking a nap. Booboo had buried himself under the pillows also sleeping. Finn the Wonder Dog, my sister and her husband George’s latest canine companion, was also upstairs in the guest room napping in his puppy traveling cage. MaryAnn, my sister, and George were at Safeway shopping for fixings for dinner. Nikki, said he was on his way from The Golden Hills to join us for dinner and perhaps a dip in the hot-tub. Hayden was working and said he would not be able to join us tonight. And I am sitting on the green sofa in the studio typing. Now how did my life come to this?
Well. two days ago it was Thanksgiving. It is that one day of the year when Americans gather about the dinner table with family and friends eat a lot, talk loudly, tell stories and return to their homes overfed and a little tipsy. In Italy and traditional Italian households, we refer to this as simply everyday dinner. Anyway, we had thanksgiving dinner at the home of Naida’s daughter, Sarah, and her husband, Mark. We were joined by Sarah’s daughter, Isabel, who works as an aid to a State Legislator and her boyfriend, Lucas. Lucas had been trained as a as a concert pianist and composer, but recognizing that making a living at those professions was remote, now works as an aid for a public official in San Jose. Also, joining us that evening was Josephine the daughter of Naida’s other daughter, Jennifer, who was having thanksgiving dinner at the home of her husband’s mother in San Diego. I will leave out the locations and activities of other members of the family that evening in an effort to avoid terminal boredom.
The dinner was traditional turkey and the usual fixings and was very good. The conversation was pleasant. At one point several of us told stories about ourselves. Lucas’ story was fascinating. I told everyone about the fine art of constructing zip-guns in the 1950s. Josephine suggested I should write down my stories.
The next day, my sister, MaryAnn, and her husband, George, arrived from the Bay Area where they spent thanksgiving with their daughter, Katie, her intended, Quinn and his parents, the Dubins. We talked a lot, walked the dogs (Booboo and Finn) and went to dinner at Lemon Grass, a fine Tai-Vietnamese restaurant. and enjoyed a great meal, after which we returned home talked a lot more, walked the dogs again and went to bed.
The next day, we all took a nice long walk along the river. After the walk, my sister surprised me. Her son, Brandon, had taken some movies that my father had taken mostly in Tuckahoe where I in the 1940s and had then digitalized and colored. They were magnificent, especially because a lot was all about me. I was a cute if somewhat solemn child. This led to the telling of a lot of tales, also mostly about me, but also about those times. Black Mike, the mafia assassin, shooting people in the parking lot next to Margie May’s house. His competition with my grandfather, Big Joe, (who had recently been released from prison for manslaughter) for the hand of my grandmother ( Big Joe went on to become a multi-millionaire construction magnate loosing it all in the 1929 stock market crash). Uncle Aldo, the Marine, and Crazy Insane Aunt Ruth, Aldo’s wife. Aunt Jane who loved the NY Yankees too much and too often. My father, affectionately known as Blackie, and his multiple business failures. Silvio the gigolo. And, other denizens of my colorful and benighted family. Yes, those were the days.
The following day, we took another long walk with the dogs. This time along the the American River and through the Enchanted Forest . Along the way, I told the story about the people living in the bushes lining the river, including someone everyone in the neighborhood referred to as Machete Man and my own experience with him. Machete Man is a young man armed with a machete (obviously). He lives in the bushes along the river. Now and then he would frighten passers-by by jumping out of the bushes brandishing the machete and screaming like the crazy man he is. As far as we know he has never killed anyone we know — scared them a lot though. My interaction with him was limited to running into him while he sat in the sun in front of his tent sharpening his machete. I decided against joining him to discuss the news of the day and things like that — I just kept on truckin…
Unnecessary photographs.On our walk.Naida points to the remains of a prehistoric alligator buried in the sand. Cute photograph of Mary and Naida sitting on the bench with George standing behind them and the adorable dogs waiting for something to bark at.
As we continued our walk, we were not disturbed by the Machete Man or any one else but were surprised by the number of trees that had been burned down. Apparently, the denizens of the river banks have taken to burning down their own homes.
Back at the house, we began preparations for dinner. The annoying thousand-piece circular puzzle that we had begun during Mary and George’s last visit and completed a week or so later remained occupying half of the kitchen table. I had intended to lacquer it and mail it back to my sister as punishment for bringing the damned thing in the first place and the pain it engendered in its completion. Since then I have been contemplating how to accomplish that — with little success. Mary said, “Well we can’t eat dinner with that taking up the table.” And in not much longer that it takes for me in the morning to stare at myself in the in the mirror and determine if I am still alive, she went to the art store, returned, mounted and lacquered the thing, and hung it on one of our walls.
The annoying 1000-piece puzzle. The celebration of its rebirth as an Objet d’art and nailed to the wall.
After a nice antipasto, we had a delightful spaghetti alla vongole for dinner.
Me and some of the antipasto. I look drunk and disheveled. I am not. I just look that way — always.
Nikki arrived about five hours later than promised, which actually was sooner than usual for him. We spent the rest of the evening eating dessert, drinking coffee and talking about many things including what a senior commercial airline pilot does when he retires. (Secret — he knows no more than the rest of us did when we retired.)
Nikki the ex-pilot, me and Naida
The following day, Sunday, before Maryann and George left to return to Mendocino, we went for a nice long walk to the lake in the middle of the Enchanted Forest. After we returned, MaryAnn and George left and the house became quiet and seemed empty. I took a nap. Got up and watched the Niners defeat Minnesota after which I began reading a new book, Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr who previously wrote the novel All The Light You Cannot see, a book I liked a lot. Then I went to bed.
And so, all good things end.
Monday disappeared without a trace except that in the evening Naida and I watched All That Jazz. That movie always leaves traces. Tuesday broke warm and clear. Later in the morning, I sat on the green sofa writing in T&T and tip-toeing through the internet while Naida sat next to me watching Dr. Zhivago for the 100th time while keeping up a running commentary about the movie which sounded to me, occupied as I was, like water flowing through a rural brook or the garbled songs of far off children.(Did you know that there were 5000 daffodils in the daffodil scene).
After one of my previous posts, I began to strike off names on my T&T mailing list, those that I knew had died and those I suspected had died; those I suspected disliked me and those I have come to dislike; and some whose names I no longer recognized. During her visit, my sister told me several friends of hers mentioned how much they looked forward to these posts and how excited they were when I mentioned them by name in them. Now I wonder if I have stricken any of them from my mailing list. I consider T&T meager and often sophomoric. I need all the ego boost I can garner.
Later, in the afternoon, I drove into the Golden Hills to have lunch with HRM. We drove into Town Center ordered pizza at Nugget Market and Dr. Brown’s cream soda. We ate on the tables in from of the store. Hayden told me of his latest obsession — beef and how to cook it. He described the different quality of beef especially wagyu. He also told me the different ways of cooking it including Sous vide (Apparently, he acquired a Sous vida cooker that he uses regularly.) His current dream is owning a steak house rather an Automotive Repair shop. I few days later he was in Scottsdale Arizona and texted me that that he got to try a $90 3 oz Japanese A5 wagyu steak.
I returned home to find Naida watching Wuthering Heights on television — a depressing movie populated with thoroughly unpleasant people. Another example of rich people having too much time on their hands. Heathcliff (Laurence Olivier) and Cathy (Merle Oberon) deserved each other. Cathy’s husband (Davit Niven) had no balls. Whether he was born that way or acquired that particular deformity later in life is unclear in either the book or the movie.
Whew, December 1, this year is coming to an end. Will next year be better? Will I live through it? Last year ended on an ambiguous note. Biden defeated Trump— good. Trump tried to overthrow the election and lost — not so good but not as bad as it could have been. This year things seem perched on the edge of relevance with a whiff of ennui.
One Thursday, I wrapped some Christmas presents. It exhausted me so I decided to stop and try again in a few days. Friday was another “Meh” day. It was cool and cloudy. Significant rains were predicted for north of us while the Great Valley is expected to slumber through a few days of mist. That evening we along with Naida’s son-in-law Mark went to the downtown Sacramento Imax theater to see Dune. The movie was loud, dark, explosive, and medieval. I thought I would look forward to part II but then since it will not be released until the Autumn of 2022, who knows if I will still be here or in what shape I will be in. Recently, I was reading somewhere about someone who wrote about how startled he was when he first realized that there were fewer days of life ahead of him than he had lived so far. At 82 still having half ones life to live would be something to rejoice.
Saturday morning, we went to the coffee. The Christmas decorations were up.
After that we drove into the Gold Country and stopped in Sutter Creek and Amador City (California’s smallest city) for Naida’s Christmas shopping.
Sometime between about second grade and junior high school, I lived in a village in New York, called Tuckahoe. The village nestled in a wide spot in the valley carved by the Bronx River. In the village resided a collection of poor people, mostly Italians and blacks along with a few middle class jews. We lived there because the high income towns that surrounded us restricted individuals of those three ethnic groups from living there. A number of Tuckahoe residents however worked in those other towns as gardeners, domestics and the like. Others worked in the industrial plants in nearby Yonkers while the remainder mostly occupied themselves with the shops and business that serviced the residents of the village.
Like most low-income areas of that time, the village had an industrial past. The vast marble quarries that attracted the Italian immigrants had by the late forties and early fifties played out leaving the village a relatively impoverished residential enclave surrounded by great wealth.
Immediately after school we kids ,would run and play in the streets until dinner time and then again after dinner until bedtime. My parents insisted I return home before dark and go to bed shortly thereafter where I jealously listened to the other children, playing in the streets near my home well into the night.
Several of the village boys in my age group, including me, as boys tend to do, began to spend most of our play time together and began to envision ourselves as a gang much like that in the “Our Gang” comedies that were popular short features shown with the double features that on Saturday mornings we watched in the local movie house referred to as The Itch.
As we grew older, we modeled our gang on Leo Gorcey and the Dead End Kids. In fact the leader of our group, Peter Cirrincione, referred to as “sir rinse” even adopted Gorcey’s walk. I guess I would have been the good-looking skinny sullen guy in the movies who was always somewhat alienated from the group. Unlike some of the other characters like Huntz Hall, the actor who played my part often changed during the decade or so that their movies were popular.
Like that character, I was always a bit moody, aloof and estranged. I could never simply follow whatever “sir rinse” wanted to do and so would go off on my own a lot. At that time I was quite small for my age, quick to take offense and so I fought a lot. Also, because I preferred to spend my time reading, I appeared arrogant often correcting things the others would say. In other words, I was a bit of an asshole.
Most of us, born into the Italian tradition had nicknames. In addition to “sir rinse,” our gang included, “Soupy,” Frank Supa, “Louie,” Louis DeLago, “Chazz,” Charles DeVito, “Whitey,” Peter White (Whitey, was non ethnic originally from Saugertes NY and considered a “hick.” He was the groups best all around sports athlete. (He had a sister who was not 100% and who the older boys had their way with.)), and “Neddy,”Ned Callaghan, a small Irish kid who was my rival in non-sport athletics such as climbing trees and buildings.
I used to like to climb tall trees in the neighborhood until I reached the tallest and thinest branch that inevitably would break under my weight sending me tumbling through the lower branches as I tried to slow my fall before striking the ground. At that time school buildings often were made of red brick with marble cornices about 1/2 thick marking the separate floors. Ned and I used to like to climb up the brick facing by squeezing our fingers and toes into the slight indentations made by the mortar until we reached the cornice and then we would inch along the cornice until we had encircled the building and then climb to the next floor and repeat circumnavigation of the building.
There was me of course. Every now and then someone in the group would call me “Mopey Joe.” I hated that name and so often a fight would ensue. I was given that name by one of the Blount brothers, (the Blounts were older and not members of our group), because I usually walked slowly, at a steady pace with my head down. The reason I did so was that I suffered constant pain from flat feet forcing me to generally gingerly walk more on my heels while tipping my upper body forward for balance. Anyway the Blounts were black, part of the vast migration north of rural southern blacks that began during the war. The black community in town was split between those immigrants and those African-Americans who could trace their residence in the village back to the Civil War and before and second generation immigrants fleeing Jim Crow prior to WWII. They, this latter group, actually made up much of the village’s middle class.
Nick-names were part of Italian culture, mostly prosaic and based either on some rearrangement of ones name, something peculiar about the person (I knew a guy call “Beefsteak” because of his fondness for that food) or insulting like “Gimp.” African-Americans however tended to bestow nicknames whether from affection or insult more playfully and seemed to revel in the poetry. Mopey Joe had a certain ring to it, don’t you think? At that time, I was ashamed of it and hated it. It was only when I decided to start using it in my blog “This and that…” (https://wordpress.com/view/josephpetrillo.wordpress.com) that I got to like it. I now have several nicknames some of which would normally be considered a bit insulting; “Pookie” and “Mopey Joe,” being two of them. Pookie I have grown to love and refer to myself that way. It was given to me by a small child out of love and trust and how could one be ashamed of that? If I were to rank the various names that people referred to me by, Pookie would be first, then followed by Papa Joe, Mopey Joe, Joe, Joey, Asshole, Bastard and Motherfucker.
There were a few other members of the gang whose names I have forgotten. Then there was Donald Lundy, “Don” or “Dondi.” My recollection of whom prompted this post.
Dondi was a black kid or “colored” as people of that time referred to what we have today agreed to refer to as black or African-American. In my experience no-one used the N word not even blacks with blacks as became fashionable later. The only people that used the N word were southerners we were told, classless white guys and crazy angry and often drunk people. I assumed, since my black friends at the time informed me, we were, in private, referred to in turn as Dagos, Wops or Guineas. Typically the complexities of racial and ethnic profiling and insults escaped the understanding of the children in my peer group in that village.
Anyway, Don’s family was of the older black settler group. I wanted to be his friend and we spent a lot of time together apart from the gang, playing and talking about those things of interest to little boys. We never fought as I did often with other friends. Dondi was too good-natured for that. We often ate at each others houses. Dondi used to like to come over to my house because at that time Italian Cuisine was still considered exotic and spicy to most Americans. Dondi developed a taste for it. (To be continued.)
I never liked Valentine’s Day. In grammar school, before they began requiring everyone to receive a Valentine’s Day card, I rarely got any even though my mom made me bring one for each kid in the class. I wasn’t a bully, just the quiet weird kid who sat in the corner and read history textbooks. The bullies all received Valentine’s Day cards. Everyone likes winners.
Come to think of it, there were (and still are) very few holidays I liked, As a kid, I liked Fourth of July. The volunteer fire department in Tuckahoe, the little town I grew up in, always put on a bitchin fireworks display. Memorial Day was pretty good also. A bunch of families would gather together at a place called Peach Lake in Westchester County, New York. The men would stand around a long table shuck and eat raw clams all day while drinking beer from kegs. The women would get angry because they had to take care of us kids while the men became drunk. Then the arguments would start. In a way, it was a little like Fourth of July, lots of fireworks. One day, as we got into the car for the drive home my mother insisted we wait a while because she felt my father was drunk and not fit to drive. My father objected strenuously, put the car into gear and promptly backed it into the stream that fed the lake — my brother and I sitting in the rear seat thought it was great fun — my mother, not so much.
I posted on Facebook a short piece I had written a few years ago about the 1950s Rock group Frankie Lyman and the Teenagers. In 1956 or 1957, I attended a concert featuring the group in Brooklyn’s old Fox Theater with a young lady friend. We were both teenagers 16 or 17 at the time. We have not seen each other for over 60 years so imagine my surprise when that Facebook post received a “Like” from her.
Now, although, I believe Facebook is one of the most pernicious things to have been foisted on humanity since the invention of warfare, nevertheless, for the anziani like me, something like this can make our day — perhaps even our whole week.
While rummaging through some forgotten scraps in the bowels of my computer, I came across the following effort to write a story. It contains barely two paragraphs, but I was attracted to its title and by the pseudonym, I chose for the author: “GOD IS A TRANSEXUAL STREET WALKER IN BANGKOK Malcolm “Luke” DeLucca
He leaned against the wall in the tiny alley throwing up everything he had in his stomach. He felt like he was dying. No, more like he wanted to die. It could not have been the few beers he had downed at Hillary’s 4, the bar on Soi Nana next to the entrance to Nana Plaza, one of Bangkok’s flesh emporiums. It was probably something he ate at one of the sidewalk food stands that line the street nearby.
After the retching stopped he slowly sunk down on his haunches being careful to avoid any part of his body touching the muck he disgorged a few inches away. He could barely move. His head hung between his knees and he but stared intently at a spot on the ground directly in front of his eyes. He still wanted to die. The sickness made it…”
At that point, I stopped for some reason. I recall that I intended that time to have the drunken farang meet a beautiful transexual in that dank alley. She claims she is God and had chosen the life of a transexual prostitute in Bangkok because she was bored with heaven and felt she would meet a better class of people here in the sordid alleyways of “the village of wild plums” then she did in the land beyond the pearly gates. I never got around to finishing it though. I guess it is the thought that counts.
As for the pen-name I had chosen, I have no idea where that came from. I knew a kid named Louie De Lucca when I was a kid back in Tuckahoe. Why I would want to memorialize him as the author of a story like this, I haven’t the foggiest — I actually liked the kid.
This morning, while watching on MSNBC the latest outrage by he who is not my president, I disgustedly turned to Facebook on my computer. To my surprise I discovered the following photograph posted there:
That is me on the left, Peter Cirrincione in the middle and Freddy Greco on the right. The photograph was posted by Peter’s wife Loretta also a dear friend of mine. We were at Playland by the Beach in Rye New York sometime during the 1950s when this picture was taken. Although I was a bit skinny back then, I agree with the comments to that Facebook post — we indeed were handsome devils. Alas, no longer.
My cousin Lou Bronico to whom, among others, I sent a copy of the photograph wrote back that he had a similar photograph taken at the same place with two of his friends also from Tuckahoe. I recall that my father and uncles also had taken a similar picture in the same setting years before I did.
I also sent a copy of the photograph by email to a few friends here in California. One of them was Peter Grenell with whom, whenever I am in San Francisco, I share a coffee and reminisces while sitting on the bench we named the Geezer’s Bench located in front of Bernie’s Cafe in Noe Valley. After seeing the photograph, Peter opined:
“Those were the days! Pretty spiffy. Could do a retake at the Geezers Bench with canes, walker, Prosecco, and family size bottles of pharmaceuticals — and hats. Or not….”
Here is the photograph Peter mentioned of him and me on the Geezers’ Bench, more than sixty years after the photograph at Sloppy Joe’s Bar had been taken. Alas, time has taken its toll.
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me
with full hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother’s laps,
And here you are the mother’s laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier. Walt Whitman
About two years ago, here in T&T and in my blog Papa Joe’s Tales (https://papajoesfables.wordpress.com/2015/11/02/what-ever-became-of-one-punch-sammy-santoro/?iframe=true&theme_preview=true), I wondered what had become of old “One Punch” the terror of my neighborhood during my adventures as a teenager. I was convinced that Sammy (along with Pat Buchanan an acquaintance of my college years) would undoubtedly end up in the electric chair. A year or so ago, a reader of the blog notified me that Sammy, in fact, ended up in prison. “Where else would he be?” he added waggishly. This past week, another reader sent me the following:
“SUPREME COURT OF NEW YORK, APPELLATE DIVISION, SECOND DEPARTMENT 1979.NY.41511 <http://www.versuslaw.com>; 414 N.Y.S.2d 583; 68 A.D.2d 939 March 26, 1979, THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK, RESPONDENT,v.SAMUEL SANTORO, APPELLANT Damiani, J. P., O’Connor, Lazer and Gulotta, JJ., concur.”
“Damiani, J. P., O’Connor, Lazer and Gulotta, JJ., concur.
Appeal by defendant from a judgment of the Supreme Court, Westchester County, rendered April 19, 1978, convicting him of murder under former subdivision 2 of section 125.25 of the Penal Law, upon a jury verdict, and imposing sentence. Judgment affirmed. Defendant was indicted and convicted of the “depraved mind” murder of Anthony Aiello, the three-year-old son of his paramour. The victim’s mother, Sadie Aiello, was the principal witness for the prosecution. She testified that defendant had moved in with her in January 1970, and had taken charge of the feeding and “discipline” of Anthony. The “discipline” included frequent beatings which resulted in serious injuries and the infant’s hospitalization on two occasions. In February 1971 she moved out with her children because of her concern about Anthony’s well-being. However, she returned with the children to live with defendant on March 1, 1971. On March 11th Anthony died after being beaten and strangled by the defendant. Defendant and Sadie Aiello initially told the police that Anthony’s death was caused by his fall down a flight of stairs. Six years later she appeared at the District Attorney’s office and reported the truth about the events of March 11, 1971. In our opinion, the trial court correctly charged the jurors that they were to decide, as a matter of fact, whether Sadie Aiello was an accomplice whose testimony required corroboration (see CPL 60.22). We cannot agree with defendant that Sadie Aiello was an accomplice as a matter of law. Neither her decision to return to live with defendant nor her conduct in concealing from the police the true facts concerning her son’s death constituted participation in the offense charged or an offense based upon the same or some of the same facts or conduct which constitute the offense charged (see CPL 60.22; People v Le Grand, 61 A.D.2d 815). Since the evidence did not conclusively establish that Sadie Aiello was guilty of such an offense by virtue of her conduct on March 11, 1971, the issue of her complicity was properly submitted to the jury (see People v Basch, 36 N.Y.2d 154). We agree with defendant that the court’s charge on the definition of “recklessly” was misleading. However, since no exception to the charge was taken, the question was not preserved. Moreover, the court, in a response to an inquiry from a juror subsequently correctly charged the definition of “recklessly” and thus cured any ambiguity. The trial court properly admitted evidence of defendant’s prior assaults on the victim to negative the defense of “accident” (see People v Henson, 33 N.Y.2d 63). Defendant’s remaining contention is without merit.”
Alas, Sammy escaped the death penalty as it had previously been declared unconstitutional by the NY Court of Appeals. I do not know if he remains in prison or if he is even still alive. Pat Buchanan, on the other hand, unfortunately, remains free.
In the late 1940s, my father owned a bar in the Fleetwood section of Mount Vernon. The City of Mount Vernon along with Yonkers formed the northern boundary of New York’s Borough of the Bronx. During that period in my life both my parents would disappear for a while. I never knew where my father went. My mother was hospitalized for a year or so at a time in various mental and medical hospitals having unspeakable procedures administered to her as was usual at the time.
Anyway, during the period my father owned the bar, I would spend many of my days there sitting on the floor, my chin propped up on my fists listing to the music and staring at the changing colors of the lights emanating from the Wurlitzer.
Now for those who do not know what a Wurlitzer is, it was one of the last great analog machines for producing music before the advent of the digital age. Through the clear plastic window at the top, I could see the bright chrome handle move up and down the stack of records, stop with a jerk and pluck a record out of the stack, swing the report over to the turntable and drop it. Then the music would play — silky jazz, bright pop tunes, magnificently melodious show tunes. Surrounding the window, a roll of back-lit variegated colored plastic would bath me sitting there before it with its ever-changing colors.
One day, in the bar, while I sat there before the Wurlitzer dreamily wandering through the bliss of the colors and the music (Lady Day’s cover of Night and Day?) I, for some reason, overheard my father and the other men at the bar talking. One of them, probably my father, said, “You know those guys on Tin Pan Alley*, who write those songs all wear bow ties and horn-rim glasses.”
This startled me. “What do bow ties and horn-rim glasses have to do with writing music,” I thought? “Was it some sort of uniform that one must wear to get into the alley?” “Odd, why would they say that?”
I would continue to ponder that question as I sat there in that dream-like state, bathed in the slowly shifting colors listening to Sarah Vaughn, Mildred Bailey, Jack Teagarden or some other the wonderful sounds of that golden age of music wondering about bow ties and horn-rim glasses.
Of my childhood, this was one of the only two experiences which I remember fondly.
Later, there was a time that I wore bow ties and still later horn rim glasses. Never wrote a note of music though.
A Wurlitzer Juke Box
Tin Pan Alley — the name given to the collection of New York City music publishers and songwriters who dominated the popular music of the United States in the late 19th century and early 20th century. The name originally referred to a specific place: West 28th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues in the Flower District of Manhattan.
The start of Tin Pan Alley is usually dated to about 1885 when a number of music publishers set up shop in the same district of Manhattan. The end of Tin Pan Alley is less clear cut. Some date it to have continued into the 1950s when earlier styles of American popular music were upstaged by the rise of rock & roll, which was centered on the Brill Building.
A few years ago, I lived in a Bangkok apartment infested by rats (the non-edible kind). At night, after the lights were out, they gaily scampered about the rooms. At one point, the maid put out an anti-rodent device consisting basically of a plastic sheet covered with glue that traps any rat unlucky enough to step on it and produces, I am sure, a cruel and painful death for the creature.
My feelings about the Rodentia situation in my apartment were somewhat ambiguous. I felt neither fear, sympathy nor disgust for either the infestation or the rodenticide. It was more like the feeling I have when I try to avoid meeting someone I prefer not to meet. On the one hand, I always feel a bit cowardly skulking away while on the other, I generally am aware that forcing a meeting through some misplaced moral sense is probably as stupid a thing to do as can be imagined.
This ambivalence about rats I find strange given my history with the species. Growing up in New York, I generally fell asleep with the sound of rats scurrying through the walls. As a child, I was never able to settle on whether these sounds in the walls by my bed frightened me or comforted me.
When I was about six-years-old my family was homeless for a while. Ultimately, we found an abandoned store that we moved into and soaped up the glass front for privacy. There was neither heat nor hot water in the place and at night, the large Norwegian roof rats would slink into the room through the spaces between walls and the various pipes and plumbing servicing the residential apartments above us.
Every night, while my brother and I slept, my mother armed with a bread knife would remain awake to chase away the rats. One evening while so armed and on guard she fell asleep sitting beside the kitchen table. Suddenly she was jolted awake by the sound of rats scrabbling to get into a cake box on the table. The rats startled by her movement leaped on to her face and head as it was the highest point in the room between the floor and the exposed pipes available to them to make their escape. She fell to the floor and had an epileptic seizure, beginning a multi-year period of seizures and hospitalizations.
After my mother was taken away in an ambulance that night, I spent the next four years living with various relatives and strangers who took me in, but mostly with my grandparents. I never knew where my brother lived during this time.
After a few years and many hospitalizations of my mom, we began living together again but her periodic fits continued until I was about 17 years old when, in a surprise to everyone, mom became pregnant with my sister and the seizures suddenly stopped. She considered both the pregnancy and the curing of the epilepsy a miracle. I was not so sure.
Papa Joe's Tales, Fables and Parables 