On the occasion of what would have been his 101st birthday, I took it into my mind to record a few thoughts about the old man.
Well, my first memories of the old man are kind of inchoate. Kind of a mumbled baritone voice, coming from downstairs, I guess. Mrhmmhmm.
Then a thumping up the stairs, and he was come to put us to bed.
He would read to us, and when I say “us”, I mean Jim and me. We called him “Jamie” back then, the way Nannie liked to do. That was the way in the old country, but anyway.
So dad smelled like cigarettes and coffee and maybe whiskey too. And by that time of night he had a scratchy old beard and when he kissed us good night, it kind of hurt, but I knew he loved us, in his tangled up old brain.
In the beginning, mostly I was afraid of him. Because I knew he could get mad, and when he was mad, there was nothing that could be done about it. Anything could happen. I didn’t know what alcohol even was back then, I just knew that sometimes pop could blow his top.
But I also knew, or knew without really thinking about it, that he always had us. He would always be there, and pay the bills to the best of his ability, and whatever else he was, he wasn’t weak, and he wasn’t a quitter, and this was the way it was, and this was the way it always would be.
I have a lot of memories from these days, maybe before school, and before you get to compare notes with all the other kids, and compare, and later, try to figure things out.
Dad had dreams. He had a lot of ideas, and a lot of dreams. He had imagination, and liked to save up so we could go on summer vacations to places like Lake Winnepesaukee in New Hampshire. We did that a couple of times. I can still smell the pine needles, and the woods after a rain. It was like a dream. But then these other pictures would crop up, like they always do. We’re in a restaurant, and he gets bellicose and is making a scene with the waiter. I’m aware of everyone around us glaring. So it’s always like that. He took us out to a restaurant. That’s a good husband and father. But he gets bent and some kind of monster shows up.
Back then, I didn’t know what it was, that it should or even could be different. This was the world and this was the way it always was, and this was the way it always would be.
Now I see things differently, and I’m a little more inclined to give the man more of a break, but really he didn’t have to be that way. Deep down, he was really cruel.
I’m not speaking about myself so much, he didn’t really get to me. The damage he did to me is more on the inside, or maybe I should say “was” I think I’m pretty much over it now, but whatever.
The people who really took the brunt of it, as far as I could see, were Mom, and John. John was a real sucker for the old man’s punches. And hoo-boy he didn’t pull any. So here we are in this idyllic setting by the lake in New Hampshire, nothing but crickets and lapping lake waves. We’re playing a game of cards. Old maid. John winds up losing one way or another. Dad taunts him relentlessly, “old maid! old maid! Johnny is the old maid!” And John yells and cries and the old man just laughs at him.
I imagine he must have done stuff like that with his sisters when they were all young, and he figured, that’s just the way you relate to people. It’s funny how sometimes people can be so smart and so dumb at the same time.
But of course, John was part of the equation too. Looking back on it, of course now we say we embrace our differences, but even if we do now, God knows we didn’t back then. I can think of any number of examples, we’d come home from visiting the cousins in exotic places like Levittown or Farmingdale, and we’d get out of the car, but guess what? The old man lost the keys. We’ll have to sleep out on the lawn all night. Har, har. But who goes bawling and moaning? My big brother John. I must have been not more than 6, and even I wasn’t falling for that crap. But John was a sucker.
I remember Dad used to get his kicks by pulling tricks like this: ask one of the kids to go down to the basement to fetch something. Then when they’re down there, quick shut off the light, which you know they’re too small to reach, then slam the door. I have a distinct memory of watching this from the outside, this grown man leaning against the door with all his might, and his kid on the other side, screaming, “let me out! let me out!”
I remember thinking even then, that’s disturbing.
Dad had dreams and he had ideas. He had a job and a beautiful wife and a house and a family. But you know what he didn’t have? Friends. The man may have had the opportunity to make friends at one time or another, but sooner or later everyone would figure it out, and say that’s enough of that mess.
Looking back on it, its kind of sad. You know, not as sad as some other stories you’re going to hear, but pretty sad. He had all these talents and ideas, but he didn’t know how to connect up with human beings. Or he would connect for a while, or up to a certain level, but eventually he would go over the top.
I’m tempted to go into all the tales about his outrageous behavior, his charms and his own story. But to me, it’s mostly hearsay mixed with vague memories of childhood in New York in the sixties and seventies. We were all in the middle of an interesting time and place. There’s a lot of angles to it.
So I’m trying to find the measure of the man, and here’s a picture for you:
I was six.
And it was time to take the big trip into the city, just me and him, man to man. It was special, and rare. Too rare. And my memories are all jumbled up. We took the train, and we went to the Statue of Liberty, and we climbed up as far as we could, to the crown, because the arm was closed. But that was quite a climb and quite an adventure. And it was good. I’m not sure, but I think Nanny was there, and the climb was too much for her. I later found pictures of my Dad with his mother at the statue of liberty. He wasn’t too much older in those photos than I was now,
Later on, he takes me back to the precinct house, and there’s the lockup. And he tells me to go in, and once I’m in, he locks it up. Har, har. The way I remember it, I wasn’t upset. I knew his tricks, I just looked at him, like “what is wrong with you, man?”
But later that night we were down in the lower east side, maybe little Italy, I guess. [I am told it was midtown.] And we’re at this little Italian restaurant, where my old man is royalty. They love him there. I think it was called Jerry’s, as in Jerry’s spaghetti, one of the old man’s favorite dishes. I don’t know. I’m pretty sure we had spaghetti, though. And after dinner the old Italian man takes us out back, and the way I remember it he hoists me up on his shoulder. And the moon is big in the sky, and he points at this tall building, it’s 1962, and we are in the shadow of this futuristic skyscraper. And he says in his broken English, “you see-a dat? you see-a dat? That is the United Nations! That is the future! Isn’t it beautiful?” [It was actually the Empire State Building.]
And you know what, it was beautiful, and it was hopeful, and whatever else, it was a moment I won’t ever forget.
And I want to thank the old man for that and for a hundred other things besides.
And I have a lot more to say, but they’re mostly the bitter memories that stick. So I’m going to stop here, and I’m going to lay down my sword now, because there’s a lot of water under that bridge, and a lot of other stuff too, and I see it all, and if he was here, all that aside, I would still just want him to see the man I became, for better or worse, and I would still want him to be proud of me.
God bless him, my old man.