Saturday, December 20, 2008

CHRISTMAS IN BROOKLYN


When as kids we ate cuccia, we always knew that Christmas was less than two weeks away. Cuccia, tiny whole wheat berries swimming in milk and sugar, was always eaten on one day of the year, December the 13th, the feast day of Santa Lucia. As kids we knew she was the Sicilian patron saint of sight, and later, as an adult, I learned she is the same Santa Lucia celebrated by young Swedish girls who wear the crowns of lighted candles on their heads. Because of the custom, on that special day we never ate pasta or bread or for that matter anything made of wheat flour. But we always ate our cuccia.


Mid-December was about the same time that Grandpa cooked up his special batch of Italian cordials for holiday use. He would buy flavored extracts in those tiny bottles at the Italian store and then, mixed with grain alcohol, sugar and water, he would end up with tall bottles of anisette, rosolio or creme de menthe. In the meantime Grandma was busy in the kitchen creating what we called “Italian candy”, which was really hard torrone of almonds and honey.


About that time I was emptying out my Christmas Club savings at the bank on Union Street so that I would be able to buy gifts for the family. I remember one year, at twenty-five cents a week, I had almost nine dollars. I guess I had missed a few weeks but this was still an enormous amount that I had saved.


It was now cold outside, and the store lots, packed with trees, smelled of Christmas and the coming holidays. In front of Germain’s department store on Brooklyn’s Fifth Avenue the fake Santa Claus rang his bell to catch our attention and our coins. Right about this time one could almost feel snow in the air; it was officially the Christmas season. Soon Grandpa would hit the stores and buy the bacala and the other fish for Christmas Eve. On one evening after dinner he would even treat us all to his oven-baked castagne (roasted chestnuts).


Finally the day we had all been waiting for had quietly arrived. It was Christmas Eve, and now my mother, sister and I would decorate our small tree while the seven different fish representing the sacraments were being prepared in the kitchen. The aroma was obvious. Usually we had capitone (eel), polpo (octopus), and scungili (conch). But always we had bacala. Of course no meat was ever eaten on that holy night. We had starved ourselves all day just waiting for this magnificent meal. It was never disappointing even though I never really cared for all the different seafood. After dinner we finished the tree and rushed off to church for Midnight Mass and for viewing the Presepio (the nativity scene). Later, everyone celebrated the remaining minutes of La Vigilia by sipping anisette and eating sesame seed biscotti.


The really big feast, however, came on Christmas Day. Out came Grandma’s finest china, linen tablecloth and the good silverware. Then all of us, including my aunts and uncles, sat around tables that were put together to make one big table. We usually began with caponata and a large antipasto of salami, soppressata, caciocavallo cheese, anchovies, big green Sicilian olives and roasted peppers swimming in olive oil. Then out came the platters of ricotta-filled ravioli, sausages redolent of garlic and fennel, sliced braciole stuffed with hard-boiled eggs, raisins and pine nuts and maybe some fried eggplant and always good crusty Italian bread. Also under the table was a gallon jug of Grandpa’s homemade wine. For dessert there was usually a shimmering cassata or a nice mix of cannoli, sfogliatell’ and pasticciott’, all to be topped off with tiny cups of espresso. As Sicilians we didn’t have pannetone or panforte but there was usually a tempting hill of honey-glazed struffoli (honey balls) in the center of the dining room table, which of course, we pilfered from time to time.


At the end of the feast my grandfather would loosen his belt at least a notch. The men relaxed and talked while they cracked and ate walnuts and almonds. The women then left for the kitchen and the men lit up their Di Nobili cigars and continued sipping espresso fortified with anisette.
As for my sister and I, we sat silently under the lighted tree which would stay up until January the 6th. The house was now quiet and we were content, satisfied, even satiated. We went through our gifts one more time and searched again into our stockings to find the Baby Ruths, the tangerines, the walnuts - and the black pieces of coal.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

INCIDENT ON FIFTH AVENUE


As I watched from across the street, I couldn’t hear either the cop or the driver of the black ’49 Buick. I knew it was a brand new Buick because of the holes in the fenders. I couldn’t make out exactly what the driver said to the cop but I knew it wasn’t good. Then the cop raised his baton as if he was going to strike the car. Surprisingly, the driver, a young dark-haired man, probably from the neighborhood, then quickly rolled up the window and looked away from the cop toward the sidewalk, deliberately ignoring the policeman. Oh, man, I thought, trouble. Then the cop yelled, “Get outta the car, jaboney!” I wondered if the cop was Irish. The young guy behind the wheel continued turning his back on the cop.


My friend, Gino, lived on Brooklyn’s Fifth Avenue, between Carroll Street and Garfield Place, upstairs over a small printing shop. That section of Fifth Avenue was a mixed neighborhood but populated mostly by Italians. Usually, I used to wait for Gino in front of the shop as I didn’t want to bother his mom and dad during dinner. On this particular summer evening I had come over earlier than usual so I parked myself in front of the shop and watched the cars and people go by. We were teenagers then and neither one of us could wait for dinner to be over with so that we could hit the street.


Now in New York City there are really two Fifth Avenues. The one that most people are familiar with runs north and south splitting Manhattan in two. That’s the tony one that most people know, the one that has the upscale shops, the Public Library with the two lions out front, and the museums. The other Fifth Avenue, not as ritzy and certainly not as famous, runs through the western sections of Brooklyn, from Flatbush Avenue all the way to Bay Ridge.


Brooklyn’s Fifth Avenue, where the shop was, was usually bustling, with lots of cars and shoppers because of the many stores on the street. On that same block there was a Trunz pork store across the street, a pastry shop on one corner, and a movie theater called the Garfield on another. Because I was usually early I would walk over to the shop and park myself outside in front of the doorway while Gino and his family had dinner.


Across the street, a man and a woman with a baby carriage had stopped and were watching the action near the Buick. I noticed that there were others, a group of young men were also watching and walking slowly towards the car. With his baton the cop began tapping forcefully on the window of the driver’s side of the automobile, yelling for the driver to lower the window and get out of the car. The driver did not respond but continued to look away and said nothing. Gradually a small crowd had formed and a precinct car from the 78th, with two policemen, drove up and double-parked in front of the shop directly in front of me.


I could see across the street the cop was trying to open the locked car door. The crowd grew. The new policemen jumped from the car and ran across the street. They talked with the first cop and the crowd grew noisier . Finally, one of the new cops swung his baton and smashed the car window, sending glass on to the driver. One cop unlocked the car door, and all three grabbed the driver. The cops pushed the man to the ground and cuffed him. One cop then proceeded to unlock and swing open the door. “Hey, stop, stop,” a woman in front of the pork store yelled. The angry crowd inched closer to the action and encircled the cops. Someone threw a bag of groceries at the cops. It hit one of them and it fell to the ground, spilling milk on tomatoes and bananas on to the sidewalk.


One of the cops broke through the crowd and ran toward the patrol car that was parked directly in front of the shop. I clearly heard him radio for help while the crowd continued to harass the other cops across the street. The cop that had radioed for help then ran into the crowd swinging his baton. I watched as another young man punched the cop that was holding the driver from the car. A teenage girl took a swing at one of the policemen. They grabbed her while shoppers continued to yell. I thought for sure this was a riot in the making and I backed up against the door ready to enter the shop if things got any worse.


Soon, almost within minutes, a large busload of cops, probably their emergency squad, came roaring down Fifth Avenue, sirens and bells blaring loudly. About a dozen men in blue jumped from the bus, and with shields and batons swinging, forged ahead into the crowd. The men booed and the women screamed. The cops from the bus swung their batons not caring who got in their way. People began running along Fifth Avenue away from the action until the street in front of the shop was almost cleared. Then a huge cop looked directly in my direction and he rushed towards me. I quickly opened the door to the shop and darted inside, out of breath and my heart pounding in my chest. There I found Gino and his parents standing statue-like watching from the window. “Are you okay?” Gino’s mother asked.


Finally the cops cuffed three others besides the driver and shoved them all into patrol cars. As teenagers on the corner we had always heard that the local police were sadistic and would take you in ”the back room and beat up on you”. I wondered about the young driver.


Soon the bus and the patrol cars drove off leaving an empty street. In minutes, a city water truck came and washed the street in front of the shop, splashing water, wetting the pavement between the gutters. And as if nothing had ever taken place, as if there had never been an incident, I watched shoppers go in and out of the stores and Fifth Avenue was ours again.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

THAT WAS OUR HIGH NOON


A noisy crowd had gathered. Lots of guys, young and old, from the neighborhood, had shown up. Even a few adults and some excited teen-age girls were there, watching the two boys dancing and swinging their closed fists in front of their faces. And when the two threw their quick jabs and roundhouse punches, the hot sweat from their bodies splattered the crowd. Irish John, the taller of the two, had a reddish bruise over his left eye and Alley-boy’s lips were puffy and purple. On the sidelines we yelled for our guy and the others cheered for theirs. The two fought hard that summer day.


There was really no reason for the fight except these two were defending their “nationalities”. “Hey, kid, what’s your nationality?” they used to ask. Trying hard to fit in, I would quickly yell out “American”. Nah! The Irish kids would say “you’re a dago, a spaghetti-bender.”


It was hot that August day in ‘46 and most of us wore rolled up handkerchiefs around our necks to catch the sweat. At three o’clock the sun was at its brightest and hottest. That was our High Noon!


The fight had been arranged at the high school a few days before and everyone knew it was to take place on Saturday, approximately at three in the afternoon, at the school yard on Union Street. At that time this was a mixed neighborhood but still mostly Irish territory. Our side was coming from down Union Street, below Fifth Avenue. Although “the public” was invited, it was understood there was to be no weapons or “jumping in” by either side. Strictly no knives or zip guns. The rules were understood by participants and spectators alike: bare knuckles and bare to the waist, no hitting below the belt, and fight until one or the other gives up. The two pugilists were both high school seniors from Manual High on Seventh Avenue: Irish John, their best, and Alley-boy, our great Italian hope.


There were many small battles and tiny skirmishes fought between the Irish and the Italians in those days. And curiously, these were never fought in Ireland or Italy but in the inner-cities of the good ole U.S. of A. Those of us who’ve been around a while and who grew up in the Northeast in the Thirties and Forties remember those times.


At one point, one neighborhood adult tried to step in and stop the fight when Irish John’s eye was closed shut, but the crowd, yelling for blood, wouldn’t let it happen. “Go get’m, John!” the Irish yelled. “Kill the wop!” “In the la panza, we shouted back, in the belly!


The Irish and the Italians are great friends today; many of them have inter-married and have offspring that are half-Irish half-Italian. Red-headed freckle-faced kids have vowels at the end of their names, and dark-haired, brown-eyed Latins go by Murphy, Kelly and O’Brien. Italian Americans drink green beer and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day along side the Irish. And many Irish go to Mulberry Street and party at the San Gennaro festa.


The sweat was pouring down the hollow of their backs. They looked tired and had a problem keeping their hands up in front of there faces. Alley-boy’s lips were not only huge but cut and red from the blood. Still the crowd yelled for more. Our side was starting to worry.


The Irish had come to America many decades earlier and had to battle the Anglo mainstream for approval. They were in the process of winning acceptance when the Italians began crowding them and it was now the Italians turn to sit on the bottom rung of the ladder.


When the cops from the 78th finally came by in their black and whites, the crowd scattered in different directions, yet the fighters, unaware of the police, kept slugging until they were finally pulled apart.


On that hot August day in that Brooklyn school yard neither side declared a victory - neither Irish nor Italian. Anyway, it was a long time ago and as they say, it’s all ancient history now. Except for the old-timers, who remembers anyway?


Not saying a word, we walked Alley-boy down the block to Fifth Avenue. The Irish kids walked up toward Seventh.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

ROOM TO LET

In the spring of ’44 we had a sign in the window of our four-story Brooklyn brownstone that read Room to Let. As a ten-year old I wondered hard at the meaning of this strange message. “Room to Let” it said. Room to let what? I thought. I couldn’t figure it out but I was sure that Grandpa, who had hung the sign in the window, knew what he was doing. Yet I continually scratched my head whenever I saw the sign.

My uncle and his family had been occupying the top two floors of the brownstone, but early in the year they had moved to Virginia because he had been drafted. We were left with four empty rooms and because we needed the money, Grandpa convinced Grandma that we should rent out the upstairs rooms. By putting locks on some of the doors, two on the top floor and two on the third floor, he transformed our brownstone into a quasi-apartment house. Four rooms would be rented out, with a bathroom on each floor, two tenants for one bathroom. Even Grandma liked the idea. Mama would do the cleaning and provide clean sheets, pillows and towels. Each room would have a bureau and a bed. What else could they possibly need? Grandpa then figured out how much rent for each room and there you had it.

Our very first renter, third floor front, was mild-mannered Mister Giambologna who came with his own radio, records and record player. My sister, who was three years older and more clever than me, said his name was really Jim Baloney. So I started calling him that although he really didn’t deserve ridicule from two smart-alecky kids. He always paid his rent on time and out of respect always called my grandfather Don Peppino. Jim Baloney was a stand-up guy and because of him I was exposed to a wonderful new world of music. Almost all of the 78 records that he had carted with him, except maybe for two Carlo Buti records, were Polish mazurkas which he played over and over again. I had never heard that kind of music before and strangely enough I immediately liked it. Yeah, Jim Baloney was all right.

My grandfather rented the third-floor back to a middle-aged Norwegian sea Captain and his wife. They were nice people, usually quiet, mainly because Captain Olaf Olsen was out at sea most of the time. I noticed that he pronounced his name Ooo-laf instead of Oh-laf. Like the captain, his wife Helga was tall and thin and her skin was weather-beaten. As far as Grandpa was concerned, her only problem was turning the radio way up and then falling asleep. The captain was a quiet and generous guy who liked kids. I remember he once brought me back a wooden sword from some far off country because he knew I liked pirate movies. The Olsens were okay too, I thought.


Top-floor front were the Jamisons. Let me tell you, they were crazy people. They kept to themselves but they drank like sailors on shore leave after a long stay at sea. Mr. Jamison was a ruddy-faced guy with a bulbous nose and a pot belly that hung way over his belt. She was a timid, pale-faced, short and sickly looking lady in her fifties. We would hear them argue whenever they returned from the Palm Pines up Union Street. One night she was so drunk that Mr. Jameson had to drag her upstairs, pulling on her short body, legs first. He kept cursing her one step at a time.

Top-floor back was a strange little man, a Mr. Tedesco, who was blind in one eye, smoked smelly Italian cigars and walked with a gnarly cane. Always dressed in the same shiney brown suit and vest, he never talked to anyone but would quietly walk by pointing his cane at my sister and I. Most of the day he would hibernate in his room until nightfall and then he would appear like Count Dracula, and come down and sit on the top step of the stoop for about a half hour. We didn’t like him at all. He was creepy and not all right, we thought. When he walked by I would give him an Italian salute behind his back.

Because of the new system in the house, Grandpa had strict rules for us kids. We were not allowed to go upstairs unless told to do so. And we were not to fraternize with the paying customers.

At first all went well. The renters were generally quiet and cooperative and Grandpa was getting the rent on time. Everyone was happy. One afternoon, however, I was in the second floor bathroom and I could hear Mrs. Olsen upstairs in the hallway, knocking on Jim Baloney’s door. There must have been no answer because she quietly walked back to her room. After a while she tried again and Jim Baloney let her into his room. From then on while the captain was away, Mrs. Olsen routinely visited Jim Baloney. And I’m pretty sure they were dancing because we could all hear mazurka music and hard footsteps on the floor.

One afternoon Mrs. Olsen called down and asked for me to run to the corner deli for some bread and cold cuts. My mother said it was okay so I took off for the store. When I returned and went upstairs, I knocked but no answer. She had the radio on real loud. I knocked again a little harder. I then pushed the door open and called out “Mrs. Olsen?” No answer. I stepped into the room and saw her lying on the bed naked wearing only a see-through nightgown. Jim Baloney was playing mazurka music in the room next door. I stared hard for at least a long minute and then dropped the bread and cold cuts on the floor and quickly ran down the stairs. I never told my mother what I saw but I also never forgot it. I secretly hoped that I would be asked to go to the store again, but she never did ask.

Summer was almost over and I was back at school, this time in the seventh grade. I was pretty much gone during the day because of school so I wasn’t sure what was happening with the renters. I noticed, however, that Grandpa was becoming more and more irritable.

Curiously, the day the captain came back was also the day Jim Baloney disappeared. He was missing and none of the renters knew where he had gone. Also, he had left owing almost a week’s rent and Grandpa wasn’t too happy. He left behind his treasured record player and all those mazurka records. Grandpa figured he’d keep them until he got his rent money.


One afternoon coming home from school, I noticed two cop’s cars from the 78th precinct parked in front of our brownstone. A small crowd was also hanging out near the airyway, talking loudly and using their hands. A cop stopped me from going into the house. I was worried because I thought maybe my grandmother had had another heart attack. Finally my grandfather came out and scooted me into the dining room and told me to stay put. I could hear my mother who was upstairs crying. I overheard that she was the one who had found Mr. Tedesco on the floor in his room in a pool of blood. Mr. Tedesco had shot himself in his right temple with an old rusty 22 pistol, probably because of his blind eye and because he was alone and had nothing to live for. My mother was very upset and cried for days.

That was it for Grandpa! First the place starts smelling like a bar room, then it’s being turned into a dance hall and a bordello, and now a renter goes and blows his brains out. It was too much, what Grandpa called schifiu. Two days after the suicide Grandpa kicked the Jamesons out and then gave notice to the captain and his wife. Very soon the place was empty and back to where it had been in the spring. In a way I was sorry to see them all go, even poor Mr. Tedesco.

So Grandpa gave my sister and I the record player and all the mazurka records but told me never to play them in his presence. Also, I was told specifically never to put my ear next to the radio’s speaker otherwise I would go deaf. My sister wasn’t interested in mazurka music so she gave me her share of the records. From then on when Grandpa wasn’t home I listened to mazurka music and thought of mild-mannered Jim Baloney. And, of course, the naked Mrs. Olsen.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

VIVA SAN GIUSEPPE

Once a year we went out to get lumber and cardboard boxes so we could build a large makeshift structure in the living room to be later covered with pastel-colored crepe paper and white linens. When it was finished we further decorated it with cut flowers that completely filled the room with a garden-like fragrance. We now had our altar and our front room had been transformed into a church-like sanctuary. Above the highest point of the altar hung an ornate framed picture of the bearded St. Joseph. He is holding the Baby Jesus and a single lily. According to those who believe, he’s not only the patron saint of home and family but also of the unfortunate ones in our society: the orphans and the homeless, unwed mothers and cuckolded husbands, the elderly, the needy and the poor.




In those days I knew little about the traditions of the feast day, but I knew that it fell regularly on March 19th, in the middle of Lent, and that he was the patron saint of Sicily and southern Italy. I knew that every year we celebrated on this day because of a vow my grandmother and grandfather had made to the saint. This was their way of thanking him for helping them in their particular time of need. For years we observed this ritual at our home in South Brooklyn: role-playing a religious tableau of the Holy Family, preparing and serving certain traditional foods, and by inviting relatives, friends and neighbors to partake in the festa and to come and go all day long until night-time.


Traditionally on March 19, in honor of St. Joseph, for years the well-to-do families in Sicily prepared an immense buffet in the public square and invited the poor and the needy to feast and celebrate. Southern Italian immigrants brought this tradition with them when they settled in America. They called it La Tavola di San Giuseppe (St. Joseph’s Table).


At our house, preparations for the feast began at least a week before; the altar was usually built and decorated by then; the foods were daily being prepared and stored. Some of the foods I still remember were the perciatelli con la mollica (pasta with bread crumbs instead of cheese because cheese is never eaten on St. Joseph’s Day), many different kinds of frittate (omelets), such as eggs and asparagus, eggs and onions, and eggs and just about any kind of vegetable. I also remember stuffed calamari, sardines, pine nuts and fennel. The most memorable of course, were the pastries, especially the zeppole or sfinge di San Giuseppe (cream puffs filled with a ricotta crema and topped with cherries or candied fruit and dusted with powdered sugar.


By the 18th of March, the day before the feast, all the decorative breads had been baked and placed on the altar. These were huge pane grosso, large wreathes of braided bread and other large breads shaped to symbolize St. Joseph’s beard and his staff (bastone), A variety of fruit and a mixture of nuts were also placed on the altar with the different breads.


A small boy and a young girl dressed in biblical attire, and an adult male were selected to represent the Holy Family - Jesus, the young Mary and the elderly St. Joseph. The old-timers called the small children “virgineddi” (the little virgins). After the priest blessed the altar with holy water the “Family” toured the house, knocking on doors, pretending to be looking for shelter. Three times they are refused until finally they are welcomed into the room with the altar. A table has already been set for them and now they sit and sample each of the delicacies. If there are other children present they join the Holy Family at the table; they are then served by the adults. After they have eaten the children go off to play and now the adults are ready to eat and celebrate. Immediately, shouts of “Viva San Giuseppe” fill the crowded rooms and platters of food and jugs of red wine are brought out. “Viva San Giuseppe,” the adults shout from time to time.

At the end of the evening after all have been fed and the guests prepare to leave, according to tradition, they take with them small sacks of food from the St. Joseph’s Table. Soon the planning starts for next year.

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

HAPPY NEW YEAR, GRANDPA


When I look back I distinctly remember two very different experiences having to do with New Year’s Eve. One of those memorable times was when I had almost reached drinking age and on the brink of manhood. My Brooklyn friends and I had decided to spend New Year’s Eve in Times Square. For us it was a natural rite of passage. That night we joined the multitudes that annually crowd each other for a glimpse of the future from midtown Manhattan, what we then thought was the center of the universe. We were engaged, we thought, in the ultimate New York Experience.

It was hard to believe how many had gathered in that one spot that night. Literally, we were squished body to body, up close and tight. On that cold evening the temperature hovered around freezing, and conscious of the current fashion, we wore earmuffs without hats. From about eleven, we waited on the square, hopping on one foot and then the next as we blew into our hands to stay warm. We were thankful when the clock finally struck midnight. Pandemoniam set in! And it was Happy New Year for everybody. The crowd went wild and the noise level was out of sight. The year would bring, among other things, the opening of the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. North Koreans invading South Korea. A minimum wage of 75 cents. And the Yankees sweeping the Phillies in the Series in four straight games. Out with the old and in with the new; it was now 1950, the middle of the century. And although standing in Times Square that night in the freezing cold was exciting and memorable I also remember another very different New Year’s Eve.

This other took place in South Brooklyn, the one where my sister and I were allowed to stay up and wait until midnight for the first time ever. That night we had all congregated in the kitchen, the adults and us kids. We didn’t know what to expect while the adults played a game similar to bingo called tombola. Finally, the time came to go outside the house and wait. There we were: my sister and I, my mother, grandmother, and grandfather, all of us with our coats on, in front of the house, standing in the airyway, waiting. Just waiting. Whatever it was, it was coming soon. And Grandpa, hammer in hand, was ready for it. We stood in the cold not saying a word; every now and then my sister and I would giggle in the silence. Grandpa would take out his watch from his shirt pocket and check the time. Finally, without a word, he opened the gate and quietly, walked slowly, step by step, from our house to the corner. I watched him standing there, almost at attention, directly in front of the metal pole on the corner of Union Street and Sixth Avenue. There he would do his waiting, I thought. Soon, I heard some noises, at first a few firecrackers and then a loud BOOM. Grandpa looked down and checked his pocket watch. It was exactly twelve midnight! Deliberately, he began banging the metal pole with his hammer. Methodically, like a clock. BONG, BONG, BONG! Twelve times. Meanwhile, the noises grew louder as the firecrackers, cherry bombs and roman candles exploded. Above us, the sky was a picture of shooting stars and our entire neighborhood was alive and on fire.

Grandpa quietly and slowly walked back from the corner and immediately all of us entered the house. Once inside, as if we were partaking of high tea, Grandma elegantly poured anisette into the tiniest glasses, and all of us, my sister and I included, sipped the sweet elixir. I remember that it tasted like licorice.