Carlo Orlando's Page

When I first received an email from Carlo Orlando, I was so excited:  I couldn't believe it - a living, breathing Carlo Orlando.  His was a name I was very familiar with; I had even used it as example on my "Chieuti Surnames" page.   I have multiple Carlo Orlandos in my database because many of the Chieuti residents practiced the tradition of naming the first-born son after the paternal grandfather.  The earliest Carlo Orlando in my database was born c. 1761 and died in 1809.  The Carlo Orlando who emailed me back in December 2006 is his 4th great grandson. 

Carlo began sending me reminiscences for my website.  They were so well written and made me feel a such a part of the story, that I have encouraged Carlo to write a book.  He hasn't committed to it yet, but I will continue to nag him until he does.  He might think I'm kidding about the nagging, but now he will have many more fans who will be asking "Carlo, when are you writing your book"?  I promise to forward your emails to him.

Carlo Orlando
Chieuti ancestors immigrated to:  Cleveland, Ohio
Surnames:  Orlando, diGiorgio, delCalzo, VitaleC

The Cool Cat

Jackie was the "coolest cat" on the street.  All one had to do was ask him. Slicked back hair, a pack of Luckies folded neatly in the sleeve of the white tee shirt, and he drove a 1941 Ford Coupe, pronounced coo-pay.  I would sit on the curb both feet firmly planted in the gutter, (today referred to as a rain channel) elbows on my bended knees and my chin resting in my cupped hands. Only with my eyes would I follow traffic.  Counting cars as they passed. One, two, three, sometimes reaching the twenties.  Then it would happen.  Jackies car would appear directly in front of me slowly travelling down fourth street. He"d look both ways, make a rolling stop and pull into the driveway, which was shared by the adjacent building, then stop. By now I'd be on my feet awaiting the daily question, "  Carlootch, you wanna drive?"  Jumping and with a broad grin I would run around the front of the "coo-pay" to the open door where Jack would hoist me to his lap and close the door. "Okay, cuz, you steer and I'll work the pedals."  Nervously I would firmly grab the steering wheel and with clenched teeth follow Jackies instructions.  "To the right, no the other right, Lootch."  Slowly we crept down the concrete path, "a little left, cuz" as I spotted our destination.  "Okay, turn, turn, turn hard that way," he ordered pointing to the right.  I grunted and winced as my right hand crossed over my left, when the car and its cargo finally reached a point behind the apartment. "Great job bro, as usual, now I'll take over."  I scrambled to the passenger side of the seat as he backed the car into the open garage.  He exited the car and waited for me.  We walked together, two pilots. "You'll be a great driver someday," he said as he rubbed the top of my head. " Hey, tomorrow I'm going to the gas station to get some fuelation for the spark pluegs, you wanna go?"  "Oh, yeah, Jack, can I drive."  "No license Lootch, sorry."

I always thought I was pretty big for six years old. O h, well, maybe when I grow up he'll come in my car for a ride.

As you can tell Jackie was my cousin and spoke the language of the day. Daddio, cool cat, neat-oh.  How impressed I must have been "steering" the car. My nephew "drove" my car.  He's thirty now. "Hey, Joe, unc needs a lift. Can you pick me up?"

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Haircut

Prior to relating my story I should inform everybody my knowledge of basic electricity is just that, basic.  What I do know is gerbils, kites and keys, and shamans have been supplanted with wire, magnets, electrons and protons. What I don't know is why I get jolted when I'm careless with the science.

It is 1953 and autumn has been abruptly swallowed by an early winter storm. My nine year old legs struggle mightily to traverse the billowing drifts, although my struggle hasn't dampened thoughts of trick or treating tomorrow night.  "Tony, the organ grinder."  Gramps' worn, floppy fedora, cigar box organ with crank and a mustache carefully crafted by mom with her eyeliner pencil. When I enter the house dad inexplicably tells me to change then explains he and I will be heading to uncle Georges' house for a haircut.

Uncle George is one of dad's six brothers and has been the only barber I've known.  We arrive at his house in quick step and upon hanging-up my hat and coat I'm instructed to "hop up" on the stool.  Once situated unc. strangles me with an apron until he locates a snap that only cuts off 40% of the blood supply to the brain.  In addition, the hair stuck in the neckline of the cloth creates a rasping effect from unc.  trying to expose the most amount of hair growing down my neck.  Now I hear " tuck in your chin."  I open my mouth, a bit, and jam my chin into my soon to be adams apple.  That done, a cold, metal, hand held, soon to be defined "course clipper", climbs from the lowest part of my hairline northward.  Always the benefactor I sit quietly and cringe with every pass silently wondering why it's called a haircut and not a hair pull. Another clipper, the "fine cut", and various scissors and combs make up the balance of the artisans tools, I think.  I think wrong. Out of a medicine cabinet comes the shaving mug and straight razor.  Warm lather dresses my skin around my ears and down the nape of my neck. I'm instructed to sit still as uncle G. performs the final act in this play.  The feel of the razor accompanied with the scraping sound confirms why I'm told to sit still. Surgery without an incision.  The sweat travelling down my back warrants some scratching but I don't move.  A warm, wet cloth cleaning the remainder of the suds indicates the final act has been performed. The removal of the apron gives me the opportunity to scratch my neck for full relief of the pinching I endured for thirty minutes.

The story of the haircut completed  I refer to the introduction.  Man has known about electricity for CENTURIES.  Experiments have been documented back to the FIFTEENTH century. Many by Italians. This haircut was in the twentieth century. Did they not have electric tools?

Despite uncle George's lack of electrical acumen, his entreprenurial spirit led him to open and own a four chair barber shop for decades.  Oh, yes, an automated soap dispenser and electric clippers.

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Friday Night Lights

Earlier in the week, John, one of my comrades, asked if Friday was good for a double date.  "I can't confirm without checking with the folks," I opined, "though I'd say it's a good bet.  I'll see you tomorrow at practice and let you know."  Practice is for our summer league baseball team. In essence, our high school baseball team joined the league so we could extend our playing time as a unit.  One of the byproducts of this action was our kinship being nurtured from the age thirteen thru graduation from high school.

Entering the house after practice I quickly asked mom for the car so I can get the Friday date confirmation.  Without hesitation she answered, "Honey, daddy and I have plans Friday night and we need you to watch the kids."  What plans could be more important than a date with my steady and my good pal and his girlfriend?  The kids are sister Georgeann and brothers Robert and Dale.  Coming to my senses I said okay with no retort.  The law is the law and I was going to watch the kids Friday night.  After dinner I called John and fed him the news.  "Aw, man, Friday night in the house?"  "No big deal, I like watching the kids, and mom never forgets the snacks, plus there will always be another Friday night."

Friday at five-thirty I kiss mom and dad good-bye and tell them to have a good time.  Right around six the phone rings, it's John.  He says he didn't want to go on a date unless we could double. I told him to come over while I put the kids to bed.  "Sure, I'll see if Babe is doing anything."  Babe is John's younger brother and plays on the team, too. Babe's given name is Donald, however, John had a difficult time saying "baby", dubbed his brother babe and it stuck. The kids were down early.  John and Babe were at the door just a few minutes later. We were watching television munching on one of the treats mom bought when a knock at the door surprised the three of us. Babe jumped up first to answer the door, and to our delight in strolled Bill and another John.  "Hey, you guys lost?"  "Just bored," blurted John.  "Nothing happening out there," pointing outside.  "Bill got word of the baby sitting job, so here we are." Freely going to the kitchen they found bowls, additional snacks and joined us. About nine o'clock Babe asks if he could use the phone in the sewing room to make a few calls.  "What did you do" his brother asks.  "I called Mike and told him to get hold of Chuck and Kenny and anybody else not on a date who wanted some snacks."  I looked at him with a sneer but could only laugh.  It wasn't too funny though. Before ten-thirty there were nine of my buddies, munching and cavorting with one another like little kids. It was a party waiting to happen.  As the night wore away, one by one someone disappeared to fall asleep; behind the couch, on the chair, in the sewing room, anywhere.

I woke up with popcor on the floor next to me and to the sound and smell only mom's cooking could produce.  I wasn't the first one up, Babe and Bill were urging my mother on like she was on the "team."  She told them to wake everybody and get seated at the dining room table so she could start serving the sausage, bacon and homemade pancakes, from scratch.  Everyone is up now, including the kids and my father.

Mom cooked for an hour.  Nine animals and her brood did not prove overwhelming.  It was controlled chaos.  Who wanted the syrup or silverware, more milk or orange juice. Babe was a constant reminder to the guys that mom used real butter and not "oleo margarine," so "don't be pigs."

Mom and dad still talk about the breakfast.  They remind me often how they had to park the car in the street, and navigate through sleeping bodies to get to their room.  The breakfast episode always gravitates to the spaghetti dinners mom and dad would have for the teams I played for.  These were spreads like no one can describe.  Happiness, joy and a particular sparkle are always in mom's eyes when she recalls that Friday night and Saturday morning in the Orlando household.

I left my boyhood hometown at an early age never to return. I have often wondered about the successes or failures of my friends. No matter, though, that Friday night is burned in my memory forever.

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Uncle Angelo

Startled, I was awakened from a deep and restful sleep this a.m. before the cock crowed.  My first thought was my uncle Angelo.  Gramps and Nana's youngest angel, Angelo, was taken from this earth by the hand of a cold blooded murderer in April 1978.  This father of three, and loving husband, was on his way to work and accidentally stumbled upon an armed robbery in progress.  In his attempt to aid the victim he was shot and killed as the perpetrator escaped never to be apprehended.   Being separated eleven years by birth, his untimely death affected me as if a playmate was taken away. The following is a testament to "my pal."

I arrived home from a day of sandlot baseball to find my uncle Angelo and his fiance, Liz, seated in the kitchen sharing coffee and mom's biscotti with my parents, dad being unc's eldest brother.  After kisses all around I was asked to join in on the pre-dinner snack. Hard pressed to refuse I plopped down, poured a glass of milk and dunked a biscotti, that even today, would make a geologist scramble for his research papers.  (Only hot coffee takes the crunch out of mom's biscotti.)

The conversation turned to unc's impending wedding. I was asked to be an usher and would be partnered with Liz's sister, Pat.  Rehearsals, bachelor party, tuxedo.  No gift from unc was greater than being asked to be in his wedding. What a couple they made.

Among the cadre of memories I must mention he was my Confirmation sponsor.  Sweat pouring down my back I approached the Bishop.  As I neared Him, I tuned in to the Latin mumbo jumbo that was being said to the kids in line ahead of me.  I got closer.  Someone asked what my confirmation name was and I firmly said "Angelo."  The Bishop stammered, cleared his throat, paused for a moment, smiled a bit then professed that I was to be confirmed "Angelino."  From that day to this, I believe the bishop never heard of a cannoli or an Angelo.  As a matter of record I must mention the Gruen 17 jewel time piece gift is still in my possession and works just fine.

Traditionally, at the high school where I graduated, a class picnic was formed.  My parents, being members at a private lake and picnic area south of Euclid, aided our group in securing the club to host the event.  After much planning, a saturday date and meeting time were scheduled.  Because of my familiarity with the route I volunteered to lead the over forty car procession to the lake.  There was one unresolved hitch, though.  I owned no car but always had access to mom and dad's . . . 1962 Ford Falcon STATION WAGON!  What was I thinking?  "Jan and Dean," "The Beach Boys," "The Beatles," and the Falcon.  While visiting uncle Ang and Liz prior to the picnic, I expressed my displeasure with having to drive the "wagon."  After a nod and a smile with Liz, unc said I could trade the Falcon with him on Friday and could use his 1959 Ford coupe to lead the pack.  Oh, my, God! The classic taillights and fins and with me in the driver seat.  I immediately called dad for his approval, which I received, and arranged a time for the swap.  Oh, yeah, the picnic was a success.

Uncle Angelo would have been seventy-four, if not for his untimely death.  Our youthful relationship was a breeding ground for what could have been.  Along with my father, his dedication to family and industry lives with of me today.  Our conversations about retirement and being a grandparent are in the wind, though, it is a gentle breeze stirred by a gentle man.  I miss him greatly.

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To my parents

Today, unlike other days, I am drifting on the sea of life, in the craft that has served as my haven for nigh on seven decades.  When I wanted to test the water in this vast sea, you would allow me to cup my hand, reach into the water and taste the brine it offered.

As time continued we knew my boat would be cast on the water.  You constructed a strong craft with a wide beam and a tall sail with a warning of high winds and unpredicable waves.  Attached to the rudder handle were a compass and a life vest.  When I heaved the cast line back towards the shore I saw the two of you standing there holding hands, proudly, in hopes that my journey would be safe and secure.

Now that the challenges of waves and stiff winds have become few, I am able to re-inventory my ship.  It now has a reliable engine. It starts most of the time and affords me the confidence to know that I am secure on the water.  Your tall mast and sail are intact and have held up through every storm. The compass still guides me, too.  I don't adjust my course without knowing my true direction. Finally, I clutch the vest. The vest of life. It is the one item that still is the most sea worthy. It never failed me, ever. Today I know that you have always been the vest, because today, I realized that it fastens tightly over my heart.

You two are my greatest heroes.   Thank you and I love you both

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Bacon

Saturday at Nana's and gramps could be compared to a small circus. Nana and grampa in their room and three uncles and me crammed into the other bedroom would emerge as one body at around seven-thirty.  Uncle Mikie who lived with Nana's parents arrived on cue within minutes.  Nana is making bacon and eggs for the horde.  Upon reflection the bacon holds no special memories although her fried eggs were unforgettable.  My job was removing the toaster from the back closet plugging it in and opening the two doors which were opposite one another. With a word of caution from an uncle or my grandfather I loaded the toaster, checked on the color periodically and when I was sure the bread was cooked properly removed and buttered the slices with an eight year olds perfection. Stacks of toast preceded the mountain of bacon and the call from Nana to sit came shortly thereafter.

How much bacon would be necessary to satisfy five grown men, me, and gram? Conservatively, I'll say two pounds.  When the bacon was finished and removed, without hesitation Nana added olive oil to the already half-full cast iron pan.  With a flick of her wrist she would turn up the flame on the stove making sure the olive oil heated quickly.  The cracking of the egg shells and the sound of the innards being deposited in the hot oil was deafening.  Pop, crackle, sizzle. She spooned oil onto the eggs as they floated on the greasy sea. When the egg whites were brown and crispy around the edge she determined the eggs were done and meted them out to her hungry men.  In a flash the banquet was reduced to a lone crust of toast, a wrinkled slice of bacon, and a brown ribbon someone refused to chew from the egg white.

What a mess! Before cleaning the table I would kiss Nana, thank her and get enveloped in a hug only a grandmother could give.

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Uncle Nick

Nick Orlando. Nick Orlando.  It is very difficult to say his name without the corner of your upper lip tweaking.  Those who knew him could not deny his sense of humor.  As a young boy, with constant visiting privileges, I was the recipient of uncle's love, generosity, and his bed.  That's right, his bed.  Back then, in the 1950S, he shared his bed with his youngest brother Angelo, and me.  (Picture that today.)

Rising up on Sunday morning was always a treat.  He would sneak up on me and whisper, "how 'bout a ride to Penny's?"  Penny's was a small, local restaurant and I believe he had an eye for an employee.  Oh, yes, I should mention that Uncle Nick was quite the bon vivant.  Today we would say a "legend," at least in his own mind.  After pancakes and milk, for the guys, we would go to Presti's and get a dozen warm, fresh glazed donuts for the rest of the family.  Sunday was second only to a national holiday.

Uncle Nick had a hand in my success as an entrepreneur, too.  At a tender age he taught me that doing an excellent cleaning and shining of his good pair of wing tips was the difference between a nickel and a quarter.  (Today that's a lawsuit.)

Burned into my memory is when he returned from the Army and presented his mother with a crucifix ring.  Just Nana, me and Uncle.  She cried, I cried, he turned away after the kiss. I loved the moment and the ring.  Upon the passing of Nana the ring was presented to me as my connection to her and uncle Nick.

Now I'm sixteen.  I slept on the living room floor.  August 15, 1961.  Cocky, hormonal, and have inherited a bit of Uncle Nick's "legendary" traits.  One of them being my fondness of the young ladies.  The problem I had staying at Nana's so often was my inability to pick-up any dates I could have made.  I had no car.  Uncle Nick to the rescue.  After a few questions he recognized my dilemma and asked if I could get a date if I had "wheels."  I looked at him with a glint of Gable.  He smiled and handed me the keys to his shiny, two-tone,  '56 Oldsmobile.  No lectures, no threats, just the keys and a full tank of petrol.  When I returned a few hours later with my holiday date, a slight nod of approval from him was the prelude to a wonderful evening.

I must admit, though, the defining moment in my relationship with "Greek" was when I inexplicably referred to my dear father as my "old man."  I was probably fourteen of fifteen years old and full of myself.  Well, Uncle Nick was not impressed with my utterance.  He sat me down, alone, and expressed his displeasure and disappointment with me.  He scolded me because I disrespected his brother.  Family values.  Uncle Nick knew I had the greatest respect for him.  I have carried that life lesson with me for well over fifty years.

Words are very powerful and I have tried to choose them well.  Thank you Uncle, I trust I made you proud.

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It Takes a Village

This Saturday started as many before.  The aroma of Nana's over-perked coffee accompanied by a hint of fresh donuts from Presti's Bakery.  I launched out of uncle Nick's and uncle Angelo's double bed, dressed and entered the kitchen where my sleeping partners and two other uncles, Jimmy and Mikie were perched. My grandfather was inexplicably absent but my omni-present grandmother was there pouring the second cup of coffee for her four sons.  After a kiss for gram, she asked, "Carlootch, you want-a caw-fay?"  With an enthusiastic yes she proceeded to half fill a cup with coffee, add three teaspoons of sugar and top it off with milk.  How about this, I'm sure I thought, coffee, donuts and conversation with my uncles.  Couldn't get much better.  Unfortunately, within minutes they dispersed.  Uncle Nick had to "meet a friend" - some girl; uncle Mikie left to check-up on Miattz and Tatootch; uncle Jim went to hang out on the corner; and uncle Ang had to go in for a half day.

Well, here I am 9 years old and my buddies abandoned me.  No problem, I've got cousins within walking distance to frolic with and a grandfather that could find work for me at any time.  After helping Nana clear the cups and saucers, I hinted about meeting up with my "cugini."  "First, you-a go to-a Mike's."  She handed me a fifty-cent piece and instructed me to get one pound of mortadella.  "Okay," I responded, not letting on that I had never been allowed to go to Mike's by myself.  "One pound?" I asked, and with a nod she affirmed.  I turned and skipped down three steps, out the back door, clutching the coin so hard sweat was already starting to ooze from my pores.  As I turned to head out I caught a glimpse of gramps sitting on his bench enjoying a Lucky Strike.  In great English he asked where I was going.  "Gram wants me to go to Mike's and get one pound of mortadella."  Nodding, he tells me to stay out of the street and watch for cars.  Turning to re-establish my heading, I see uncle Mikie and Tatootch planted on the stoop of the back house.  After a similar inquiry on my destination I asked uncle if he was coming.  "No, but I'll be here when you get back."  With that I took off on my journey.  As I cleared the rear of Tatooche's house I approached the La Monica house.  "Hey, Carlootch," I hear from the heavens.  Startled, I realized Mrs. La Monica was speaking from her kitchen window.  With a smile and a wave I continued and was instantly greeted by Mr. Donatelli who lived next door to the La Monica's.  "Eh, whatta you do?"  "I'm going to the store for Nana."  "You watch-a da machines."  Now I can spot the store.  One more house then I have to cross 123rd street.  I remember opening my hand to assure myself the fifty-cent piece was still there.  Mrs. Scuteri, who lived on the corner of Alexander and 123rd was outside in her front yard.  We exchanged hellos as I neared the crossing corner.  Because it was Saturday, traffic was sparse, although I've never crossed alone before.  Slowly stepping off the curb I recall every word Sgt. Smith told us in our school assemblies about crossing the street.  Look both ways. Left, right and left again.

Assured of my safety I scurried across to Mike's.  Three steps up to the sawdust strewn floor, I ordered one pound of mortadella from Mary, Mike's wife.  "Nice-a to-a see you Carlootch, where's Mikie?"  I explained he stayed home and that I came by myself.  With incalcuable speed she wrapped and tied my request, and handed it to me at the cash drawer.  I gave her the coin, she returned some change and said, "Ho-kay, you be a good-a boy and watch-a for da machines."  I retraced my steps including looking both ways when crossing 123rd.  As I sauntered back to Nana's, I saw Mrs. Scuderi smile and retreat into her house, Mr. Donatelli nod with a sheepish grin, and I heard the window in Mrs. La Monica's kitchen close.  Entering the yard of my grandparents I'm greeted by Miattz, Tatootch, uncle Mikie and grandpa, all smiling and nodding at one another.

It has taken me over five decades to determine what the journey really meant.  It was my first lesson about independence despite of the fact that my trail to the store was marked by  adults "miraculously" stationed at one hundred foot intervals.

Thank you, all

Love, Carlootch

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Uncles

Wringing memories out of a decades old mind will be challenging enough, putting those memories chronologically nearly impossible, so I will start with what I recall to be my earliest memory of being a nephew to one of my fathers six brothers.

Sitting on the stoop at the entrance to my fathers maternal grandparents home was a weekend pastime.  We were entering a historical time of innocence; the 1950s.  The United States had soundly defeated imperialistic Japan, and Nazi Germany and Korea was nothing more than a nuisance.  Under the watchful eye my uncle Mikie and the tutelage of "Tatootch," my great-grand father, I was, as a six-year-old, first introduced to the art of snapping the neck of a live chicken, loping off its head and defeathering this future meal very unceremoniously.  Good times for me, not so for the chicken.

The ice man coming to the house was another cherished moment.  As he approached the house with the huge block if ice lofted on his shoulder, he - at the urging of uncle - would lower the block to the stoop and chip off a sliver for me to lick and suck on.  God, that ice was cold.

Those were great times on the stoop.  Moments when an inquisitive boy could get answers to some of life's questions.  Uncle Mikie was, and is, a tender and generous man.  He had a way of spoiling me, too.  The two of us would walk to the bus stop, a nickel squeezed tightly in my hand, climb three steps into the carrier and I would deposit the nickel into a glass box and listen for the coin to drop.  That noise was special.  It meant we were off to downtown Cleveland for an afternoon at the movie theater.  The Ohio, State, or Palace, which one would it be today?  Lana Turner, Kirk Douglas, Cinemascope, wide screen.  What a thrill.  I was a big boy, too.  "Be a big boy, don't talk to strangers."

Being a big boy for him is the reinforcement rod in the foundation of the life that has made me the man I am today.

Thanks Unc.

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Nikki and Nana

Permit me to set the stage for the story of Nikki and Nana.  Nikki and I had been dating steadily for a short but intense period of time.  Within a week of meeting we knew every morning was the beginning of another special day.  Sunday, October 16, 1983 was to be one of those days.

I met Nikki on October 4, 1983 and I'm sure within 48 hours I spoke to her about my grand mother, Giorgina.  Being born Italian aided Nikki in understanding my relationship with Nana.  It was atypical.  I loved both my grandparents and would spend untold days with them throughout my childhood and late teens.  My parents raised me to value the elders on both sides of the family and I hold those values today.

Like every day off, Nik and I met for breakfast and planned our day.  I suggested a ride to Gram's so the two of them could meet.  She agreed and by early afternoon I was knocking on her door unannounced.  The aroma in the entrance way left no doubt it was Sunday.  The smell of Nana's spaghetti sauce and pizza was renown in the neighborhood.  The back entry to the house puts you directly into the kitchen, and sure enough there was Nana sitting at the kitchen table staring out a window.  I walked in first, Nikki following close behind.  Gram rose quickly with a smile, then affixed her eyes on Nikki.  Nik is five feet nine inches in height and presented quite a sight to the four foot ten inch rotund matriarch. "Ahlo," smiling at Nikki.  "Hello, Nana, my name is Nicholena."  After a kiss on the cheek from Nik, Nana asks, "Nicholena, huh, you Italiano?" "Yes, Nana, Siciliano." "That'sa okay," she confirmed.

The coffee was poured and with biscotti we talked for twenty or thirty minutes. Nikki excused herself to the bathroom giving Nana the chance she wanted. "Carlootch, she'sa so big," extending her arms above her head.  "Oh, yeah, gram, she is tall."  She put her arm around my waist and whispered, "That'sa nicea girl." Releasing me, and indicating by holding her hands about eighteen inches apart at her waist, she opined, "She hasa sucha bigga eyes and has a nicea ass for to passa the child."  Quickly raising her hands to breast level, she spread her fingers as if she was cradling a beef steak tomato, and continued, "Nicea, here, too, to make lots a milka."

With that, I knew instinctively, Nikki and me were destined for one another.

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Train

It is snowing, creating a billowy playground for me, my cousin Rae, and some friends.  We have expended a vast amount of energy playing "snowball", creating snow angels, and constructing a three ball snowman.  My mother rounded up coal for the buttons and eyes and celery for the nose.  While admiring our accomplishment my aunt yelled from an open window, "It's getting dark, everybody head for home."  Acknowledging her order, we dispersed to our family apartments.

Rae and I landed in the laundry room and removed our frozen clothes.  She wrapped herself in a blanket left for her by her mom and departed.  Our apartment was just a few yards from the laundry room making my journey very short.

I took a hot bath and sat in front of the test pattern on the Stewart-Warner television sipping hot chocolate for a short period.  My father arrived home from work at the appropriate hour and we ate dinner.  After a few t.v. programs I was off to bed.  Falling asleep tonight will be difficult even though I am assured by mom and dad the milk and cookies will be left out for Santa.  It is Christmas Eve, 1949 and I'm five years old.

My "bed" is a rollaway cot in the dining room.  I open one eye and see the flower patterned wallpaper.  The room is lit by the morning sun showing through partially parted curtains.

I rollover and eye both parents standing between the bed and the dining room table.  I am quickly greeted by a smiling mother, "Merry Christmas, sweetheart." "Merry Christmas, mom. Good morning, dad."  Merry Christmas," he responds. They parted from one another and I rose from the bed.  I immediately spotted the table was ringed by the triple rail tracks of an electric train.  On the tracks were seven cars led by a locomotive and caboose.  There was a up passenger station, crossing signals with gates and a transformer with two levers.  "Oh my gosh," I scream, "it's just what I wanted.  It's perfect.  Can you show me how it runs?"  "Sure can," dad says.  Except for church services, the remainder of the day was spent with my father.  He showed me how the coal car could dump its load and how the milk cans were put into its car properly and which button to push to get the cans to exit on to the platform.  "Push here and watch the logs roll off the car."  Right again.  He put a pill into the smoke stack of the engine and out came white smoke when the train moved. He told me to pull a lever on the transformer and a whistle blew.

The train that gave me so much joy in my youth is still running today and elating mom and dads great-grand children.

Six years ago my parents were at our home visiting for a few days.  During their stay I invited a train collector friend to our house.  After introductions, Jim and I left to inspect the train.  He was very impressed with its condition and mentioned that it had some value.  In a surprise question he asked what my father did for a living back then, citing the original cost for a set like this was expensive.  I yelled from the room, "Ma, do you remember what you guys paid for my train set?"  "Not exactly, honey, I think a hundred and twenty-five dollars.  When I get home I'll look at the receipt."

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A Renaissance Woman

Near our apartment house in East Cleveland there lived a short, beautiful, feisty woman.  Her voice was barely audible, a near whisper.  She had an operation on her vocal chords in the early 1940s robbing her of volume, though as I discovered, when she needed to reprimand me, her grandson, I had no trouble hearing her.  Rose DiFranco was my mother's mother.  Other than my mother, gram was my greatest female influence.  I learned lifelong lessons such as a woman can live on her own, be happy, productive, and independent.  Gramps and gram separated before I was born.  Gramps lived with one of his married daughters for years, then tragedy befell the household and gramps came to live with us.  Gram owned a big house and rented out rooms.  That was her means of survival.

I would have rented a room from her, too.  As part of their payment she fed the array of characters a few times a week.  I would spend weekends at her house and assimilated quite well.  Pete, a boarder of long standing was like a buddy to me.  I would guess he was in his fifties and got along with gram famously. Saturdays gram made bread.  The loaves were huge.  They were round, at least 14 inches in diameter and probably 7 inches in height at the middle.  Gramma Franco, as she was affectionately called, would hold the warm loaf in her left hand pressing it against her chest at a ninety degree angle to the floor.  Placing a knife on the outside edge of the loaf and parallel to the floor she'd draw it across the bread creating a slice of bread.  No ordinary slice:  it was 6 or 7 inches long and one inch thick and the crust was hard and crunchy.  Down goes the bread and the slice.  She finds the homemade jam and trowels a 1/2 inch on the slice and it becomes part of the airy white.  Pointing to a chair she'd say, "Sit, mangi, and try not to make crumbs," as she passes the slab from her hand to mine.  Try not to make crumbs?  If one has to check their teeth for chips after chomping into the mini-loaf there are going to be crumbs.

I was a prince in the palace kitchen.

The Italian Sunday macaroni and sauce tradition thrived at grams house.  Awakened from my sleepy trance by what would become a familiar din, I follow the noise and discover this 4-foot 10-inch nuclear power plant had completed the assembly of flour and water to create the macaroni of the day.  Today it is homemade cavatelli, pronounced, cav-a-deal at grams, as it was at home.  I get my breakfast before she continues.  I sit and watch as she rolls the dough to just the right thickness.  Then with her head cocked at the correct angle she cut the dough into one inch wide strips.  Putting down the knife she magically turned the strips ninety degrees picked up the knife and sliced the dough into one inch squares.  Freeing herself once again of the knife she took her thumb, strategically placed it onto a square of dough.  Pushing downward and forward she was able to roll the dough creating a "cavadeal."  One after another, never missing a beat in the Sunday symphony.  Completing the manufacturing process she offers me a unit.  What a treat.  Greedily, I ask for another.  "No, Carlo, two will give you agita." I may be eight years old but I question in my mind, if two gives you agita, how come I have to finish all of them when we eat dinner.

Pete is up now and offers to take me fishing.  Gram accommodates his request and proceeds to make us a lunch for the road.  She lops off two slices of bread and cuts them in half.  Retrieving two raw meatballs from the refrigerator she presses them into hamburger patties placing each on a slice of bread.  A drizzle of olive oil, pressed garlic, salt and pepper complete the sandwich.  Wrapped in yesterdays newspaper and rubberbanded for security, Pete and me head to Lake Erie.  As most fishing days in my youth very few fish are caught but we drown a lot of worms.  "How 'bout some eats, boy."  "Yeah, Pete I'm starving."  We secured our poles and removed the bounty from the oil stained paper.  Savoring each bite of our tartar banquet and chasing the oil dripping from our chin kept talking to a minimum.  After another fishless hour we arrive back at grams knowing we will soon be treated to a "festivita."  Cavadeal, floating in a deep, thick red sauce smothered in imported cheese, served in a soup bowl and supped with a spoon.  Meatballs and braziole followed by homemade cake or pie.

Gramma Franco lived into her late eighties. Never wanting to burden her children she placed herself in a nursing home where she lived out her final years.

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Summertime in Little Italy

Like most school children, I knew by the end of May classes would soon be over and summer was just a few weeks away.  Baseball with the guys, riding my bicycle with cousins and friends, and hiking into the park were a few of many activities that would fill our days.  June and July were seamless, but August was special because I was going on vacation.  With bag in hand my father asked if I was ready to go.  Yes, I affirmed.  Because my father and I were alone in the car I was permitted to ride in the passenger seat, up front.

What a great start for my vacation.  Dad and me dart through traffic, he pointing out landmarks he has pointed out myriad times, the last, and most important, being Lakeview Cemetery.  With two left turns off Euclid Avenue we have arrived at our destination.  Nana's and gramps' in Little Italy.  Before dad turns off the ignition, I'm out of the car bounding up three steps to their door.  Knock, knock and open. What a greeting.  Kisses and hugs from all.  What a glorious day.  One by one each of four uncles who still live at home pick me up, snuggle me and express their joy at having me as company for the next five days.  My father enters the kitchen last and after his greeting sits to talk to his parents.  Coffee, biscotti and the smell of pizza and sausage.  It's a party waiting to happen.  By now, I trust you have figured out that my vacation is in direct correlation to the celebration of the Feast of the Assumption, culminating on August 15th with a grand fireworks display.  I must admit, not until my late teens did I understand why the feast was celebrated.  As a young boy it was fun, games, and food in enormous amounts.  Aunts and uncles, cousins and friends all gathered at my grand-parents home, off and on for days.  The city closed Mayfield Road, the main street bisecting Little Italy.  People who lived outside Little Italy but wanted to drive into the neighborhood showed the police paid utility bills with addresses within the closed off streets as "proof" they had a right to enter.  The bills, from residents in the neighborhood, were sent or picked-up prior to the feast.  Daily, one of my uncles would grab me by the hand and off we'd go.  I would breakout in a sweat I was so anxious.  Depending on which uncle was in hand, I would be allowed to pitch pennies at a game designed for adults, but uncle had an "in" and I became a privileged character.  Old women stood behind makeshift stands hawking their homemade pizza and sausage, lupines, sauce and meatballs with fresh baked bread to "dinge", to whomever passed within whispering distance.  Hordes of people, elbow to elbow, moving en masse trying to locate their favorite food stand or game of chance.  Homemade Italian ice purchased at Corbo's Bakery proved, once again, it's magic healing power for my excessive indulgences.  Worming our way through the kaleidoscope of natives, at dark, was an indication that our day was coming to a close.  I recall the tight grip of an uncle taking staccato steps so I didn't have to run to keep-up.

Starting in the early 1970's, I started taking my children to Nana's for the feast.  Their stories echo mine because time has not been allowed to invade our desire to profess our religious beliefs, or express our love of family, food, and celebration.

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Tatootch and Miattz

I was eleven years old when my maternal great-grandparents passed away within four months of one another.  Andrew and Grace DelCalzo, Tatootch and Miattz.  The significance they had in my first ten years is profound.  From Miattz, I learned that a kiss would get me a cup of tea.  One half tea, one half milk, four teaspoons of sugar.  Also, a hug for Tatootch would get me time sitting on the outside stoop with him in wait of the poultry wagon.  A few times a week a flatbed truck would come to the neighborhood loaded with wooden dowel cages teeming with live fowl.  Miattz and Nana, along with their  contemporaries, would scurry to the truck and without haste each decide the fate of a particular bird.  That nights dinner was then passed on to Tatootch, who, with the swiftness of a swashbuckler, laid claim to the fowl.  Drained of life we teamed to pluck the critter clean.  When he lit a Parodi I knew our task was complete.  He passed dinner to Miattz and within hours we supped the best chicken soup in Little Italy.  I should mention, too, that within days of our feast, Miattz took the pillows from her bed, opened them and added the feathers Tatootch and I carefully saved.  Even today I can remember the "pins" of the feathers trying to pierce my cheeks at nap time.

The twenty-first century may be the gateway to the future, but our past is the key.

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Smells of Little Italy

Perhaps people will find it amusing, but the first recollection of my grandparents wasn't a connection by sight; it was by the nose.  I remember the smell of soot.  Burning coal used to heat the house was the culprit.  Although the apartment my parents lived in - on 133rd Street in East Cleveland - was also heated by coal, the odor was different.  Everything was different.  The neighborhood was made-up mostly Italians, rightly so, for "gramps and nana" lived in Little Italy, and we lived in a melting pot.  The streets were narrower, the church was within walking distance for every family, Mike's butcher shop, Prestis donuts and bakery.

The smells of Little Italy.  Walking up 124th Street to Aunt Lena's house was aways an adventure for the olfactory gland.  Macaroni sauce - not pasta sauce - was the predominate smell.  Pizza and sausage lingered in the air, too, making me salivate even more.  Friday, though, is my fondest memory.  Nana always had canned tomatoes and peppers on hand.  She would pour two or three quarts into a stewing kettle and raise the flame on the stove to high.  When she determined the stew was almost ready to serve, she would break a half dozen eggs into the boiling mixture.  That was my introduction to poached eggs.  She served this up to whoever was home and dispatched me to deliver the balance to her parents who lived in the house next door.  The real treat though was when she would open the oven door and remove two onion and anchovy pizza's.  People have referred to a dinner like that as a depression dish, I remember it as a banquet.

Grandparents, parents, a baby sister, uncles, all gathered around a small wooden table with the requisite oil cloth cover thanking the Lord for all we had.  So little satisfied so many.

I believe it is appropriate to introduce to you some of the characters of Little Italy.  The time is the middle of the 20th century.  The memories of the sounds are as distinct as the smells.

I could be awakened at sunrise either by the cry of "pepper-rekks" or the shilling of George the fruit man, "grapes today, mama," referring to my grandmother.  My favorite though was the clippity-clop, clippity-clop, repetition of the horse drawn wagon of the iceman.  What a sight for my six-year-old eyes.  The largeness of the horse.  The over sized hooves from years of leading the wagon on hand laid brick streets.  I would hastily throw on my duds for the day and clamor to the stoop of my great grand-parents house waiting for the worn out old man to hitch his horse and then chip out a block of ice probably 12 to 14 inches on a side.  Mightily, he would heave the cube to his leather covered shoulder and head toward the stoop.  Stopping at the foot of the first step, he would lower the mass to one knee, and with the skill of a surgeon, lope off a sliver and hand it to me.  "Two'a hands'a", with a wink, then off to the kitchen where he would put the ice in the icebox.  That's right, icebox.

Not until I was approaching my teen years did I discover the "pepper-rekks" man, driving a truck that was vintage World War One, was really yelling "paper and rags, paper and rags."   Apparently, this unnamed, cigar chomper, would take newspapers, rags and old articles of clothing off your hands after a bartering session with the local immigrants.  Fifty-five years later I'm still inspired by the people of that era on the lesson of earning a living to take care of the family.

George the fruit man.  In the truest sense of the word he was "the character."  His voice was loud and raspy.  Everyone on 123rd, 124th, and Alexander knew of his impending entry to the neighborhood.  "Cantaloupe, mama, fresh and sweet", he shrilled.  All the woman, clad in their aprons with Captain Kangaroo sized pockets, would gather at George's truck, ready to make a counter offer for his goods.  No one ever paid George's price but certainly played into his game.  The pointing, shouting, a deal would be struck.  Then, on cue, out came the change purses which were neatly hidden under the apron.  Nana's fingers would separate the pennies from the nickels and slowly hand over her payment, but only after the scale read the exact poundage agreed upon.

I am, this day, that child, again.

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Weekends at Nana's and Gramps

Weekends at Nana's and gramps were always special times for me growing up. Saturday's with my uncles, hecticness in the kitchen feeding the brood, along with starting and completing chores or projects my grandfather had conjured up during the week.  As the sun began to set my uncles would begin their exodus and I would repair to the living room and the television.  Soon, though, brothers and sisters of my grandparents would enter the house for the Saturday night nickel poker game.  I wasn't permitted in the kitchen during the game.  The loud talk and controversies encouraged by an extra sip of homemade wine left little to my imagination on who won "all the money."  Gramps would call me into the kitchen when everybody was ready to leave.  I'd get kisses from the aunts and a rub on my head from my uncles.  Sometimes the winner would put a dime in my hand with a smile.  Nana would get the comforter, a pillow and direct me to the floor in the living room.  A kiss and hug from her made me feel safe and secure.

Sunday.  Can anyone really put into words what an Italian household is on Sunday.  First, I was always the first person awake.  My uncles would get home at hours I wasn't aware existed and my grandparents took full advantage of the day of rest.  Eventually, uncle Nick would roll out of the bedroom and exit with hardly a goodbye.  Within minutes he returned with fresh, hot, aromatic donuts from Presti's Bakery.  He'd sit at the kitchen table and motion to me to sit with him.  He'd dip into the box and come out with a soft, sweet circle dripping with glaze.  "Come on, let's share one before anybody gets up."  We'd down the sweet cake quickly because the aroma surely would permeate the house.  As predicted everybody had risen.  Nana starts a pot of the strongest coffee in Little Italy and we all wait for the heavy brew to get served.  My uncles whisper about their Saturday night dates as Nana hoists "the kettle" to the top of the stove. Uncle Mikie, who lives with Nana's parents, would call to make sure I was ready for church.  Assured of my cleanliness, we'd meet in the adjacent concrete yard and head to Holy Rosary for mass.  In the fifties, mass was delivered in Latin and the sermon in Italian.  Very difficult for me to pay attention.

Walking home Uncle would explain the sermon in detail.  Delivered back to gramps, uncle would leave, returning when supper was ready.  One of the fondest rituals of my grandfather was about to take place.  The Sunday morning shave. He would instruct me to go to the hallway just outside the kitchen door and bring him an old newspaper which was being saved on top of the Singer sewing machine.  I 'd give him the paper which he would neatly spread on the kitchen table and I'd sit across from him wide eyed.  Within minutes he had a shaving cup, brush, straight razor and a pan of hot water in place.  On the inside of the kitchen door knob hung a razor strap.  He would go to the strap and hone the blade to his satisfaction.  Finally, all was in place. He'd wet the brush with the pan water and swirl it around in the soap cup raising the foamy lather to his cheeks.  "Oh, gramps," I'd say every Sunday, "some day I'll shave with you." "Ahg, it'sa no fun but mebbe soma day."  Fifty years later I can still hear the sound of the razor being dragged on his leathery skin.  It should be said that one of my greatest disappointments is that I never got to shave with him.  He was profound, too, in his wisdom.  Shaving is not fun.

Remember the kettle Nana put on the stove?  It is a boiling caldren now.  Tomato paste, only Contadina, water and canned tomatoes.  On the right side of the stove she is frying, or french frying, in two inches of olive oil, meatballs.  They will be fried until they have a crust then dropped into the sauce.  I'm not talking ten or twelve either.  She would fry for an hour.

The meatballs were accompanied with beef and pork neck bones, braziole, a few pieces of pepperoni, some sausage and maybe a piece of leftover chicken.  The aroma, forgettaboutit.  My uncles would rip off a piece of bread, walk to the pot and "dinge."  "Hey, just checking on gramma.  Here, you taste, too."  The smile I showed Nana made her grin and I got a kiss.  The sauce would cook for hours.  The table getting set was a sure indication the feast wasn't far away.  A pot of boiling water sat next to the sauce kettle and two pounds of spaghetti or rigatoni would be dropped in and stirred.  Gramps would yell," everybody sit now."  We never had to be called twice.  No flat dishes either.  We ate out of soup dishes.  Gram loaded the bowls with macaroni covered it all with imported parmesean or romano and bathed it in her sauce.  One more trip to the stove and she returned with a huge pan of meat.  Some words were spoken during the dinner but nothing of significance.  It was choreographed weekly, though in my mind it was a premiere every Sunday.  Clean-up was Uncle Mikie's and my responsibility.  Uncle Angelo always had time to help, too.  As we were doing what had to be done, Nana was getting the celery and, my favorite, peeled orange slices bathed in olive oil heavily seasoned with salt and pepper.  I have always thought of this post meal delight as the Italian version of Tums or Alka-Seltzer.