Uncle Fred Colacicco is the opposite of his older brother, Charlie. Soft spoken with thinning dishwater blonde hair, Fred, like his father, cannot be coaxed into the limelight. A WWII combat U. S. Army military policeman, Fred is proud he enlists at age thirty-three in 1941 but will not talk about battles in which he took part. He tells me he served in Italy, the land of his parents' birth. I find that fascinating and pump him for more, but he discloses nothing. I surmise horrific battle scenes must haunt him, but Post Traumatic Syndrome is not a part of the language. He works at a printing business in Chicago and tells me, "I like it."
"Do you make much money?"
"Not a much as a doctor," he says, referring to my father.
He, his wife, Betty, and only child, Mary Beth, are visiting our home in Wisconsin Rapids. Aunty Betty spends much time each morning in our singular bathroom, preparing her face and hair for the day. We kids tell our mother we have to go. Bad. “Go to Habeck’s,” she says.
Bill and I rush to Habeck's Standard Gas Station on the corner of Eighth and Baker Streets in order to use the station’s bathroom. "What's wrong?" says old man Habeck. "Don't you have your own shit house?"
Habeck knows we kids love to hear him cuss. Bill and I giggle all the way home with our repeating, “Don’t you have your own shit house?”
Mary Beth, younger than I by a few years, is not only horribly spoiled, she's a drama princess extraordinaire who constantly seeks the stage light her father so diligently avoids.
I think Aunt Betty's interventions regarding their daughter bothers her husband. I watch his facial muscles contort and relax and then tense again after Aunt Betty insists, "Mary Beth will eat only lamb chops." She makes this announcement at the precise moment mother begins to prepare hamburgers and French fries for lunch.
At once, Mother turns off the stove's gas burners and rushes to the parlor in order to retrieve money from her purse. When she returns to the kitchen, Fred has his wallet at the ready. "No," mother says, dismissing his offer with a wave of her hand. He quickly puts the wallet away. She hands me dollar bills, enough money to buy five pounds of ground beef. "Tell Bob Martin we need a couple of nice lamb chops."
"Awwww," I whine, "I don't want to go." Besides, I don't like the way Mary Beth smiles.
She's obviously pleased and loudly proclaims, "I absolutely detest hamburgers. Yuk."
"Then, you go to the store," I say handing her the money.
"George." Mother's giving me that look. I grab the bills and take off for the store.
Scaredy Cat Annette, my younger sister, and I avoid the princess as best as we can, but since Mary Beth is nearer our ages than that of our older brothers, she insists on tagging along with us. After Bobby Kell listens to her go on and on as to why Wisconsin Rapids is such a hick and boring town, he whispers to me, "She's a dumb ass, isn't she?" Bobby's our neighborhood philosopher. I nod.
After their two-week visit finally ends and they return to Chicago, our entire family relaxes and we recount for days, actually years, the episodes and antics of Betty and her preferential offspring. "Lamb chops," mother says. "I never." We laugh, thankful we don't have to put up with Beautiful Betty and Little Miss Perfect.
Some years later, mother announces that Uncle Fred is going to visit us. "He isn't married any more. He and Betty are divorced. So, don't use that word around him, especially you, George."
Nearly a teenager, I think Fred should be grateful he no longer has to put up with Betty or Mary Beth or lamb chops.
On this visit, he has little hair on top of his head and is bothered by yellow toenails for which my father prescribes medication. Furthermore, Fred does not share my feelings. "I miss them, but it's for the best," he says immediately after I mention the word mother tells me not to use. It is during this visit he and I become pals, but he still won't talk about his war service.
"Want to play eight ball?" I ask him one morning after breakfast.
"You play eight ball?" He asks as if he doesn't believe me.
"Yeah, me and my friends play at Bill's Billiards lots of times." (Well, it isn't a lot of times, but maybe once a month).
"And your mother doesn't say anything?"
"No, it's a nice place. Bill doesn't allow cussing."
"Where is Bill's?"
"Downtown."
"Sure, I'll go."
That afternoon, we walk downtown and across the Grand Avenue Bridge. I introduce my uncle to Bill, the owner of Bill's Billiards, which is above the Wisconsin Theater. It's a large room with a number of regulation pool tables and one billiards table. Bill charges customers a penny a minute.
My uncle picks a cue stick out of a large number of them. Holding it almost lovingly, he places it on top of the table and rolls it. "Why are you doing that?"
"To make certain the stick’s straight.”
I rack the balls. He breaks. The way he holds the stick, I'm certain he's played pool before. Many times before. Sometimes, he uses his left hand lightly as a bridge. With his normal shots, the middle and index fingers of that same hand lightly rise above the felt as the stick smoothly slides back and forth between them before the cue stick’s rubber tip with blue chalk on the end taps the cue ball.
I lay the heel of my right hand on the felt since I'm a lefty.
Turns out, Fred shoots the same way he talks. Softly. The balls barely drop in but they drop. He has solid-colored balls. I have striped. He shoots all of his in and then the eight ball. "Heck, I didn't have a chance to shoot."
"Tell you what." He says. "From now on, I'll shoot with my left hand." He racks the balls. I break. Nothing goes in. Fred shoots in four of his balls with his inferior hand.
"Blackie," a swarthy, heavy set but tall man with cropped black hair and black rimmed glasses, is the best player in the city. He sits and watches us without saying a word.
Even using his "bad" hand, Fred still beats me. When I lose the third game, Blackie stands. "Wanna play a game of straight pool?" he asks my uncle.
"Sure," says Fred softly, "if it's all right with you," he tells me.
"It's okay," I say.
"Five bucks each game," says Blackie, "and the loser pays for the time."
"Five dollars is a lot of money," says my uncle.
"That's the deal."
"I don't know." Fred rubs a palm over the shaved area of his face.
"Where you from?"
"Chicago."
"I bet you're a hustler."
"I was thinking the same about you," replies my relative. Finally, Fred relents.
"Rack 'em up," says Blackie.
Four games later and ten dollars richer, Uncle Fred says, "We have to get going. My sister, the boy's mother, will have dinner ready shortly."
"I knew you were a hustler," says Blackie. "I want my ten bucks back." Then, he adds, "Plus you pay for the time."
Bill, the owner, shorter than I, leaves his area behind the Coca Cola fountain and stands before Blackie. "I watched. He won, fair and square."
"Is he your brother?" quips Blackie.
Bill doesn't put up with shenanigans, not even from the best player in town. "I said he won, fair and square. Besides, you're the one who made the challenge."
Blackie pays Bill for the time and leaves.
A few moments later as we prepare to leave, we hear someone stomp up the stairs. It's Blackie.
"Oh, oh," I think as his nose is about six inches from my uncle’s nose.
Blackie lets out a huge sigh. "Say, I gotta tell you. I was wrong. You won fair and square. You're a better player. Today, that is. Today, you’re a better player. Will you accept my apology?"
"Accepted," says Fred, his right hand shooting out to Blackie's right. They both smile and shake.
Bill applauds. "Hear, hear," he says.
The other customers grin. As for me, I'm relieved.
As we walk home, Fred offers me a five dollar bill. "No, I don't want your winnings."
We go to Bill's Billiards a couple of more times. Fred says he wants to teach me how to improve my game. Each time, the word is passed and a number of men soon appear and sit on chairs along the walls, watching the man who beat Blackie. They applaud Fred when he makes difficult shots look easy.
After that visit, I see my uncle one more time. It's in Chicago at a relative's wedding. He asks me if I still shoot pool. "Uh, uh," I reply. "I'd never be as good as you."
He laughs. That's our last time together. Not long after that, our phone rings. Soon, mother wails.
“What’s wrong?”
"Your Uncle Fred is dead." She mops at her eyes with a soggy handkerchief.
Fred Colacicco was such a gentle man. And a gentleman. I shall never forget him.
"Do you make much money?"
"Not a much as a doctor," he says, referring to my father.
He, his wife, Betty, and only child, Mary Beth, are visiting our home in Wisconsin Rapids. Aunty Betty spends much time each morning in our singular bathroom, preparing her face and hair for the day. We kids tell our mother we have to go. Bad. “Go to Habeck’s,” she says.
Bill and I rush to Habeck's Standard Gas Station on the corner of Eighth and Baker Streets in order to use the station’s bathroom. "What's wrong?" says old man Habeck. "Don't you have your own shit house?"
Habeck knows we kids love to hear him cuss. Bill and I giggle all the way home with our repeating, “Don’t you have your own shit house?”
Mary Beth, younger than I by a few years, is not only horribly spoiled, she's a drama princess extraordinaire who constantly seeks the stage light her father so diligently avoids.
I think Aunt Betty's interventions regarding their daughter bothers her husband. I watch his facial muscles contort and relax and then tense again after Aunt Betty insists, "Mary Beth will eat only lamb chops." She makes this announcement at the precise moment mother begins to prepare hamburgers and French fries for lunch.
At once, Mother turns off the stove's gas burners and rushes to the parlor in order to retrieve money from her purse. When she returns to the kitchen, Fred has his wallet at the ready. "No," mother says, dismissing his offer with a wave of her hand. He quickly puts the wallet away. She hands me dollar bills, enough money to buy five pounds of ground beef. "Tell Bob Martin we need a couple of nice lamb chops."
"Awwww," I whine, "I don't want to go." Besides, I don't like the way Mary Beth smiles.
She's obviously pleased and loudly proclaims, "I absolutely detest hamburgers. Yuk."
"Then, you go to the store," I say handing her the money.
"George." Mother's giving me that look. I grab the bills and take off for the store.
Scaredy Cat Annette, my younger sister, and I avoid the princess as best as we can, but since Mary Beth is nearer our ages than that of our older brothers, she insists on tagging along with us. After Bobby Kell listens to her go on and on as to why Wisconsin Rapids is such a hick and boring town, he whispers to me, "She's a dumb ass, isn't she?" Bobby's our neighborhood philosopher. I nod.
After their two-week visit finally ends and they return to Chicago, our entire family relaxes and we recount for days, actually years, the episodes and antics of Betty and her preferential offspring. "Lamb chops," mother says. "I never." We laugh, thankful we don't have to put up with Beautiful Betty and Little Miss Perfect.
Some years later, mother announces that Uncle Fred is going to visit us. "He isn't married any more. He and Betty are divorced. So, don't use that word around him, especially you, George."
Nearly a teenager, I think Fred should be grateful he no longer has to put up with Betty or Mary Beth or lamb chops.
On this visit, he has little hair on top of his head and is bothered by yellow toenails for which my father prescribes medication. Furthermore, Fred does not share my feelings. "I miss them, but it's for the best," he says immediately after I mention the word mother tells me not to use. It is during this visit he and I become pals, but he still won't talk about his war service.
"Want to play eight ball?" I ask him one morning after breakfast.
"You play eight ball?" He asks as if he doesn't believe me.
"Yeah, me and my friends play at Bill's Billiards lots of times." (Well, it isn't a lot of times, but maybe once a month).
"And your mother doesn't say anything?"
"No, it's a nice place. Bill doesn't allow cussing."
"Where is Bill's?"
"Downtown."
"Sure, I'll go."
That afternoon, we walk downtown and across the Grand Avenue Bridge. I introduce my uncle to Bill, the owner of Bill's Billiards, which is above the Wisconsin Theater. It's a large room with a number of regulation pool tables and one billiards table. Bill charges customers a penny a minute.
My uncle picks a cue stick out of a large number of them. Holding it almost lovingly, he places it on top of the table and rolls it. "Why are you doing that?"
"To make certain the stick’s straight.”
I rack the balls. He breaks. The way he holds the stick, I'm certain he's played pool before. Many times before. Sometimes, he uses his left hand lightly as a bridge. With his normal shots, the middle and index fingers of that same hand lightly rise above the felt as the stick smoothly slides back and forth between them before the cue stick’s rubber tip with blue chalk on the end taps the cue ball.
I lay the heel of my right hand on the felt since I'm a lefty.
Turns out, Fred shoots the same way he talks. Softly. The balls barely drop in but they drop. He has solid-colored balls. I have striped. He shoots all of his in and then the eight ball. "Heck, I didn't have a chance to shoot."
"Tell you what." He says. "From now on, I'll shoot with my left hand." He racks the balls. I break. Nothing goes in. Fred shoots in four of his balls with his inferior hand.
"Blackie," a swarthy, heavy set but tall man with cropped black hair and black rimmed glasses, is the best player in the city. He sits and watches us without saying a word.
Even using his "bad" hand, Fred still beats me. When I lose the third game, Blackie stands. "Wanna play a game of straight pool?" he asks my uncle.
"Sure," says Fred softly, "if it's all right with you," he tells me.
"It's okay," I say.
"Five bucks each game," says Blackie, "and the loser pays for the time."
"Five dollars is a lot of money," says my uncle.
"That's the deal."
"I don't know." Fred rubs a palm over the shaved area of his face.
"Where you from?"
"Chicago."
"I bet you're a hustler."
"I was thinking the same about you," replies my relative. Finally, Fred relents.
"Rack 'em up," says Blackie.
Four games later and ten dollars richer, Uncle Fred says, "We have to get going. My sister, the boy's mother, will have dinner ready shortly."
"I knew you were a hustler," says Blackie. "I want my ten bucks back." Then, he adds, "Plus you pay for the time."
Bill, the owner, shorter than I, leaves his area behind the Coca Cola fountain and stands before Blackie. "I watched. He won, fair and square."
"Is he your brother?" quips Blackie.
Bill doesn't put up with shenanigans, not even from the best player in town. "I said he won, fair and square. Besides, you're the one who made the challenge."
Blackie pays Bill for the time and leaves.
A few moments later as we prepare to leave, we hear someone stomp up the stairs. It's Blackie.
"Oh, oh," I think as his nose is about six inches from my uncle’s nose.
Blackie lets out a huge sigh. "Say, I gotta tell you. I was wrong. You won fair and square. You're a better player. Today, that is. Today, you’re a better player. Will you accept my apology?"
"Accepted," says Fred, his right hand shooting out to Blackie's right. They both smile and shake.
Bill applauds. "Hear, hear," he says.
The other customers grin. As for me, I'm relieved.
As we walk home, Fred offers me a five dollar bill. "No, I don't want your winnings."
We go to Bill's Billiards a couple of more times. Fred says he wants to teach me how to improve my game. Each time, the word is passed and a number of men soon appear and sit on chairs along the walls, watching the man who beat Blackie. They applaud Fred when he makes difficult shots look easy.
After that visit, I see my uncle one more time. It's in Chicago at a relative's wedding. He asks me if I still shoot pool. "Uh, uh," I reply. "I'd never be as good as you."
He laughs. That's our last time together. Not long after that, our phone rings. Soon, mother wails.
“What’s wrong?”
"Your Uncle Fred is dead." She mops at her eyes with a soggy handkerchief.
Fred Colacicco was such a gentle man. And a gentleman. I shall never forget him.