I rest my chin on a window sill in Grandma and Grampa Colacicco's upper flat and gaze below and across the street at uniformed Army Air Corps officers. Many stand but most sit on benches on an elementary school playground. Because there's a world war being fought, the military acquires both school and playground.
I watch a few soldiers use fountain pens as they write perhaps class notes or letters to girlfriends, wives, parents, and loved ones. Most chat with fellow officers. One man looks away. He seems deep in thought. Another looking like the movies star, Clark Gable, smokes a pipe. Most officers are cigarette smokers. Those men who can, sport mustaches.
A buzzer rings and stops everything. Cigarettes plummet to the blacktop and are ground out. Men scatter in order to return to their classrooms. Earlier, Mother tells me they're training to be navigators, whatever navigators are. Maybe they have something to do with alligators.
On the street below, drivers occasionally honk horns. Vendors, sitting on the front of horse-drawn wagons, announce their presence with sing-song jargon or out and out shouts. "Knives sharpened," one bellows in a deep bass voice. "Sharpened knives."
A woman my grandmother's age suddenly exits the building next door, heads to the knife sharpener's wagon and raises a butcher knife. The sharpener pleased, he pulls on the reins. The horse stops, turns its head back, and looks to its driver make a show of his craft. Three women form a line behind the first.
"Fresh bread, rolls, cakes, pies," another calls out. His nearly white horse with dark gray belly wears a straw hat with holes cut out for its ears. It moves slowly as do all the horses. "We need bread, don't we?" mother asks her mother.
Mother rushes downstairs. I watch her pick out a light brown loaf and return up the squeaky stairs.
"Junk. I want junk. All kinds of junk," a disheveled character with oily hat and dark beard and mustache shouts. His suspenders over a grey shirt are three inches wide.
"Eggs. Buy your fresh eggs today," a farmer sings.
More women in flowery dresses appear. One lady carefully feels tomatoes on a produce wagon, culls most by returning them to a special pile she builds. She assents to the vendor's offering of a handful of radishes with a head nod. When she leaves, he rearranges her stack.
A white-haired lady carefully examines green peppers, turning them over, looking for things unpleasant. The accommodating vendor puts her choices in a paper sack, accepts her offering, counts it, and gives her change.
Later that day, I hear the squeaky stairs, once more. The door opens. It's Grampa. Although he calls me Georgie, I do not mind because of the charming, soft way he says it. He is the opposite of his eldest child, my Uncle Charlie. Grampa seems happy to see me.
As he sits in his chair, he tells me he's tired, having put in a full half day at the casket factory. "I used to be a barber," he says after he places me on his lap. A hand rises before me, shaking with equally quivering fingers. "I can't-ah cut hair no more."
Grandma comes into the room. I cower.
· * * *
This very morning, she leads me to a room and guides me to a huge statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary who's cradling the baby Jesus in her left arm, her right hand held before her as if she were blessing us. The Virgin reminds me of Monsignor Gille at SS. Peter & Paul Catholic church as he blesses us a moment before mass ends.
Grandma kneels on a kneeler like those found in a church. She constructs a flamboyant sign of the cross, and prays to the Virgin in Italian. Grandma's voice reminds me of quarrelling, quacking ducks in a pond, aggressively paddling for oatmeal tossed on the water by zoo visitors.
It doesn't take me long to see it, a grotesque green snake in either anger or anguish. It is under the Virgin's foot. Its eyes shriek. It gasps with gruesomely sharpened white fangs and a horrific red forked tongue. At once, I try to leave. Grandma stops me. I cry.
Mother rushes to the room. "What's wrong?"
Blubbering, I point at the terrifying asp.
"It's not real," mother says although I continue to bawl.
Grandma quacks in Italian.
"He didn't sleep well last night," explains mother, which is due to an overhead light fixture that looks like two dragons.
· * * *
Grandma says something in Italian to Grampa, which he also answers in their original language. Grandma heads to the kitchen and soon returns with a glass of ice tea.
"Thank you," Grampa says, probably for my benefit. They smile. Grandma returns to the kitchen. Mother is helping her prepare supper.
Grampa places the glass on an end table. He tamps tobacco in his pipe. He scrapes a farmer's match on his ankle high work boot's heel. The match comes to life. He places it sideways above the tobacco, drawing in short, and quick puffs. Finally, he shakes out the flame, puts the expended match in an ashtray on the end table, and draws in deeply. He exhales a cloud of smoke.
A bugle.
"What's that?" I plead.
"The flag. It's-ah coming down," Grampa says.
He places pipe on stand in the ashtray, puts me down, rises, and leads me to a window. Uniformed men on the playground stand straight and salute as the stars and stripes is lowered. Grampa places his right hand over his heart while his left hand pats my head. He hums along with the bugle. I feel safe.
I watch a few soldiers use fountain pens as they write perhaps class notes or letters to girlfriends, wives, parents, and loved ones. Most chat with fellow officers. One man looks away. He seems deep in thought. Another looking like the movies star, Clark Gable, smokes a pipe. Most officers are cigarette smokers. Those men who can, sport mustaches.
A buzzer rings and stops everything. Cigarettes plummet to the blacktop and are ground out. Men scatter in order to return to their classrooms. Earlier, Mother tells me they're training to be navigators, whatever navigators are. Maybe they have something to do with alligators.
On the street below, drivers occasionally honk horns. Vendors, sitting on the front of horse-drawn wagons, announce their presence with sing-song jargon or out and out shouts. "Knives sharpened," one bellows in a deep bass voice. "Sharpened knives."
A woman my grandmother's age suddenly exits the building next door, heads to the knife sharpener's wagon and raises a butcher knife. The sharpener pleased, he pulls on the reins. The horse stops, turns its head back, and looks to its driver make a show of his craft. Three women form a line behind the first.
"Fresh bread, rolls, cakes, pies," another calls out. His nearly white horse with dark gray belly wears a straw hat with holes cut out for its ears. It moves slowly as do all the horses. "We need bread, don't we?" mother asks her mother.
Mother rushes downstairs. I watch her pick out a light brown loaf and return up the squeaky stairs.
"Junk. I want junk. All kinds of junk," a disheveled character with oily hat and dark beard and mustache shouts. His suspenders over a grey shirt are three inches wide.
"Eggs. Buy your fresh eggs today," a farmer sings.
More women in flowery dresses appear. One lady carefully feels tomatoes on a produce wagon, culls most by returning them to a special pile she builds. She assents to the vendor's offering of a handful of radishes with a head nod. When she leaves, he rearranges her stack.
A white-haired lady carefully examines green peppers, turning them over, looking for things unpleasant. The accommodating vendor puts her choices in a paper sack, accepts her offering, counts it, and gives her change.
Later that day, I hear the squeaky stairs, once more. The door opens. It's Grampa. Although he calls me Georgie, I do not mind because of the charming, soft way he says it. He is the opposite of his eldest child, my Uncle Charlie. Grampa seems happy to see me.
As he sits in his chair, he tells me he's tired, having put in a full half day at the casket factory. "I used to be a barber," he says after he places me on his lap. A hand rises before me, shaking with equally quivering fingers. "I can't-ah cut hair no more."
Grandma comes into the room. I cower.
· * * *
This very morning, she leads me to a room and guides me to a huge statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary who's cradling the baby Jesus in her left arm, her right hand held before her as if she were blessing us. The Virgin reminds me of Monsignor Gille at SS. Peter & Paul Catholic church as he blesses us a moment before mass ends.
Grandma kneels on a kneeler like those found in a church. She constructs a flamboyant sign of the cross, and prays to the Virgin in Italian. Grandma's voice reminds me of quarrelling, quacking ducks in a pond, aggressively paddling for oatmeal tossed on the water by zoo visitors.
It doesn't take me long to see it, a grotesque green snake in either anger or anguish. It is under the Virgin's foot. Its eyes shriek. It gasps with gruesomely sharpened white fangs and a horrific red forked tongue. At once, I try to leave. Grandma stops me. I cry.
Mother rushes to the room. "What's wrong?"
Blubbering, I point at the terrifying asp.
"It's not real," mother says although I continue to bawl.
Grandma quacks in Italian.
"He didn't sleep well last night," explains mother, which is due to an overhead light fixture that looks like two dragons.
· * * *
Grandma says something in Italian to Grampa, which he also answers in their original language. Grandma heads to the kitchen and soon returns with a glass of ice tea.
"Thank you," Grampa says, probably for my benefit. They smile. Grandma returns to the kitchen. Mother is helping her prepare supper.
Grampa places the glass on an end table. He tamps tobacco in his pipe. He scrapes a farmer's match on his ankle high work boot's heel. The match comes to life. He places it sideways above the tobacco, drawing in short, and quick puffs. Finally, he shakes out the flame, puts the expended match in an ashtray on the end table, and draws in deeply. He exhales a cloud of smoke.
A bugle.
"What's that?" I plead.
"The flag. It's-ah coming down," Grampa says.
He places pipe on stand in the ashtray, puts me down, rises, and leads me to a window. Uniformed men on the playground stand straight and salute as the stars and stripes is lowered. Grampa places his right hand over his heart while his left hand pats my head. He hums along with the bugle. I feel safe.
RSS Feed