When Grampa Frank woke up in the morning, most of the time I didn't hear him. That's because he was so quiet. Like a ghost.
At night, before I closed my eyes, he'd come into the bedroom from the bathroom wearing his striped flannel blue and white pajamas and carrying the clothes he wore during the day. Or he'd wear his striped maroon and white flannel pajamas. In the morning, when I opened my eyes, he was already wearing his dark wool trousers and thick, white socks. I could see the top part of his union suit, not the bottom with a flap in the back of his butt. That's for you-know-what. "I wear wool underwear every day except for the Fourth of ah-July," he told me.
I believed him. Except he later admitted he was kidding. I don't think he was kidding so much, though. During hot summer days, he wore a cotton union suit. Thing is, Grampa always wore a union suit. Thick black suspenders held up his trousers. He didn't put on his shirt until after he washed up and shaved.
Also, before I woke up, he had already made his bed really neat, with the pillow plumped up just so-so. Not the way I make my bed.
Cousin Robert Pier Dominici said when I join the Navy, because that's what I want to do when I grow up, I won't be able to be sloppy when I make my bed aboard a ship. He was in the Navy during the war. "For now, I'm just a kid," I told my cousin, "and being sloppy is okay for a kid. Know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I guess so, Mister Smarty Pants," Robert shot back, "but you better learn to make your bed before you do join."
Mother agreed with Cousin Robert. Of course.
Back to Grampa and me. I usually woke up after Grampa started buffing his black, ankle-high work boots with a shoe brush. He keeps all kinds of shoe things stored in a wood shoeshine box under his bed. It wasn't really his bed, but I guess you could say it is was bed while he visited us. On the brush's wooden top, it had black letters that spelled out, "100% pure horse hair."
"Good morning, Grampa," I'd say.
"Good-ah morning to you, Gordy." He usually smiled. Not me. I yawned and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.
Once in a while, Grampa thought his boots weren't shiny enough. They always looked shiny to me. That's when he'd reach in his shoeshine box for a tin of Shinola shoe wax. He pried the tin open with a blade of his three-bladed Case jackknife. He kept its blades extra sharp.
Instead of putting wax on his boots with a small brush or rag like Dad does, Grampa slid the bottoms of his index and middle fingers on top of the wax and then rubbed the fingers on the boots. "You put wax on real ah-thin," he explained. "With-ah thin wax, the shine is much better."
He had learned to shine shoes when he was a barber's apprentice in New York. He didn't have to wait long for the wax to dry. Then, he brushed the boots to a high shine. Still, that wasn't good enough for him. Following that, he whipped a narrow, soft cloth back and forth over the front of the boots. I have to tell you, Diary, they glowed like a brand new car under bright lights at Casey's Oldsmobile and Chevrolet dealership on Eighth Street South in September. Sometimes they shined so much they reminded me of flashing lightning in the blackest night sky.
Me? I use the liquid stuff. Just daub it on with the dauber and let the polish dry. It's done. Of course, my shoes don't shine like Grampa's boots.
After I told Mrs. Kell about Grampa's habits, she said, "Italians are known to be fastidious."
I didn't ask her what that meant, but I finally found the word in our dictionary. I thought the second letter was a U, not an A. Anyway, fastidious means fussy. Grampa was definitely fussy, all right. About everything. Including the way Mother ironed his trousers and shirts. She did it once. Grampa growled like a dog. From then on, he ironed his own clothes.
Sometimes, I watched Grampa shave, that is, if he left the bathroom door open. I stood in the hallway and watched him as he carefully looked in the mirror, rubbing his chin and neck and cheeks. Once, he let me feel his cheeks before he shaved. They were just like sandpaper. I giggled. So, too, did he.
Grampa used a shaving brush and shaving mug. "It's-ah pure badger hair," he said.
"Why?"
"Because badger hair is the best."
Of course. See what I mean about fastidious? Dad uses Palmolive shaving cream, not soap.
"Cream," Dad said, "lets the razor glide over my stubble."
"What's stubble?"
"Whiskers."
"Oh."
Back to Grampa and me. "Did the badger give up its hair willingly?" I asked, making a joke.
Grampa looked at me very, very seriously. I had to explain to him that it was a joke.
He soaked that badger hair shaving brush in hot water and shook the brush in order to have just enough water on it. Next, he put the brush into his metal shaving mug with shaving soap on the bottom. He whisked that brush around in that mug the same way Mother whisks a fork in a bowl of eggs that she intends to scramble.
The brush came out of the mug with thick soap which Grampa applied to both cheeks, under his nose, below his lower lip, and finally the neck. It kind of reminded me of a painter, brushing paint on a house.
Next, Grampa took out his straight razor, opened it, and slapped the blade back and forth against a thick leather piece that looked like a belt but wasn't. "This-ah keeps the blade very, very sharp," he said when I asked him what he was doing.
Dad uses a Gillette safety razor and Gillette red blades or blue blades. Sometimes, I lock the bathroom door, sit on the sink, look into the mirror, and use Dad's razor without a blade in it. I make believe I'm shaving stubble, but I won't have any stubble until I'm grown up.
Grampa usually didn't mind that I watched him shave. But I had better not talk or ask him anything. Each time I did, he closed the door. Not hard, mind you. The door just clicked shut. And there I was, standing all alone, wishing I wouldn't have opened my big trap. At that point, I had no other choice. I'd go to the kitchen and wait for him to put on his shirt and sit down at the kitchen table and make his Coffee Royale and smoke his pipe for the first time of the day. He always smelled especially nice in the morning with Fitch's after shaving lotion he splashed on his face and neck.
That morning when he came into the kitchen, he said to Mother, "Jean-ah, I need shaving soap and after shave-ah lotion. Where I can buy them?"
"I think I know where," I said.
He looked at me sternly. Grampa can be very stern. "You think so, or do you-ah know so?"
"I think I know so, Grampa."
Laughing, he said, "We'll find a store."
"You can take Pa to either Schroeder's Five and Dime or Daly's drugstore," said Mother. She continued, "Or if you want to walk across the bridge, you can go to Church's."
Dad owns half of Church's drugstore with Paul Rispeck. I think his last name is spelled that way but I don't know for certain.
Instead of going to the wall that morning on our daily walk in order for Grampa to watch the river go by and talk about his Palma, he and I crossed Market Square. That's where farmers come to sell vegetables and farm stuff on Saturday mornings, but not during winter. Grampa and I never walk in a hurry. That's for certain. After he talked to Len Habeck at Habeck's gas station, we walked down Baker Street hill and crossed Market Square.
Soon, we made it to the Hotel Witter. Snooty Mrs. Witter was there. At least that's what I think her name was. She sat outside the front entrance of the hotel at a small table with a white, stiff table cloth on it. She sat on a chair, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. On top of the table cloth was a glass ashtray with crushed out butts in it. Her hair was orange. I mean orange as a Florida orange. No fooling. People say I have red hair. They're dumb. My hair is not red like a fire truck. It's auburn. Her hair was definitely orange.
Standing beside Mrs. Witter was her huge dog, a St. Bernard with a small barrel chained under its neck. Its tongue was hanging out and spit was drooping down both sides of its mouth. Yuck. Double yuck. Grampa pet the dog. I wouldn't go near it. I didn't want any of that spit on me or my clothes.
"Aren't you going to pet Bernie?" Mrs. Witter asked me in her snooty way.
I didn't say anything but just shook my head.
"Is the boy afraid of dogs?" she asked Grampa.
"I don't-ah think so," said Grampa….
"That cadence. Where are you from?"
"Chicago."
"I mean where were you born?"
"Italia."
"I thought so," she said blowing smoke at me.
"My husband and I visited Italy a few years ago."
Big deal, I thought.
"Where in Italy were you from?" she asked.
"Near Naples."
"Oh, we didn't go there. My husband and I were warned that there were a lot of criminals there. We stayed in Rome most of the time."
"Grampa," I said, "we got to get going."
Mrs. Witter laughed the way she only could. Snooty like.
Finally, we left her. It was about time. Of that, I am certain.
At night, before I closed my eyes, he'd come into the bedroom from the bathroom wearing his striped flannel blue and white pajamas and carrying the clothes he wore during the day. Or he'd wear his striped maroon and white flannel pajamas. In the morning, when I opened my eyes, he was already wearing his dark wool trousers and thick, white socks. I could see the top part of his union suit, not the bottom with a flap in the back of his butt. That's for you-know-what. "I wear wool underwear every day except for the Fourth of ah-July," he told me.
I believed him. Except he later admitted he was kidding. I don't think he was kidding so much, though. During hot summer days, he wore a cotton union suit. Thing is, Grampa always wore a union suit. Thick black suspenders held up his trousers. He didn't put on his shirt until after he washed up and shaved.
Also, before I woke up, he had already made his bed really neat, with the pillow plumped up just so-so. Not the way I make my bed.
Cousin Robert Pier Dominici said when I join the Navy, because that's what I want to do when I grow up, I won't be able to be sloppy when I make my bed aboard a ship. He was in the Navy during the war. "For now, I'm just a kid," I told my cousin, "and being sloppy is okay for a kid. Know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I guess so, Mister Smarty Pants," Robert shot back, "but you better learn to make your bed before you do join."
Mother agreed with Cousin Robert. Of course.
Back to Grampa and me. I usually woke up after Grampa started buffing his black, ankle-high work boots with a shoe brush. He keeps all kinds of shoe things stored in a wood shoeshine box under his bed. It wasn't really his bed, but I guess you could say it is was bed while he visited us. On the brush's wooden top, it had black letters that spelled out, "100% pure horse hair."
"Good morning, Grampa," I'd say.
"Good-ah morning to you, Gordy." He usually smiled. Not me. I yawned and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.
Once in a while, Grampa thought his boots weren't shiny enough. They always looked shiny to me. That's when he'd reach in his shoeshine box for a tin of Shinola shoe wax. He pried the tin open with a blade of his three-bladed Case jackknife. He kept its blades extra sharp.
Instead of putting wax on his boots with a small brush or rag like Dad does, Grampa slid the bottoms of his index and middle fingers on top of the wax and then rubbed the fingers on the boots. "You put wax on real ah-thin," he explained. "With-ah thin wax, the shine is much better."
He had learned to shine shoes when he was a barber's apprentice in New York. He didn't have to wait long for the wax to dry. Then, he brushed the boots to a high shine. Still, that wasn't good enough for him. Following that, he whipped a narrow, soft cloth back and forth over the front of the boots. I have to tell you, Diary, they glowed like a brand new car under bright lights at Casey's Oldsmobile and Chevrolet dealership on Eighth Street South in September. Sometimes they shined so much they reminded me of flashing lightning in the blackest night sky.
Me? I use the liquid stuff. Just daub it on with the dauber and let the polish dry. It's done. Of course, my shoes don't shine like Grampa's boots.
After I told Mrs. Kell about Grampa's habits, she said, "Italians are known to be fastidious."
I didn't ask her what that meant, but I finally found the word in our dictionary. I thought the second letter was a U, not an A. Anyway, fastidious means fussy. Grampa was definitely fussy, all right. About everything. Including the way Mother ironed his trousers and shirts. She did it once. Grampa growled like a dog. From then on, he ironed his own clothes.
Sometimes, I watched Grampa shave, that is, if he left the bathroom door open. I stood in the hallway and watched him as he carefully looked in the mirror, rubbing his chin and neck and cheeks. Once, he let me feel his cheeks before he shaved. They were just like sandpaper. I giggled. So, too, did he.
Grampa used a shaving brush and shaving mug. "It's-ah pure badger hair," he said.
"Why?"
"Because badger hair is the best."
Of course. See what I mean about fastidious? Dad uses Palmolive shaving cream, not soap.
"Cream," Dad said, "lets the razor glide over my stubble."
"What's stubble?"
"Whiskers."
"Oh."
Back to Grampa and me. "Did the badger give up its hair willingly?" I asked, making a joke.
Grampa looked at me very, very seriously. I had to explain to him that it was a joke.
He soaked that badger hair shaving brush in hot water and shook the brush in order to have just enough water on it. Next, he put the brush into his metal shaving mug with shaving soap on the bottom. He whisked that brush around in that mug the same way Mother whisks a fork in a bowl of eggs that she intends to scramble.
The brush came out of the mug with thick soap which Grampa applied to both cheeks, under his nose, below his lower lip, and finally the neck. It kind of reminded me of a painter, brushing paint on a house.
Next, Grampa took out his straight razor, opened it, and slapped the blade back and forth against a thick leather piece that looked like a belt but wasn't. "This-ah keeps the blade very, very sharp," he said when I asked him what he was doing.
Dad uses a Gillette safety razor and Gillette red blades or blue blades. Sometimes, I lock the bathroom door, sit on the sink, look into the mirror, and use Dad's razor without a blade in it. I make believe I'm shaving stubble, but I won't have any stubble until I'm grown up.
Grampa usually didn't mind that I watched him shave. But I had better not talk or ask him anything. Each time I did, he closed the door. Not hard, mind you. The door just clicked shut. And there I was, standing all alone, wishing I wouldn't have opened my big trap. At that point, I had no other choice. I'd go to the kitchen and wait for him to put on his shirt and sit down at the kitchen table and make his Coffee Royale and smoke his pipe for the first time of the day. He always smelled especially nice in the morning with Fitch's after shaving lotion he splashed on his face and neck.
That morning when he came into the kitchen, he said to Mother, "Jean-ah, I need shaving soap and after shave-ah lotion. Where I can buy them?"
"I think I know where," I said.
He looked at me sternly. Grampa can be very stern. "You think so, or do you-ah know so?"
"I think I know so, Grampa."
Laughing, he said, "We'll find a store."
"You can take Pa to either Schroeder's Five and Dime or Daly's drugstore," said Mother. She continued, "Or if you want to walk across the bridge, you can go to Church's."
Dad owns half of Church's drugstore with Paul Rispeck. I think his last name is spelled that way but I don't know for certain.
Instead of going to the wall that morning on our daily walk in order for Grampa to watch the river go by and talk about his Palma, he and I crossed Market Square. That's where farmers come to sell vegetables and farm stuff on Saturday mornings, but not during winter. Grampa and I never walk in a hurry. That's for certain. After he talked to Len Habeck at Habeck's gas station, we walked down Baker Street hill and crossed Market Square.
Soon, we made it to the Hotel Witter. Snooty Mrs. Witter was there. At least that's what I think her name was. She sat outside the front entrance of the hotel at a small table with a white, stiff table cloth on it. She sat on a chair, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. On top of the table cloth was a glass ashtray with crushed out butts in it. Her hair was orange. I mean orange as a Florida orange. No fooling. People say I have red hair. They're dumb. My hair is not red like a fire truck. It's auburn. Her hair was definitely orange.
Standing beside Mrs. Witter was her huge dog, a St. Bernard with a small barrel chained under its neck. Its tongue was hanging out and spit was drooping down both sides of its mouth. Yuck. Double yuck. Grampa pet the dog. I wouldn't go near it. I didn't want any of that spit on me or my clothes.
"Aren't you going to pet Bernie?" Mrs. Witter asked me in her snooty way.
I didn't say anything but just shook my head.
"Is the boy afraid of dogs?" she asked Grampa.
"I don't-ah think so," said Grampa….
"That cadence. Where are you from?"
"Chicago."
"I mean where were you born?"
"Italia."
"I thought so," she said blowing smoke at me.
"My husband and I visited Italy a few years ago."
Big deal, I thought.
"Where in Italy were you from?" she asked.
"Near Naples."
"Oh, we didn't go there. My husband and I were warned that there were a lot of criminals there. We stayed in Rome most of the time."
"Grampa," I said, "we got to get going."
Mrs. Witter laughed the way she only could. Snooty like.
Finally, we left her. It was about time. Of that, I am certain.
RSS Feed