Frank Colacicco, my maternal grandfather whom I called Grampa, reached his seventeenth birthday and also his full height of five feet seven inches. Born and reared in Caserta, Italy, he now had completed his third year of a four year barber's apprenticeship in Manhattan, New York. His main role up to that point had been to keep the barbershop sanitary and spotless and warm in the winter. Also, journeymen barbers for the past three years had given Frank tips on cutting hair and shaving, letting him perform those tonsorial tasks on them, personally.
At the beginning of his fourth year, Frank cut clients' hair and shaved their stubbles fulltime because a new apprentice had arrived from Italy in order to take over Grampa's previous role.
In 1896, according to their agreement, Frank's boss purchased for Frank a round-trip ticket to Italy. As planned, he and Palma Cappelli were married in a Caserta Catholic church.
As a boy, he had dreamed of marrying Palma. In New York, he visualized a second dream, owning his own barbershop. Ninety days after they made their marriage vows, Frank returned to the states and the Manhattan barber shop. He was determined to save enough money in order to pay for Palma's trip to New York. In time, he'd open his own barbershop.
Palma remained in Caserta and tried her best not to cry. Grampa confessed to me while I fished for carp—at the same time he watched with a faraway look at the Wisconsin River flowing by—that he also did his best not to cry, but he, unlike Palma, was not successful.
On his Manhattan return, Frank was determined to live as meagerly as possible and requested permission to live in the barbershop's back room, once again. This time, he'd have to share those sparse quarters with the apprentice.
Two months later, Frank received a special letter in which Palma announced she was pregnant. She planned to remain in Caserta but would travel to America when the baby was able to walk.
At once, Frank made plans for his return to Caserta, advising Palma of his intention in a letter. In return mail, Palma strongly advised her husband to remain in New York. She and their little one would sail to Manhattan when The child was able to walk. "Remember our dream," she wrote.
Frank relented and sent Palma money for the eventual birth of their firstborn, a son they named Charles Angelo. Everyone would call him Charlie, my Uncle Charlie.
After Charlie and Palma were processed at Ellis Island, she told her husband that New York was even more frantic than her husband had described in his letters. Frank had already found a flat for them in Little Italy where they lived among other immigrants who spoke their native language. Palma confessed to Frank she was alarmed by American English. "It's like German, so gruff."
Through Frank's hard work and Palma's sacrifices, they were able to see to fruition of what had become their mutual dream of Frank owning his own barbershop. It was located in a storefront below their flat.
By 1905, Palma had given birth to three additional children, Florence, Mary, and Rose. Two sets of twins had lived but a short time. In 1906, Palma delivered a third set of twins, this time fraternal twins they named Adele Genevieve, "Jean," my mother, and her twin brother, William, "Uncle Bill." Both survived into adulthood.
Of the six children that endured, Rose, his favorite, reminded Frank of Palma. Unfortunately, little Rose, age three, stepped on a nail and didn't tell anyone. Too late, the parents summoned a doctor. According to Frank, the medico shrugged when he announced to both parents, "She has lockjaw." Frank said the doctor's next words were, "There's nothing I can do." Rose died December 10, 1907.
Her coffin was placed on a table top in the flat's living room. Frank stood there, staring sadly at his Rose lying there while Charlie, Florence, and Mary stood so very close to him. "They were protecting me," said Frank. He fell into a deep depression, which lasted for years. Palma was busy with the twins. Alfredo, "Fred," my Uncle Fred, Palma's last child, was developing in her womb.
· * * *
·
Kent, Ohio. Four days previously, my first wife had given birth to twin daughters, Kelly and Ann Smullen, in a Ravenna, Ohio, hospital, eight miles east of Kent.
2:14 a.m. I was aroused by the telephone's insistent rings. "Hello."
"This is Doctor Summerfield at the Akron Children's Hospital. Is this Mister George Smullen?"
"Yes, it is."
"Mister Smullen, I am deeply sorry to inform you that Baby A has died."
After we finished the short conversation, I hung up the phone, opened a kitchen cupboard door, and grabbed a fifth of brandy. Its contents failed to remove my pain.
4:35 a.m. The phone rang only once because I wouldn't allow a second ring. I felt I knew who'd be on the other end. Regrettably, I was correct. "This is Doctor Summerfield, Mister Smullen." He let out a long, deep sigh before continuing. "I'm sorry to inform you that Baby B didn't make it. She died only minutes ago. Since our nurses noted on the Ravenna hospital forms that you are Catholic, they baptized both babies before they expired."
"Thank them for me, will you?"
"I shall. Another thing, Mister—"
"Yes?"
"We'd like to know what happened to your daughters, reasons why they died. We hope to perform a post mortem on the twins."
"Do so."
"Thank you, Mister Smullen, but first you'll have to come to Akron and sign a couple of forms."
"Is it okay to drive over there now?
"Yes."
8 a.m. I telephoned a Ravenna funeral director.
10:30 a.m. The funeral director arrived at Mainline Manor, a student housing complex which I managed and where we lived while I was a graduate student. Agnes, the Manor's cleaning lady, hovered over me. "I can't afford much," I told the funeral director.
"You could bury them in a Potter's Field in Ravenna or take them to Wisconsin in your car," he offered. Agnes agreed with a nod.
"Babies aren't supposed to die," I said.
"In your car," the funeral director continued. "You could take them in your car. We could put them nicely in Styrofoam boxes, and you could take them to Wisconsin for their burial."
"Oh, Grampa," I thought, "all you did was go crazy for a while. I'm ready to bust this guy in the chops." That afternoon, I began to write a poem entitled, "Twins." I didn't complete it until years later.
Note to reader: Next blog entry will be March 1, 2015. See you then.
At the beginning of his fourth year, Frank cut clients' hair and shaved their stubbles fulltime because a new apprentice had arrived from Italy in order to take over Grampa's previous role.
In 1896, according to their agreement, Frank's boss purchased for Frank a round-trip ticket to Italy. As planned, he and Palma Cappelli were married in a Caserta Catholic church.
As a boy, he had dreamed of marrying Palma. In New York, he visualized a second dream, owning his own barbershop. Ninety days after they made their marriage vows, Frank returned to the states and the Manhattan barber shop. He was determined to save enough money in order to pay for Palma's trip to New York. In time, he'd open his own barbershop.
Palma remained in Caserta and tried her best not to cry. Grampa confessed to me while I fished for carp—at the same time he watched with a faraway look at the Wisconsin River flowing by—that he also did his best not to cry, but he, unlike Palma, was not successful.
On his Manhattan return, Frank was determined to live as meagerly as possible and requested permission to live in the barbershop's back room, once again. This time, he'd have to share those sparse quarters with the apprentice.
Two months later, Frank received a special letter in which Palma announced she was pregnant. She planned to remain in Caserta but would travel to America when the baby was able to walk.
At once, Frank made plans for his return to Caserta, advising Palma of his intention in a letter. In return mail, Palma strongly advised her husband to remain in New York. She and their little one would sail to Manhattan when The child was able to walk. "Remember our dream," she wrote.
Frank relented and sent Palma money for the eventual birth of their firstborn, a son they named Charles Angelo. Everyone would call him Charlie, my Uncle Charlie.
After Charlie and Palma were processed at Ellis Island, she told her husband that New York was even more frantic than her husband had described in his letters. Frank had already found a flat for them in Little Italy where they lived among other immigrants who spoke their native language. Palma confessed to Frank she was alarmed by American English. "It's like German, so gruff."
Through Frank's hard work and Palma's sacrifices, they were able to see to fruition of what had become their mutual dream of Frank owning his own barbershop. It was located in a storefront below their flat.
By 1905, Palma had given birth to three additional children, Florence, Mary, and Rose. Two sets of twins had lived but a short time. In 1906, Palma delivered a third set of twins, this time fraternal twins they named Adele Genevieve, "Jean," my mother, and her twin brother, William, "Uncle Bill." Both survived into adulthood.
Of the six children that endured, Rose, his favorite, reminded Frank of Palma. Unfortunately, little Rose, age three, stepped on a nail and didn't tell anyone. Too late, the parents summoned a doctor. According to Frank, the medico shrugged when he announced to both parents, "She has lockjaw." Frank said the doctor's next words were, "There's nothing I can do." Rose died December 10, 1907.
Her coffin was placed on a table top in the flat's living room. Frank stood there, staring sadly at his Rose lying there while Charlie, Florence, and Mary stood so very close to him. "They were protecting me," said Frank. He fell into a deep depression, which lasted for years. Palma was busy with the twins. Alfredo, "Fred," my Uncle Fred, Palma's last child, was developing in her womb.
· * * *
·
Kent, Ohio. Four days previously, my first wife had given birth to twin daughters, Kelly and Ann Smullen, in a Ravenna, Ohio, hospital, eight miles east of Kent.
2:14 a.m. I was aroused by the telephone's insistent rings. "Hello."
"This is Doctor Summerfield at the Akron Children's Hospital. Is this Mister George Smullen?"
"Yes, it is."
"Mister Smullen, I am deeply sorry to inform you that Baby A has died."
After we finished the short conversation, I hung up the phone, opened a kitchen cupboard door, and grabbed a fifth of brandy. Its contents failed to remove my pain.
4:35 a.m. The phone rang only once because I wouldn't allow a second ring. I felt I knew who'd be on the other end. Regrettably, I was correct. "This is Doctor Summerfield, Mister Smullen." He let out a long, deep sigh before continuing. "I'm sorry to inform you that Baby B didn't make it. She died only minutes ago. Since our nurses noted on the Ravenna hospital forms that you are Catholic, they baptized both babies before they expired."
"Thank them for me, will you?"
"I shall. Another thing, Mister—"
"Yes?"
"We'd like to know what happened to your daughters, reasons why they died. We hope to perform a post mortem on the twins."
"Do so."
"Thank you, Mister Smullen, but first you'll have to come to Akron and sign a couple of forms."
"Is it okay to drive over there now?
"Yes."
8 a.m. I telephoned a Ravenna funeral director.
10:30 a.m. The funeral director arrived at Mainline Manor, a student housing complex which I managed and where we lived while I was a graduate student. Agnes, the Manor's cleaning lady, hovered over me. "I can't afford much," I told the funeral director.
"You could bury them in a Potter's Field in Ravenna or take them to Wisconsin in your car," he offered. Agnes agreed with a nod.
"Babies aren't supposed to die," I said.
"In your car," the funeral director continued. "You could take them in your car. We could put them nicely in Styrofoam boxes, and you could take them to Wisconsin for their burial."
"Oh, Grampa," I thought, "all you did was go crazy for a while. I'm ready to bust this guy in the chops." That afternoon, I began to write a poem entitled, "Twins." I didn't complete it until years later.
Note to reader: Next blog entry will be March 1, 2015. See you then.
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