Mother's twin brother, William "Bill" Colacicco, needs a shave—even an hour after he strips stubble from cheeks and deep cleft chin with a Gillette Blue Blade safety razor. On the other side of forty, his five foot five frame is falling apart, one piece at a time. Bill looks like a German concentration camp prisoner, minus the horizontal striped clothing. He has black hair with flecks of gray and a pigeon chest. He talks as if everyone in the world needs hearing aids. I swear he's louder than his older brother, Uncle Charlie. On this visit to our home, which is his last, his father, Grampa Frank, is finishing up his visit with us. Every time Uncle Bill speaks, Grampa shakes his head and makes some derogatory comment. I think Grampa considers this son is but a fool and so easily shows it.
Uncle Bill stays with us for a month this time. First off, Dad tells him he has to wear a black patch over one eye, prompting me to compare him to Captain Hook. Dad's first prescription glasses for Bill has one lens that's thick and totally frosted. I don't know why. I don't ask, either. Later on, the glass of Bill's final pair of lenses is a quarter inch thick. I'm certain I can start a bonfire by focusing sunlight through one lens on dried oak leaves and they'd be crackling and smoking and flaming in but a few seconds.
Bill's former wife Lucille, a professional seamstress and doting mother, has tossed Bill out of her life. Their only child, son Frankie, stays with his mother. Some time ago, the three are yet a family as they visit us. All three pronounce "Th" words differently than anyone I ever hear. They say, "I have a sore troat," instead of throat. I get such a kick out of this, I make up a phrase and use it with all three present: "Somebody shot me tree times in da troat." As I grab my throat, they look at me as if I have a personal problem. My creative juices do not entertain them one bit.
They also pronounce the word that as dat. "Why is he saying dat?" asks Frankie, who's nearest in age to my oldest brother, Jim, who's six years older than I. Uncle Bill and Aunt Lucille shrug. They don’t understand my humor at all.
Frankie and Jim have a great time, lighting firecrackers on the Fourth of July. I can only watch because my parents insist I have to be Jim's age in order to set off cherry bombs and such. I am, however, allowed to touch a match to "snakes," small chunks that when placed on the sidewalk and touched by a lighted match seem to suddenly come to life, smoke, sputter, and emerge in a few seconds flat as eight inch black snakes that disintegrate when touched.
I soon tire of them because that's all they do, smoke, sputter, and fizzle. They also leave black stains on the sidewalk. I can also light sparklers at night. After somebody lights one while I hold it, I thrust out my hand while running and twirling the flashing spray of sparks. Too soon, they burn out. Then, please, somebody, light another one for me.
I like best of all a Tootsie Toy metal rocket, in which I tear off a few caps from a long red roll that we boys, never girls, insert into cap pistols. Girls play with dolls.
Often, neighborhood kids and I use the pistols and shoot as many as twenty shots at a time at each other, hiding behind trees and bushes and homes and garages, making believe we're Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Lash Larue's brother, or we’re John Wayne in the Sands of Iwo Jima. "I got you," I yell.
"No," yell back Jimmy and Bobby Kell, "we got you first."
Nobody ever wins a shooting argument. Thus, we continue killing one another. We absolutely will not die.
The Tootsie rocket is meant for only one cap insertion, according to the manufacturer's instruction sheet. However, I figure a kid would have to be a fool to follow directions. I stuff three caps behind the rocket's nose and toss the missile into the air. With its heavy snout, it lands on the sidewalk or driveway or street and makes a louder noise than a cap pistol but not nearly as loud as a cherry bomb.
So, this time, Uncle Bill visits us, all alone. He cannot do much except remain in our house and talk about his seeming misspent youth. He says he was a pinsetter in a bowling alley. "Why don't you do that?" he asks.
"I'm too young," I say. I never want to be a pinsetter. Clarence "Chief" Zabawa, an American Indian schoolmate who's four years older than we, his fellow students. Thus, he gets to ride a Cushman motor scooter to school. Chief’is a pinsetter and has fingers, twisted and knobby. They appear as if they are in an advanced stage of arthritis
Uncle Bill sings every once in a while for our family and later tells me he's a better singer than one of mother's early boyfriends, Frank Lovecchio, who becomes the famous singer, Frankie Laine.
"Mother went out with Frankie Laine?" I pursue.
"He wasn't Frankie Laine back then," says Bill, "and I could sing better than him any day."
"What happened?"
"I got sick."
"No, why didn't mom marry Frankie Laine?"
"Ah, they broke up when your mother met Jim."
I could've been Frankie Laine's son, I think. I dismiss that thought in a matter of seconds. I might look like my Italian cousins. I prefer to be who I am.
Uncle Bill soon returns to Chicago. I see him once after that for no more than a few seconds. He dies before he reaches sixty.
Uncle Bill stays with us for a month this time. First off, Dad tells him he has to wear a black patch over one eye, prompting me to compare him to Captain Hook. Dad's first prescription glasses for Bill has one lens that's thick and totally frosted. I don't know why. I don't ask, either. Later on, the glass of Bill's final pair of lenses is a quarter inch thick. I'm certain I can start a bonfire by focusing sunlight through one lens on dried oak leaves and they'd be crackling and smoking and flaming in but a few seconds.
Bill's former wife Lucille, a professional seamstress and doting mother, has tossed Bill out of her life. Their only child, son Frankie, stays with his mother. Some time ago, the three are yet a family as they visit us. All three pronounce "Th" words differently than anyone I ever hear. They say, "I have a sore troat," instead of throat. I get such a kick out of this, I make up a phrase and use it with all three present: "Somebody shot me tree times in da troat." As I grab my throat, they look at me as if I have a personal problem. My creative juices do not entertain them one bit.
They also pronounce the word that as dat. "Why is he saying dat?" asks Frankie, who's nearest in age to my oldest brother, Jim, who's six years older than I. Uncle Bill and Aunt Lucille shrug. They don’t understand my humor at all.
Frankie and Jim have a great time, lighting firecrackers on the Fourth of July. I can only watch because my parents insist I have to be Jim's age in order to set off cherry bombs and such. I am, however, allowed to touch a match to "snakes," small chunks that when placed on the sidewalk and touched by a lighted match seem to suddenly come to life, smoke, sputter, and emerge in a few seconds flat as eight inch black snakes that disintegrate when touched.
I soon tire of them because that's all they do, smoke, sputter, and fizzle. They also leave black stains on the sidewalk. I can also light sparklers at night. After somebody lights one while I hold it, I thrust out my hand while running and twirling the flashing spray of sparks. Too soon, they burn out. Then, please, somebody, light another one for me.
I like best of all a Tootsie Toy metal rocket, in which I tear off a few caps from a long red roll that we boys, never girls, insert into cap pistols. Girls play with dolls.
Often, neighborhood kids and I use the pistols and shoot as many as twenty shots at a time at each other, hiding behind trees and bushes and homes and garages, making believe we're Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Lash Larue's brother, or we’re John Wayne in the Sands of Iwo Jima. "I got you," I yell.
"No," yell back Jimmy and Bobby Kell, "we got you first."
Nobody ever wins a shooting argument. Thus, we continue killing one another. We absolutely will not die.
The Tootsie rocket is meant for only one cap insertion, according to the manufacturer's instruction sheet. However, I figure a kid would have to be a fool to follow directions. I stuff three caps behind the rocket's nose and toss the missile into the air. With its heavy snout, it lands on the sidewalk or driveway or street and makes a louder noise than a cap pistol but not nearly as loud as a cherry bomb.
So, this time, Uncle Bill visits us, all alone. He cannot do much except remain in our house and talk about his seeming misspent youth. He says he was a pinsetter in a bowling alley. "Why don't you do that?" he asks.
"I'm too young," I say. I never want to be a pinsetter. Clarence "Chief" Zabawa, an American Indian schoolmate who's four years older than we, his fellow students. Thus, he gets to ride a Cushman motor scooter to school. Chief’is a pinsetter and has fingers, twisted and knobby. They appear as if they are in an advanced stage of arthritis
Uncle Bill sings every once in a while for our family and later tells me he's a better singer than one of mother's early boyfriends, Frank Lovecchio, who becomes the famous singer, Frankie Laine.
"Mother went out with Frankie Laine?" I pursue.
"He wasn't Frankie Laine back then," says Bill, "and I could sing better than him any day."
"What happened?"
"I got sick."
"No, why didn't mom marry Frankie Laine?"
"Ah, they broke up when your mother met Jim."
I could've been Frankie Laine's son, I think. I dismiss that thought in a matter of seconds. I might look like my Italian cousins. I prefer to be who I am.
Uncle Bill soon returns to Chicago. I see him once after that for no more than a few seconds. He dies before he reaches sixty.
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