Old World Wisdom

Brooklyn may have been the fourth largest city in the US but our neighborhood was more like small town living. A thousand eyes were upon you behind closed curtains, closed doors and closed minds. Everyone knew everyone else’s business and what they didn’t know, they made up. How then, was it possible that so many parents never recognized just how terrible their kids really were?

“Not my Gene,” Rose Micelli would insist even when her grandson was caught red handed and up to his ass in alligators. While Micelli lived in denial about Gene, she continually ran to Ma with outlandish reports about things I did or said. “You play, you pay” was an accepted norm but her stories were all absurd works of fiction. The woman was a skeevy troll who sat outside barefoot and laughed while ants crawled all over her stinking feet. Alas, Ma firmly believed in modeling good parenting skills. So she would automatically take the word of any adult against her own daughters’ without question. Nuns, nuts, or nosey bodies, it didn’t matter. Too bad, so sad!

“Camilla, why are you hiding behind my chair?” I looked up at Grandpa Vincenzo, not knowing where I was or why I was there. Ma yelled for me from our second floor apartment: Italian long distance like no other. It sounded as though her long fuse had dwindled perilously low. Madonna miu, I was in no hurry to move from the frying pan into the fire.

This incident was one in a million. Who can say what the last straw was on that particular day? All I remember is that in a fit of frustration, I turned to Ma and threw a hot accusation at her, one that I would inevitably repeat throughout my childhood and adolescence. “You always take her side.” Then I stormed out.

Ma yelled at me to get my ass back to the kitchen. I pounded down the stairs, slammed the side door shut and then snuck up three steps to Nana’s apartment on the first floor. “Volare” played from the basement radio as the holy trinity of sliced garlic, onions and celery sizzled in hot olive oil. Grandpa Vincenzo was still at work fixing wing tips and saddle shoes. I made a bee line to their parlor and parked my butt behind his seat.

Sometimes I escaped to the huge walk-in closet on the first floor. The space was cozy and smelled of cedar mixed with the faint aroma of mothballs. It was a great spot to tuck up and feel safe; a womb of my own. There were stacked boxes of old Christmas decorations, racks of forgotten uniforms and all kinds of framed portraits. More often than not, I snuck a peek at Ma’s wedding gown before I stretched out on her hope chest. If I looked straight up, the ceiling cracks were almost as good as staring at the clouds.

Grandpa’s chair was a classic choice for my first happy place. It was a massive dark blue club chair with wooden hand grips wide enough to easily hold a beer mug. The feather stuffing had long since molded itself to the contours of Vincenzo’s body. It was a substantial piece that smelled of leather and Old Spice. Even though Nana had placed crocheted doilies where the fabric had worn to a sheen, there was no mistake that this was a formidable man’s chair. A patriarch’s chair. My grandfather’s chair.

“Camilla, why are you hiding behind my chair?” I wanted to run away from home but I didn’t dare cross the street. In truth, I could have just curled up like a house cat on his seat cushion; it was like getting a hug by proxy. That’s not what I was after. I didn’t want anyone to find me right away. Let them sweat it out for awhile. I happily envisioned Ma overcome by guilt because she once again backed up Micelli. She ran to the kitchen, cooked my favorite dishes to make amends; all was right in the world.

I shook my head and stretched from slumber’s warm embrace. Boy was I in a dream world. If I judged the lingering perfumes of both kitchens correctly, Nana had fried calf’s liver and Ma made periwinkle snails. I just couldn’t catch a break.

A blue streak of swears burst through our house like a thunderstorm. She was really creative with her combinations. Although her two brothers were longshoremen, Ma proudly insisted that they never used foul language. I figured such skill was reserved for her and Aunt Christina. It came with their Red Hook territory. What’s more, the sisters could whistle for cabs through their teeth, toss dice like pros and spit straight in your eye from a distance of three paces. Rumor had it that Ma also dated Crazy Joe Gallo as a teenager.

Grandpa helped me up from the floor and wiped the dust off my legs. His large calloused hand swallowed my small pink one as he led me upstairs---the longest mile and all uphill. “Anna, don’t be angry. The little one fell asleep downstairs.” When she didn’t respond, Vincenzo promptly joined Nana in the basement for supper. The silent treatment. God, how I hated it. Better to be yelled at, punished or endure the continuous racket of cabinet doors slammed shut. The real drawback was that aside from Grandpa, Ma was the only one who ever had a genuine conversation with me. To everyone else I was just “the baby.”

That night, I saw my place within the family under the guise of a nightmare. The room was completely dark except for the bare bulb suspended overhead. I sat high up on a bar stool with no one and nothing nearby. My heart pounded in my ears; terror stole my voice. Yet, in the adjoining room, all my relatives were busy having a rowdy celebration. They were oblivious to my misery and fear as I mutely screamed in vain with my eyes tightly shut.

I told Ma about my nightmare during breakfast. Silence. Later that morning I thumped down the stairs to the basement. Nana fed her clothes through the ringer and squeezed out the excess water before she hung the wash outside. I asked her what my dream meant. “Nenti ma un sunnu;” Nothing but a dream? That confused me more than Ma’s rebuff. Dreams were serious business in an Italian household. They could predict birth, death, sickness or what number to play with the local bookie.

My nightmare revisited me twice before I spoke to Grandpa. We were on our way to the park. Iron monkey bars and seesaws were bolted to concrete. I pumped my legs so hard that the swing was airborne in seconds. Afterwards, we went to Armondo’s pizzeria for a slice and an ice. Ray tossed the dough high and sang Neapolitan songs to his customers. Years later Armondo and Ray made pizzas for a group of locals as they were held hostage during a foiled bank robbery. The incident was depicted in the Pacino movie “Dog Day Afternoon.” And yes, the robber really did throw fistfuls of money to the cheering onlookers. I cautiously watched the events unfold from the safety of the train station.

“Camilla, my sweet banana, you have to be a good girl and not upset your mother.” Ma became upset whether I was a good girl or not. It was pointless to say that to Grandpa and more than just a little reckless. He was an old fashioned Sicilian with stories of his father’s discipline that made my hair stand on end. I looked up at him and promised to try. By the time we reached the front of PS 177, I told Vincenzo about my worrisome dream. To be honest, I was equally afraid of its meaning or dismissal by my grandfather.

“How did that tree become so big and strong, Camilla?” he inquired. We stood in front of our own house in the endless summer light. I tried to remember my Science lessons but it was no use. I hated school. In fact, I tried to convince Ma and Poppie to let me get married once I graduated from the eighth grade. The tree loomed above us and shook its leaves snapping me out of my trance. I mumbled something about sunshine and rain; then wondered aloud how it grew on dark, dry days. Vincenzo shook his head; after all, I was the baby.

His earnest gaze held my eyes and attention. “When you have something on your mind and no one is there to listen, tell the tree. Speak whatever is in your heart until there is nothing more to say. Both of you will grow tall and strong.”
Dozens of questions popped into my head at once. Who told him this amazing secret? How did he know it would work? Was there a tree like this in Palermo? Did I have to talk out loud? Who else was talking to the tree? Would my nightmare ever go away? I didn’t say a word. Grandpa ruffled my hair, walked up the driveway and into the backyard. A bunch of big kids started a game of stickball. I sat on the stoop and pretended to watch.

The tree waited patiently. We looked at one another. What if Grandpa was wrong and nothing happened? I’d look like a real jerk talking to a tree in the middle of Brooklyn. But what if he was right and I wasted my chance? I figured there was no need to talk out loud for the tree to absorb my words. It wasn’t like when Ma spoke to her plants as she polished their leaves with milk. Everyone knew that trees were a lot smarter than houseplants.

I got up, casually walked over to the tree, and began a dialog that lasted a lifetime. People on the block gradually became accustomed to seeing me hang around my tree; there were certainly stranger things to watch in the neighborhood. Hell, they could always look at Micelli.

One afternoon during my sophomore year in high school, I actually saw Grandpa speak to the tree. It was shortly after he suffered a serious heart attack that forced him to retire from everything. Vincenzo meandered to the first floor parlor, raised the Venetian blinds and shared his deepest thoughts with the black maple outside: “If I have to live like this, I’d rather not live at all.” Two weeks later we buried him in St. John’s cemetery.

Ma said he lost his will to live. I found that hard to swallow. It sounded so weak; it just didn’t seem right. This was the man who taught me about inner strength while my friends pitched pennies or played with Barbie dolls. Grandpa got what he wanted in the end---an existence different and more fulfilling than the one he was left with. “Cui cerca, trova.” Who seeks, finds. I didn’t argue the point with my mother; some things were better left unsaid.

After he died, Nana sat in her rocker and watched Vincenzo’s chair instead of General Hospital or The Waltons. That continued without comment for the first few months. One morning, Ma dragged the chair down the front hallway, pushed it through the outer door and shoved the blue goliath onto the curb. She tipped the sanitation workers a couple of beers and the chair was history. When Nana returned from Mass and realized the chair was gone, she went totally wild. It wasn’t done out of spite. Ma would do anything to protect her family, even break their hearts.

Years passed and I returned to Brooklyn one weekend shortly after I retired from the Navy. The neighborhood had changed although the people who stayed behind vehemently argued that it was just the same. The house looked as I remembered except now it sported new windows and the wrought iron fence was replaced with fresh brick. My tree stood guard and had resolutely broken more of the cement sidewalk that foolishly tried to contain it. I gently stroked its broad trunk. It had become as wide as Vincenzo’s old blue chair.

Before returning to my car, I took one last look around. A small boy leaned against the front of the house; he pouted and kicked at imaginary stones. A man chewed him out in Chinese from the upstairs kitchen window. “Hey little guy” I called to him “do you know how that tree became so big and strong?”