Baby Boomer Sagas's Blog
Excerpt from: Images, Chapter I (Read this post, first)
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10/28/11 – Images
I never realized I was an abused child. In looking back it’s now obvious to me that I was. At the age of six I remember my mom taking a belt to me so hard and for so long that I can still hear my father’s words laced with fear as he yelled, “Caroline, that’s enough!” It had to be bad for my father to intervene. He was the “indifferent parent” of the two.
That particular beating was a turning point for our family. My mother never hit me like that before. I just stayed out a little later riding my bike that evening even after she beckoned me to come in the house. Things were different after that night. Knowing what I know now maybe that’s the day my mother discovered that dad was fooling around on her while he was laying the brick foundation for a home his father was sub-contracted to build. I guess dad was laying more than just bricks back then.
The peaceful family life that I enjoyed for my first six years on earth started to spiral out of control. Things just kept getting worse and they never got better for our family. Much of my early childhood and adolescent years were spent running around the kitchen table or sprinting from one end of our apartment to the other being chased by my mother who was swinging a large belt in her hand and aiming it at the soft body parts of my petite frame. My brother Frank got the same treatment. Dominic, my Dad, was not the complete pacifist. There was one time when he slid a large carving knife across the table at me. I instinctively froze in my seat as I watched it spiral like a bottle spins when playing the game “spin the bottle” before coming to a complete stop with the point of the blade within inches from the top of my chest.
Where my mother’s disciplinary style consisted mostly of physical force, my father was responsible for the majority of emotional abuse. Even my mother was his target. Less than a decade into their marriage I can remember that dinnertime at our house was always a terrible experience for my brother and me. From the moment we all sat down at the table, my father continually debased my mother with multiple criticisms about her cooking. Then they would yell and scream back and forth at each other while my brother and I quietly looked on. The rest of the evening they didn’t speak, just threw out a couple of nasty inquiries or statements. Even if my brother and I had friends visiting us, it didn’t deter my parents from engaging in bitter verbal combat with each other.
I weathered it, though. I even turned out on the better side of normal. I had a buffer, seven actually. Of my twenty-five aunts and uncles, seven would rescue me from my totally psycho family. They became my safe harbor from my sometimes-a-lady’s man, off again on again, alcoholic father and my maniac depressant mother and her multiple suicide attempts. It would be these first-generation Italian aunts and uncles of mine who would create the parental memories that would heal most of my emotional scars.
Their acts of kindness were not obvious to me at the time. In fact, their deeds were subtle and I wonder if they even gave it a second thought that what they were doing would have such a powerful impact on my life. These other parents offered me what I call a family pharmaceutical; a mixture of compassion and encouragement. And I made damn sure I overdosed on the stuff.
Excerpt from: “Aunt Clara”, Chapter VI
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- Me with Aunt Clara, circa 1953 – She made my dress!
10/28/11 – This is an excerpt from “Aunt Clara”.
It’s a balmy day in early September; morning time, around 7:45. Already the temperature is seventy-six degrees. The sun is shining brightly and the plant life is still a rich green color. On this otherwise quiet street, the birds have not yet finished their morning serenade.
Three sets of feet are tapping the pavement in uneven tempo. I am flanked by two women. They each have one of my tiny hands in theirs. I look down at my brand new brown and white saddle shoes, and I smile. I start to skip over the cracks in the sidewalk.
A slight breeze blows and I catch the scent of one of their perfumes.
I am feeling very excited. I don’t know exactly what to expect, but these two seem to think it will be great.
It’s my first day of kindergarten, and my mom and Aunt Clara, are escorting me on the one-mile trek to school.
My Aunt looks down at me with a huge smile, “Lover girl, I can’t believe you are starting school today!”
This is my first recollection of my aunt Clara. I know she was in my life way before my first day of school; there are photos of us together to prove that. But this is the first day I can see her as vividly as if I were watching the scene on a high-definition screen.
Excerpt from: “Aunt Marie”, Chapter V
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Aunt Marie, circa 1950
12/28/10 – In this post, I have jumped around a little. The time I speak of here is not my first memory of my Aunt Marie. I have skipped the first part because it is very long and went directly to one of my favorite times with her. This is in Chapter V.
Aunt Marie was asked to be my godmother, and when I was born, they gave me her name in anticipation of the day I would receive the sacrament of baptism.
She was the second oldest born to my paternal grandparents, and she didn’t have it easy while growing up. But who did back then? This seemed to be the case with many of the children born to those whose parents had migrated to the United States during the late 1800s and early 1900s. She lost her mother while in her teens, and before Grandpa came home with the stepmother, she took on the responsibilities of cooking and cleaning and minding the much younger siblings. She became the matriarch of the family and remained so until her passing.
After Pat and I moved back to New Jersey, it was our tradition to spend Christmas Eve with her and the rest of my father’s siblings and their children. There would be anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five guests at her house on that special night. We always anticipated that event for many days prior. Besides being Christmastime, which in itself is a glorious occasion, I knew Aunt Marie would cook the traditional foods. Our traditional Christmas Eve dinner consisted of fish, and then some more fish. Aunt Marie served absolutely no meat. The practice of not eating meat on Christmas Eve is observed by thousands of Italian Catholics throughout the United States and probably the entire world.
Aunt Marie would usually start serving around 8:00 or 9:00 pm and, of course, everyone in the family managed to arrive at least two hours early so we could be a part of the fabulous pre-sit-down crazies. Aunt would fry the battered flounder, and we would remove pieces of it after she had put it on a serving tray. This stuff was the best. Besides its delicious flavor, it was always tender on the inside and golden brown on the outside. Next, she made a cold baccalà salad, and my uncles would loiter around, waiting for her to walk away from it, which she usually did. Without a doubt, she would always have to stop whatever she was doing to check on some other tasty dish that was simmering on the stove or baking in the oven. Either the linguine was boiling over or the clams oregano was hissing. She would be gone for only a minute or so, but my uncles were fast. Their fingers would be in and out of that baccalà salad before you could blink. When she came back, the second she looked in the bowl, she knew what had occurred, and she would give them such a look. We couldn’t keep from laughing. Then she would affectionately scream at everyone to stop stealing. We couldn’t help ourselves. It was late and we were hungry. Combine that with the aroma that permeated the kitchen and our reflexes kicked in. Salivation was impossible to control in that house that night.
Excerpt from: “Aunt Sadie and Uncle Lou”, Chapter III
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Hiding My Thumb, circa 1953
10/28/2011 – This is a piece taken from Chapter III. It is my first memory of my Aunt Sa and Uncle Lou.
It was Christmas Eve. I was three and a half; my brother was two and was already exhibiting signs of weariness. We were waiting for the arrival of Santa Claus. Somebody pinch me! I could not believe this was happening. Santa was actually coming to Cook Street tonight! Oh, what a magical time. The tree was up and decorated, and the Victrola was playing Christmas songs. I remember a child’s voice singing “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” Even I thought that was a strange thing for Mommy to be doing.
Both my parents were in jovial moods that night and laughed and joked with each other while waiting for some of the other family members to arrive. First to show up was my aunt Sadie.
I could sense the excitement in the air. Dad prepared a little food and something to drink, which he poured into a shot glass and set aside for our special guest.
I was more than a little terrified that evening. I was definitely happy that Santa was coming to see us, but I had this nagging thought that wouldn’t go away. I was thinking that he just might ask to see the thumb. You see, I was a thumb sucker, and I loved it. But one method of trying to get me to stop sucking my thumb was the constant reminder, from my entire family, that if Santa knew what I was doing with that fat finger, he would be very upset. Oh, God, I didn’t need Santa upset with me!
I must have had a scared look on my face because aunt Sadie called me over to where she was sitting and asked if something was wrong. Wrong? What could be wrong? I thought. Before I could answer her, we were interrupted by the chime of the doorbell coming from the main entrance. My dad dashed out of the apartment into the hallway to see who was there. I heard a slight commotion coming from that direction and getting closer. “Ho, ho, ho!” The moment was upon us. He was here. He had reached the threshold to our apartment and did a half circle with his head until he zoomed in on me. I stood frozen, hiding my right hand behind my back. He approached me with his large sack of goodies draped over his shoulder and bent low to greet me. I silently prayed that he wouldn’t ask to see the thumb. I was so caught up with that thought, I just couldn’t wait for him to get the hell out of there. I was relieved when he finally left. Santa never did ask to see my thumb.
As soon as I found the opportunity, I popped that digit right back in my mouth to comfort me from all the stress.
I discovered years later while glancing at family photos that Santa was my uncle Lou. My mom confirmed this. She also told me he visited all the family children that evening and we were first on his list. I quickly calculated this in my head. That meant he visited at least six different families that night. What a joy that must have been for the last group of kids. By the time he got to their house, I’m sure he really thought he was Santa riding the skies on a sleigh pulled by reindeer. Knowing our family and friends, we would not have been the only one to offer him a drink in a shot glass that night.
I must admit he was good at playing Santa. He had me and my brother convinced. But then again, how difficult is it to fool toddlers?
Another Excerpt from: “Aunt Jean and Uncle George”, Chapter IV
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Aunt Jean, circa 1955
10/28/2011 – In this section I introduce my Aunt Jean to the reader in Chapter IV. It is my earliest recollection of my aunt and takes place during the summer of 1955.
I spent more time with my aunt Jean and uncle George while growing up than I spent with my own parents. At least it seems that way. They were ever present from my infant years to my teenage and young adult years, and even into half of my married years. You can’t make this stuff up, you’ll see; just read on for a wonderful tale of family devotion and love.
When I was about four, at the house on Cook Street, Caroline, my mom, was chasing me around the kitchen table trying to coax me with sweet words, but those soon led to some not-so-sweet words. She was holding a teaspoon in one hand and a bottle of cod liver oil in the other and was unsuccessfully trying to get me to ingest this horrible elixir. Mom took to giving this to my brother and me every day. It was her version of our once-a-day vitamin. I don’t know if I ever ran from her when she tried to give this to me before, but I can actually remember doing so this time. This chase had gone on for about ten minutes when we both came to an abrupt halt when we heard a knock on the back door. Aunt Jean stepped in to rescue me. But her presence was only a short distraction. Mom and I quickly resumed our game of cat and mouse. At first, my aunt stood off in a corner and just observed this scene, but five minutes into her observance, she started laughing, which she did often. Then she turned to my mom and said very seriously, “Caroline, why don’t you take a teaspoon of that stuff and see for yourself how it tastes?” My mom just looked at her with resignation because she knew very well how that stuff tasted. My sweet Aunt Jean had done it again; she had worked her magic. And that was it, the end of the cod liver oil; in that form, anyway. Never again did my mother try to give us that putrid-tasting fluid. She discovered the candy-coated pill form, and that is what we took for many years after. And this is my first recollection of Jean.
Even though she had a troubled childhood or maybe because of that, she was a master at defusing tense moments with people whether she was directly involved in a situation or just an observer. She could make people change their course of action with just a tiny comment. She was able to gently nudge people into directions they never knew they were headed. She accomplished this by using a combination of humor, kindness, and patience, and it worked nearly all the time. It required very little effort on her part; it was her way. That is one of the many reasons why everyone who knew my aunt loved her.
Excerpt from: “Aunt Jean and Uncle George”, Chapter IV
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Jean and George at the shore, circa 1953
10/28/11: Here is a piece from Chapter IV where I am describing my Uncle.
My uncle George was not Italian, not that this mattered to any of us. In fact, he used to say he was a Heinz 57 variety. He even boasted about having Native American blood running through his veins. But he was sure he had Scottish, English, and Irish ancestors. Even as a youngster, though, I was able to recognize that uncle’s family was different. To me, they were the oddest bunch of people, and I used to make myself disappear whenever they were around. I can say almost certainty that they were the first country–and-western music fans of the northeast. None of my other family members, on either side, listened to that kind of music back then. But Uncle George’s mom and siblings listened to people like Hank Williams, Sr., and Patsy Cline long before country music became the trend. Another odd thing about Uncle George’s family is they all spoke with a southern drawl, including him. Now, not one of his family members was born in the South. They grew up in towns in northern New Jersey, and Jersey people do not speak with a southern drawl. So, some of Uncle George’s life is a bit of a mystery, and even though I and many of my other family members found his accent odd, we never questioned him about it. We just accepted him and loved him. I loved him like a blood relative. Really, children do not distinguish between blood relatives and in-laws. I think that’s because we always remember them being there. As far as I was concerned, he was no different than my mom’s or dad’s siblings. I think that’s the way it is in every family.
Excerpt from: “Uncle Mike”, Chapter II
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Mike and Me 1951
10/28/11 – Here is an excerpt from “Uncle Mike” . It is my earliest recollection:
How far back can you remember? What is your earliest recollection? Experts seem to believe we cannot recall infancy. Do you remember being in the womb, going through the birth canal, or your christening?
I recall an episode that occurred when I was eighteen months old at the house on Cook Street. It was a special moment for me and it was with my Uncle Mike. Although my mom told me that my uncle used to play with me often while I was in my crib, I can only remember this single incident.
My bedroom was the size of a matchbox—eight feet by nine. The room had one tall narrow window. I can recall my crib, with its vertical wooden slats spaced just far enough apart for a baby to easily poke its head between them. They didn’t have the stringent child safety regulations that we have now.
And it was in this room that I remember Mike. He was the one adult who made me laugh and who laughed with me so hard that I couldn’t help but feel the joy of infancy. He would burn a memory into my tiny brain that would remain with me forever.
I was lying on my back with my head in the direction of the bedroom door. The crib was positioned up against the wall which was to my left. Mike was on my right leaning over the crib railing looking down at me with this silly grin on his face and an unconcealed look of anticipation.
He dangled a length of string that resembled butcher’s yarn, in his right hand, and he lowered it so it was just within my grasp. I instinctively reacted as a child does during this kind of playful scenario and stretched my seven-inch arms way up high to grab it. My sugar-plumb-sized hands had just about touched that string, and then it was gone with lightening speed. Up, up, the string traveled, yanked from my reach in a flash.
My face said it all and it was like a trigger was squeezed for Mike. Pow! He emitted an explosion of laughter. He was laughing hard; it sounded like a continuous giggle. His face scrunched up, his eyes held that mischievous look, and his mouth spread across his face. Oh, how I remember that laugh.
He was having a blast, not because I couldn’t reach the string, but because after my shock wore off, I started laughing with him. The joy was mutual and we were having so much fun.
Mike would continue to be a loving figure in my life up until the time he collapsed on his bedroom floor during the early evening of September 9, 1987. He left a wife and two teenage sons behind.
This would be my first loss of a loved one who would take a part of me with them. It wouldn’t be the last piece of my life that would go in that same way. Family would be the most important thing for me. It would become a factor in every decision I made, even if at the time I was completely unaware of its influence.
About: Aunts and Uncles – The Other Parents
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- Typical B’day Party, circa 1954 -Where are the men?
10/28/11: As you can see from my profile, I have just finished writing a book about my aunts and uncles.
Discovering one of my mother’s boxes while clearing out my own closet one day triggers the memory of our turbulent mother/daughter relationship and the sad events leading up to her passing. Curious about its contents, I take the box into the room she used while living with us and remove its cover. Inside I find an envelope containing old family pictures. Determined to find their images, I search for early photos of my “other parents”. Removing them from the envelope and splaying them out on the floor next to me rouses my earliest recollection of each of them and their remarkable lives. I knew then that I had to tell the world about them.
Within weeks I had my outline. One year later in the spring of 2009 I began to formulate the story you now see here. Most of the information contained within these pages is pre-2006. Writing over the span of nearly three years opened up the opportunity to make a short update concerning my Aunt Sadie and also some additional information about Uncle Mike’s family which I thought you may enjoy hearing. Appropriately, these tidbits make up the last page of this book.
