From My Latest Book--"Just A Brooklyn Kid"

In Sicily the land of Poet and Playwright, Luigi Pirandello and Novelist, Prince Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa author of “The Leopard” and the Sicily land of my ancestors that Mario Puzo writes about and Francis Ford Cappola captures in the movies, it is that Land that has a reality, fantasy and even an occult mixture that makes the language and gestures more important than the written word. In that closed Island Culture, man, woman and even beast best knew what they were hearing, seeing, feeling, thinking and sensing for survival sake. Peace of mind-- almost never and I don’t even think it is written in the Sicilian Psyche. Conqueror and visitor alike could learn the language and some customs but could never crawl into that mystical Sicilian mind and those with evil intentions let’s just say “they were dispatched with haste!”

It is in the story, the sounds, that strange music of Arabic origin, and habit that the culture is passed from one generation to the next. There were no books when I visited my relatives and none ever in my house growing up and now I know why.

I am an American! First generation American born and although I can claim that heritage and that ancestry I am no more Sicilian that the kids I grew up with. I give it “all” away too quickly; I show my emotions and temper too easily—I am an open American Book! And, what a beautiful clash of cultures greeted me when in 1956 I arrived in Sicily and had my relatives pick me up in Trapani with a borrowed FIAT.

I was in the United States Air Force at the time stationed in England with one more year to serve and decided to see Europe and most importantly take that once-in-a-lifetime trip to see my relatives. I was the first to see them since my cousin Sammy saw them living in mountain caves in the Second World War during the Sicilian Invasion by American Forces. I was Figlio d’ Giuseppe—I was the son of the youngest brother and first to leave for America in 1917.

When I arrived in Petrosino, Poppa’s home town, in the suburb of Marsala every one in the town was there to greet me; it was like I was a visiting Prince and everyone wanted to touch me, hug me, kiss me; my Uncle and Aunt, cousins; distant relatives and friends of the family—all were there.

Now there was a very funny one-way language barrier. I understood everything but could speak little of the Sicilian dialect and most of the words I knew were words I, my parents or Sicilian immigrants made up and therefore unknown to my relatives—word like “backhouse” for “out house” or toilet and in Italian “il cabineto.” Wait, it gets funnier. When they heard me speak in American, they went wild—they loved it and kept telling me to speak more and more; “Si dici, parlo Americana!” at least I think that’s what I heard and least of all I managed to find what I wanted be it food , drink and bed and the toilet when nature called.. Oh, and the toilet was an actual out house with squares of cut newspaper on a string for toilet paper and not a drop of running water; holy mackerel, it was just a hole in the ground covered partially with a wooden board but it worked for me!

They asked me to put on my uniform and they oohed and aahed with pleasure when the saw me in it. I would have no trouble being seen in a crowd because I was at least a head taller than anyone and, burnished with a new tan they called me “Lo Conc d’Oro” the mythological golden boy who came on land from the sea bringing bounty and good fortune with him. Some of the young men with clear loud voices aimed at the mountains and in a sing-song voice cried out “ Veni, Figlio di Giuseppe sono qui, Veni, Veni” (come, the son of Joseph is here, come, come) and more came. Where ever I went there was a crowd and I was there for over a week and never alone except to sleep in Uncle Baldassare’s Bed only to wake up and find that everything I had worn the day before laundered, shirts and pants pressed and shoes shined.

Theirs was truly a country peasants house made of adobe with thatched roof, with all the floors of hard packed earth, with the only tiles in the living room which had the only a bare electric light bulb and a large dining table. But it was in the large kitchen with a wood burning stove and large oven where the family baked bread, made their own pasta, ate, drank their own wine and lived. This was the style of living that Poppa always told me stories and talked about; poor people simple, open and honest like he.

There was a large court yard with a well, a fire pit and pens for rabbits and chickens running about wild. This was my family’s home; it was country living in its purest form and unchanged for hundreds of years. I could almost feel the presence of all those ancestors and I did have my Grandma, Nonna, the matriarch, alive at over ninety who had not the need for eyeglasses or false teeth who cried when she saw me then had everyone else in tears; the tears were for her children who left home—Lucca the eldest, Anna their Sister and my father her baby.

One day we were all gathered, as usual, and they had been so wonderful to me that I wanted to give them a compliment so I saw that the chickens were unusually large and beautiful so I said “quest chicano eh bella” and they looked at me as if I were crazy! They said what is “chicano?” Now I thought by putting an “ano” at the end of a word it would become Italian—Wrong! They asked “che eh chicano?” So, I pointed at the “chicano’s” and did an imitation of a chicken with the wings flapping and the clucking and the chicken walk that was hilarious and my Uncle Baldassare and Aunt Sarah, and my cousins Theresa, Sarafina and Salvatore and Grandma Nonna and all gathered went into wild hysterics falling on each other with laughter when Crispino, Theresa, the eldest daughter’s intended husband said Oh, Galena, il polo… Now I know those were the real words in Italian for chicken.

They said now come on, you must meet John the Shoemaker, he has lived in Chicago for thirty years. Come, talk American to him. So, we went, the whole crowd of us with me and Crispino in the lead; the entire entourage of family and friends waiting to hear American spoken. And there was John sitting in front of his shop working on a shoe last and tap, tap, tapping away. I walked up to him and said “hello John” and he replied “hello John” and I said “I hear you lived in Chicago” and he said “hello John” and I quickly thought, ok folks that’s the only American you’ll hear from him and if you wanted more I would have to do all the talking. The man had lived in Chicago for thirty years and that was the only English he learned and that’s understandable when you consider that he lived in an neighborhood where the only language spoken was Italian. So, I talked up a storm making believe he understood because that’s what my relatives wanted and I would give them anything and everything they wanted. They loved every moment.

One day the Patrone asked to see me so over to his estate and mansion I went. He was a real nice guy and treated his people very well. He looked after the sick and was there to help with food or money when needed. He spoke perfect English and looked distinguished as if he should be in some movie like “South Pacific!” He was a true Gentleman, an intellectual and he showed me his library that made my head swim; all the great were represented, Shakespeare, Irish and English poets, Russian, French Italian, first editions, one of a kind, hand written manuscripts and we spoke at great length until at last he said “Basta’ enough, let me show you my pantry! What he showed me gave me a new meaning to the word “pantry” because what I saw, with my eyes, was a three level cellar in an underground cave with barrels and barrels of Marsala and varieties of red wines, fermentation vats, keg upon keg of Olive Oil, Long rows of aging cheese and rooms full of curing persuitto and tons of dried figs and other fruit and spices galore. As we spoke he would offer a taste of wine and a piece of cheese slice off some persuitto and completely and fully overwhelmed my senses. He was of a noble family of that I am sure but, I didn’t ask; I just felt that he was enjoying himself as much as I. He wasn’t a “show-off” but I felt that he rarely had the opportunity to talk about and show the things he prized most in life. I was just a young man serving his country overseas but when we talked about Literature, Art and Food we spoke the same language and it is my firmly held belief that if one can’t share ideas, experiences and possessions he then is a freekin pauper condemned to the life of a lonely miser. This man was a fine gentleman—it wasn’t his fault that all men aren’t created equal…

When you get down to it I hope you’ll find this last chapter and indeed the entire book entertaining. It was my way of saying what and who I am and because I am writing and story telling it is my hope you could also gain some experience by not repeating my mistakes. Because I choose to I can jump back and forth in time and weave a yarn but I have to be fast because time fly’s and the older you get , the faster it goes.

I am not a great writer, nor am I a great Artist or Singer or Philosopher or anything. My Creator just gave me a little talent in many areas and not a heck of a lot in any one. So I call myself “Mr. Almost”—almost a this, that or the other thing but never quite making it and he almost made me a contented man—almost! Please say to that, to me, “oh; how true” and say to all you meet “Oh, how true!” Someone says hello to you, just answer “Oh, how true!” They might think you crazy and Oh, how true!

Sono Finito...

PS, When I left Sicily, my Aunt Sarah gave me a Crucifix of Sicilian Gold that I have never taken off and which I have worn every single day of my life…