or drug store where ice cream and sodas were on tap. You played baseball or football in adjoining yards and did your best, albeit not always successfully, at not breaking glass—what a pane!
My parents were proud of their Italian heritage and participated in the Italian celebrations at the time. The annual Little Italy festival occurred each summer at a local parish south of downtown. The sites, sounds, and foods of Italy filled one’s senses and brought familiarity and comfort to first generation Italians. Also, there was an army camp in the southern part of the state that played a major role in U.S. efforts during World War II. This camp was constructed early in 1942 when the American government purchased tracts of land to build a key military installation in our state. During World War II, the camp was home to some 15,000 Italian and German prisoners of war. During their internment, the Italian prisoners of war built the Chapel in the Meadow, in part due to their appreciation for their humane treatment at the hand of their captors. Every year thereafter in late summer, Italians gather at the army camp to celebrate the Mass outside of the Chapel in the Meadow before joining each other for Italian food, drink, and fun.
Well, those are the sum of my parts that I remember today and shared with the peers of my yesterday. These are the experiences that influenced my parents and, in turn, impacted on my life choices.
Now, let me tell you about another beginning in my life…
This beginning was some 22 years ago. Charly and I were married on a cold January morn in 1984 having proposed to her six months earlier. We had many discussions about our marriage, as I am Roman Catholic; Charly is not being a generalized Christian. Catholicism is steep in deep ritual, rules, and Canon Law. Doctrine dictates that a Catholic can indeed marry a non-Catholic Christian; however, permission from our region’s Bishop would be required. Also, Charly must learn and accept the teachings of the Catholic Church on Christian marriage. In turn, I, with Charly’s knowledge, must promise to continue practicing my faith and to bring up our children in the Catholic faith. Although Charly did not summarily reject out of hand the conditions of faith, she was never one who wanted her choices to be predetermined. After much discussion, we opted to have a civil marriage recognizing that a more proper Catholic or Christian wedding was a future prospect. Ironically, Charly participated in Catholic instruction and was baptized into the Catholic Church one year later.
So, our wedding day was not a particularly enchanting day—at least from the point of view of ritual, pomp, and ceremony. We were not blessed with a grand church wedding attended by all the relatives and friends of the bride and groom; instead, an everyday Justice of the Peace ‘gave up his good life’ just to unite us. The wedding sanctuary was a sterile office setting with row upon row of desks and filing cabinets. The mechanical taps of electronic typewriters forced by the fingering of hurried clerks echoed in the background. Neither the tune nor the cadence produced was remotely reminiscent of the wedding march.
Fortunately, not everyone was a stranger as there were several people present that Charly and I knew. My brother Rick, and his family stood by our sides as witnesses to our formal mating. As we waited for the Honorable Justice, the kids became restless and pranced around the well-worn wooden chairs. Twenty minutes after our date with destiny, the Justice arrived and introduced himself as the “Honorable Justice Justin Justwill.” After we exchanged customary pleasantries, the Honorable Justice’s opening remarks were notable, steeped in tradition, and forever etched in our minds: “I can make this as short or long as you want. You don’t even need me. You have your marriage license.” With such fiery passion and ritualism, Charly and I were overcome with wedded bliss . . . and tradition be damned!
The ceremony continued long enough for a single wedding picture to be snapped. It was not your ordinary wedding picture for it accentuated the incomparable marriage motif in the background: the American flag and unending rows of mundane-colored filing cabinets. In a very short time, Charly and I were certified man and wife. For a moment, I was uncertain as whether to kiss the bride or salute the flag! Since I am not one to tempt fate, I ended up doing both. We had nobody’s blessing in particular—neither God nor church—but we were just as married and just as happy. Why not? After all, we were completely in love and cared deeply about each other.
Charly and I met several years before our wedding. I frequented a local toy store for though I had no children, they were very much a part of my every day life—nephews, nieces, kids of close friends, and children seen in my professional contacts. My parents lived far away at a distance separated by five states. The children of friends were considered my family—at least I often thought of them that way. Sometimes “feeling” part of their family can be a painful experience. You share in the family experience, but these experiences unkindly remind you from time to time that you are not a family member. You care and you are cared about. You give and they give back. You love and they love back. The cold realization, however, is that eventually you leave as everyone else stays. Even your friends can at times be unkind without intending to do so and they typically have no awareness or knowledge of their silent transgressions.
Having said all that, children and having a childlike nature were the common threads that brought Charly and me together. Being immature or I believe the politically correct identification of being maturationally challenged can have its benefits. Charly was the assistant manager of a local family-owned toy and hobby store. Although it was a very large store, the owners were quite family oriented. They took interest and pride in serving the shopper, including the smallest ones who otherwise were typically admonished for touching, dropping, breaking, or innocently staring at amazingly awesome store merchandise. Charly was perceptibly charming and accommodating. I attributed her charm to her kind temperament and warm smile. If love at first sight exists, Charly’s impact on me lends credence to that romantic idiom. She had, excuse the cliché, the kind of smile that made your troubles melt away as soon as you walked in the store. Charly paid attention to detail and her compulsiveness showed in the assistance that she provided you. It was not long before I shopped at the toy store for self-serving reasons. I shopped more often than needed. Charly seemed aware of this, but she did not appear to mind, complain, or file a protective restraining order.
I was surprised, fortunate, and content to have met somebody like Charly, let alone fall in love with her. Surprised? Well, yes. You see, I went through a period in my life during which time dating was frowned upon—actually, I was not permitted to date… did not consider dating… and willing accepting it. I later found myself in the position of catching up with my male counterparts in the social arena. However, I am getting ahead of myself once again . . .
Let me start at another beginning. This is the beginning of the end that we all share in common, the universal type: the day of delivery… Deliverance? Do you hear a banjo or two? I was born in October of 1951. My beginning of the end was, of course, linked historically to my parents. That goes without saying, but I decided to say it anyway. My mother was born in Carrara, Italy in May 1924. My father was of strong Italian heritage, but born in Memphis, Tennessee in June 1914. My father was in the armed services and they met during the waning years of World War II. Well, “met” is not exactly true. A mutual friend introduced my mother and father the old fashioned European way. My parents later married in New York in May 1948.
It would be less than candid to say I remembered anything about my entrance into this world, and based on the unfolding events of the time, quite fortunate as well. As my birth approached, my parents were experiencing a devastating beginning of the end coinciding with my beginning: the illness and subsequent death of my paternal grandfather several months before my birth. Grandpa Edgar was an Italian sculptor who worked in marble and stone, as he created many sculptures for buildings and museums that are still exhibited today around America. He was born in Southern Italy in 1884 and immigrated to the United States in 1909. According to the American Family Immigration Center at Ellis Island (http://www.ellisisland.org), more than 22 million immigrants, passengers and crew passed through Ellis Island and the Port of New York between 1892 and 1924.