Joseph Sciuto's Blog: A Curious View: A Compilation of Short Stories by Joseph Sciuto, page 48
January 18, 2018
Great Short Works of Edgar Allan Poe
Back in the day, when I was a college student in the late 70’s and early 80’s, the works of Edgar Allan Poe were sort of discarded by the elite English department at the university I attended. Seldom was his name even mentioned, and when it was, it was just in passing. The works of Shakespeare, Dante, Byron, Keats, Shelly, Joyce, Proust, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy were deemed far more important to the works of Poe…and maybe they are…or maybe not?
Thankfully, I decided to read Poe on my own time. After all, I had a strange adolescent connection to the famous writer, which I will explain later. Poe, at this time, had become more of a famous occult figure than a serious writer… Thanks to Hollywood and other media outlets.
After reading Poe for the first time, I was greatly impressed. His writing style I found to be very similar to my favorite writer of all time, Joseph Conrad, and to another writer I greatly admired, F. Scott Fitzgerald. All three writers were very descriptive; even though their subject matters were vastly different.
A few days ago, while looking through my library at home, I picked up the “The Great Short Works of Edgar Allan Poe” and flipped through it and read the notes I made in the margins. I then decided to re-read the entire collection, which is comprised of his many poems and numerous short stories and tales. I found a few stories too long with sentences that seemed to run on for eternity, a few of the stories and tales very good, and the vast majority of short stories, tales, and poems extraordinary works of literature.
“The Assignation,” “Berenice,” “The Fall of the House of Usher” The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Oval Portrait,” “The Masque of the Red Death,” “The Pit and the Pendulum,” The Tell Tale Heart” “The Premature Burial,” and “The Cask of Amontillado” are works of pure literary genius… All studies in the art of great storytelling, character development, and the poetry and beauty of words. I can only hope that today all students of literature are being taught and exposed to these wonderful works … If not, that is a real crime.
Back to my adolescent connection to Mr. Poe … When I was just a mere teenager, drunk and high on certain drugs …. My friends and I used to walk up to “Poe’s Cottage” just off the Fordham University Campus in the Bronx. The place was in total disarray and there were more people inside the cottage and on the grounds partying than I think Mr. Poe, with his wonderful imagination, could ever have imagined. I used to think, even back then, what a crime it was that such a landmark was allowed to be so run down and disrespected in so many ways.
Today, I am happy to report that the Cottage and surrounding grounds have been restored to their once grandeur and there are no longer any loiters, drug addicts, or alcololics like myself hanging around but students passing through on school trips.
When I moved to Los Angeles in 1982, I went for quite a long time without a job and naturally had very little money to buy food; nevertheless books. Thankfully, in Westwood Village where I lived there were many wonderful bookstores. One bookstore in particular, was so huge (with two levels) that it looked more like a Library. On the second level, they had tables where one was allowed to read. Naturally, this little Heaven on earth is where I used to hang out and read books that I so wanted but could not afford. It was in this bookstore, that I decided to memorize my favorite poems and passages in books so that, regardless of where I was or under whatever circumstances, they would always be with me. The first poem I put to memory and have recited almost everyday since was Poe’s romantic masterpiece, “Annabel Lee.” According to my lovely wife, it was when I recited this poem to her that she fell in love with me.
In closing, let me recite the closing stanza:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiul Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling – my darling – my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea –
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Poe
January 17, 2018
Book Giveaway “Hollywood Riptide”
Goodreads Book Giveaway
HOLLYWOOD RIPTIDE
by Joseph Sciuto
Giveaway ends January 25, 2018.
See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.
December 30, 2017
A CURIOUS VIEW: HEART AND SOUL…MY FRIEND ANTONIO
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A CURIOUS VIEW: HEART AND SOUL…MY FRIEND ANTONIO
Back in the day when I was a student in the theater department at Stony Brook University, Professor Louis Peterson, an award-winning playwright, told us a story about a middle-aged man who worked in the kitchen at the restaurant where Peterson was working as a waiter while struggling desperately to make it as a playwright.
Peterson’s co-worker was a middle-aged, mentally-challenged gentleman. He was a hard worker who frequently was ridiculed by fellow employees and even some customers. Despite the circumstances, the gentleman kept his head down, plowed forward and did a wonderful job.
Decades after leaving the restaurant business, Professor Peterson, who already had become a well-known playwright and an accomplished screenwriter who worked with such notables as Federico Fellini, wrote a play about the middle-aged gentleman from the restaurant.
The play, starring Julie Harris, became a big hit and Professor Peterson won many awards.
In short, the point the professor was trying to get across was that you never know where or who will provide you with the inspiration for a story, and that you shouldn’t discount any of your experiences.
Peterson never expected to write anything about the mentally-challenged man, but nearly a quarter of a century later he did…and it paid off big.
The theme of his story was nothing new. Most writers and artists probably have similar stories…even though I doubt many have been as fortunate as Peterson.
What got me, and remains with me after nearly forty years, is the indifferent, dispassionate tone Peterson used in describing the mentally-challenged character while telling the story.
It was as though he were speaking about a lab rat who had provided him with vital information that he turned into pure magic.
I seriously doubt that is what he truly felt, because if it were, the play never would have been such a critical and commercial success.
Still, I have never been able to erase that impression.
I was not raised to be indifferent, or rude, or to talk down to anybody.
*“And lead me into the night/Please drive away the light
‘Cause I’ve been blinded by glitter and gold/My eyes need to rest from this light
And sleep well at night”
Unless one has worked in a restaurant for a while, one never could know how a restaurant operates, especially a successful one like the Palm Restaurant in West Hollywood.
After working for over twenty-five years at The Palm as a busboy, a waiter, an occasional manager, an off-and-on bartender, with the kitchen staff, doing inventory and payroll, I still cannot say with certainty that I knew all there was to know.
What I can say with certainty is that the most important part…the heart of the operation…is the kitchen.
The preparatory work before lunch, which begins as early as six in the morning, is enough to knock the toughest individuals off-balance and reeling for days.
After five-and-half-hours of ‘prepping,’ you get to work lunch… cook, make salads, and clean dishes at an ungodly pace for three hours.
The Palm was lucky because our kitchen crew, for dinner and lunch, had been together for many years. They worked like a well-oiled machine, and I often thought of them as the very best pit crew working at the Indy 500.
Whereas they were all wonderful, it was Antonio to whom everyone turned when things went awry, like a waiter putting in a wrong order or forgetting to put in a complete order.
“I traveled east and I traveled west/And I found a boy with a heart on his chest
I ran aground my ship left to rust/Yes, I found a guide in the city of lust”
Antonio was medium height, with broad shoulders, and a full set of thick black hair.
He was a good-looking man who always seemed to greet you with a smile…a smile that put you at ease, regardless of the circumstances.
He was a Mexican immigrant who eventually became a United States citizen under President Ronald Reagan’s 1986 immigration bill offering legalization for undocumented workers.
Antonio was proud of his children and expected them to succeed and hoped they would never have to work in the restaurant business.
My friend, Ron, and I went to watch Antonio’s sons play baseball and, like any proud father, he cheered enthusiastically when they got a hit or made a great play on the field.
And if they didn’t do so well, he always greeted them with that reassuring smile.
Antonio owned a home in the San Fernando Valley, not far from where I lived. He drove an old truck that looked very out of place in the parking lot of the restaurant next to the army of Mercedes, Porches, Ferraris, and BMWs parked there.
His life wasn’t defined by luxury, but by old-fashioned values.
I often saw Antonio with his children in a beautiful park not far from where we lived. It often brought back memories of my father taking my brothers and me to a park in the Bronx to play on the swings and the monkey bars.
*“To lead me into the night/Oh, please drive away the light
Although my mother will never understand/I walk with him away from the light
And into the night”
Antonio worked the “line” next to our sous chef (our executive chef) and our broiler man.
He was also our Expeditor, the person who puts the orders in their proper place as they came through the computers. He worked the black top, flipping and cooking thinly cut steaks, fish, and poultry. He made sure that every dish that went out was garnished properly so it looked as great as it was going to taste.
On the average, Antonio and our broiler man lost between three and five pounds during each lunch shift.
Antonio also handled sauté when our executive chef was busy doing something else. He was so good at sauté that the company sent him to culinary school. I learned more about cooking from him than any other person.
When our executive chef went to our downtown restaurant, Antonio finally was promoted to executive chef.
The entire waitstaff and the kitchen crew were overjoyed.
Antonio did not have an ego, and he wasn’t the type who would hold up an order because he had a problem with one of the waiters.
He didn’t let such petty nonsense interfere with the job at hand.
With the promotion came added responsibilities, but no one had any doubt he could handle the new demands.
After all, he had been doing everything the executive chef had been doing for years, but the hours were much longer.
Not only was he was working lunch, but also working dinner. In short, he was working double shifts five days a week, and occasionally six.
Sometimes, at the end of the night, I would talk to him when things calmed down.
He would tell me that the long hours were causing problems at home. Then, he would smile and everything seemed as though it would be alright.
About that same time, our once top-notched restaurant went into a downward spiral.
The “experts” back east just wouldn’t leave our restaurant alone.
Even though our location always had been the biggest moneymaker for the company, an outpost…a speakeasy with a distinctive style… they just couldn’t keep their hands off what had worked for two-and-a-half decades.
Naturally, their ideas failed miserably, and when they couldn’t face up to their blunders, they started blaming the management team and Antonio, our incredible executive chef.
On a lazy Sunday afternoon, Antonio arrived at the restaurant before anyone else, even though we were not open for lunch on Sundays.
This man who had worked so hard, loved his family so much and was so good to his co-workers, sat by his locker, took out a gun, and shot himself in the head.
According to the coroner, Antonio died instantly.
Felipe, a co-worker and a close friend for over twenty-five years discovered his body.
That night, the restaurant closed as a parade of police cars, fire trucks and an ambulance stayed parked in the front and back of the restaurant.
Antonio’s body was carried out the back door and placed in the ambulance.
After each shift, it was through that same back door that Antonio always exited the restaurant.
The entire staff gathered at the restaurant that night.
As we sat around the bar drinking and commiserating, many employees raised the notion that the last person one would expect to kill himself was Antonio.
I couldn’t help feeling, “Isn’t that always the case?”
“Oh you, you, you, it’s got to be you/Oh you, oh you, it’s got to be you
True, true, it’s true it’s got to be you/Oh you, oh you, it’s got to be you
To lead me into the night”
The viewing was held on the following Saturday.
The coffin was closed, but the funeral director, at the urging of family and friends, opened the casket for a few minutes.
Felipe cupped his hands around the face of our friend and wept uncontrollably.
I looked down at Antonio’s face, and I could not help but see a faint smile on the face of this wonderful human being.
“Well I went too far and I came too close/I drove away the first one and now he’s the coast
And I went to drift on a boat made of sand/It was leaking like a sieve but I made it to land”
A few weeks later, a close friend of mine told me that one morning, he went outside to go on his daily run before work.
My friend suddenly was stricken by an unexplained, paralyzing sense of depression.
He cancelled his run and simply figured it would pass, but after 12 years, it was still present as strong as ever.
He had seen numerous doctors who prescribed drug after drug, but none had worked.
My friend continued to work during this entire time.
Ironically, he had an ever-increasing number of call parties at the restaurant…people who refused to sit with anyone but him.
No one suspected the agony he was living with…struggling with…every day.
My friend told me he prayed to God to give him just one more normal year, and after that, he would gladly follow Him into the night.
I listened intently and made a constant effort to touch base with my friend.
I made my friend promise that he wouldn’t do anything drastic without telling me first.
That night, I looked in the mirror and saw the face of my friend looking back at me…the scared, confused, angry, sad face was my own.
Shortly before my breakdown and departure from the Palm Restaurant, I wrote a tribute to Antonio and posted it outside the office.
It made me feel good when my friends at the restaurant informed me that my post was still up there some five years after I left.
And I remembered Antonio’s smile.
“It leads me into the night/He drives away in the light
He makes the darkness seem bright/And walks with me into the night
Away from the light”
*Lyrics from “Lead me into the Night,” sung by the Cardigans (written by Peter Anders Sevensson and Nina Persson)
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December 21, 2017
A CURIOUS VIEW: A Christmas Memory Yarn
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As Christmas and the New Year quickly approach, I cannot help but look back at 2017 and not feel great sadness.
Starting early in the year, my friend, Herman, passed away.
A month later, my beloved cat, Jake, died suddenly, and that is a nightmare that will live with me forever.
Shortly thereafter, our dear friend, Helen, died.
Early in the summer I found out that my Uncle Steve and Aunt Grace and two of their sons (my cousins) all had died in the past couple of years, and neither my brothers nor I had been notified.
In July, my Uncle Al passed away… a wonderful human being, who helped raise my two brothers and me, who educated me, and bestowed unconditional love onto me that, at times, was undeserving.
A few weeks later, our friend Pinky died. He had spent so much time in our house over the past two years that he became part of our extended family.
He painted eleven of our rooms, our outdoor deck, shutters, and fixed a variety of things around our home.
“Pinky,” aka Marvin, was a man of many gifts who told me some great stories, and until this very moment, I still miss our conversations and his undeniable love for the craft of painting.
A short time after, my close friend, Tony, lost his sister, Jessie … a lovely, sweet, adorable angel whom I had known for over thirty-five years.
Yes, it has been a tough year, and what makes it even worse, is that many of my friends have suffered just as many tragedies…in some cases, much worse.
I am reminded of a quote from my favorite twentieth-century poet, William Butler Yeats, who wrote, “Whatever is begotten, born and dies.”
And I would be remiss, not to mention all our servicemen and servicewomen who have lost their lives defending our country. Our casualties have been relatively low this past year considering we are currently fighting two wars, but that is of little comfort to the parents and children of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
Yet, despite all my talk of death, I am reminded of a story my lovely mother once told me.
Back in the day, it was customary to mourn the death of a close relative for a year or more. The women, especially the older Italian ladies, some of whom were my grandmother’s contemporaries, loved to adorn themselves in lovely shades of black.
It was then that my grandmother suffered the loss of a very close uncle of whom all her children, including my mother, were very fond.
The death of this uncle happened in early December which made the death even more difficult.
There was a strict tradition about a death during the holiday season that held fast and furious…
…no God-fearing, pious, family would ever dare put up a Christmas tree under such circumstances.
I can visualize my mother, aunts and uncles as children, their faces doubly saddened because, without any Christmas tree, where would Santa leave the gifts?
None of my grandmother’s twelve children, even my mother whom I assume already was quite brave at an early age, even dared to approach my grandmother about putting up a tree.
Yet the fear of being overlooked by Mr. Klaus was palpable throughout the household.
And nothing, and I mean nothing, got past my grandmother.
It was like she could read your mind, but, more importantly, even a hundred years ago, she was a progressive, tough, loving little lady who had no problem breaking with morbid traditions.
During the night, after all the children were asleep, my grandmother and grandfather put up the Christmas tree, complete with the winter wonderland and the Nativity statues and stable beneath the glistening pine.
The following morning, the wondrous site of the tree was a shock to her children. Before they could open their mouths, my grandmother remarked, “Surely, you didn’t think we were not going to put up a tree?”
“Your uncle is dead,” she told them. “Hopefully he can manage to talk his way into Heaven.”
Apparently, she knew something about her dear uncle that the children did not.
“But, that’s not stopping us from celebrating Christmas.”
Her love for her family would not be hampered by superstition or tradition.
Death followed my grandmother around like a curse… not so unusual considering the size of her family.
But, she never let it defeat her or get in the way of living and rejoicing and celebrating special occasions.
Because of her strength and wisdom, this thread of precious memories...a yarn of a mother's love...remains for us to pass down from generation to generation.
Happy Holidays.
A CURIOUS VIEW: A Christmas Memory Yarn
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A CURIOUS VIEW: A Christmas Memory Yarn…
As Christmas and the New Year quickly approach, I cannot help but look back at 2017 and not feel great sadness.
Starting early in the year, my friend, Herman, passed away.
A month later, my beloved cat, Jake, died suddenly, and that is a nightmare that will live with me forever.
Shortly thereafter, our dear friend, Helen, died.
Early in the summer I found out that my Uncle Steve and Aunt Grace and two of their sons (my cousins) all had died in the past couple of years, and neither my brothers nor I had been notified.
In July, my Uncle Al passed away… a wonderful human being, who helped raise my two brothers and me, who educated me, and bestowed unconditional love onto me that, at times, was undeserving.
A few weeks later, our friend Pinky died. He had spent so much time in our house over the past two years that he became part of our extended family.
He painted eleven of our rooms, our outdoor deck, shutters, and fixed a variety of things around our home.
“Pinky,” aka Marvin, was a man of many gifts who told me some great stories, and until this very moment, I still miss our conversations and his undeniable love for the craft of painting.
A short time after, my close friend, Tony, lost his sister, Jessie … a lovely, sweet, adorable angel whom I had known for over thirty-five years.
Yes, it has been a tough year, and what makes it even worse, is that many of my friends have suffered just as many tragedies…in some cases, much worse.
I am reminded of a quote from my favorite twentieth-century poet, William Butler Yeats, who wrote, “Whatever is begotten, born and dies.”
And I would be remiss, not to mention all our servicemen and servicewomen who have lost their lives defending our country. Our casualties have been relatively low this past year considering we are currently fighting two wars, but that is of little comfort to the parents and children of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
Yet, despite all my talk of death, I am reminded of a story my lovely mother once told me.
Back in the day, it was customary to mourn the death of a close relative for a year or more. The women, especially the older Italian ladies, some of whom were my grandmother’s contemporaries, loved to adorn themselves in lovely shades of black.
It was then that my grandmother suffered the loss of a very close uncle of whom all her children, including my mother, were very fond.
The death of this uncle happened in early December which made the death even more difficult.
There was a strict tradition about a death during the holiday season that held fast and furious…
…no God-fearing, pious, family would ever dare put up a Christmas tree under such circumstances.
I can visualize my mother, aunts and uncles as children, their faces doubly saddened because, without any Christmas tree, where would Santa leave the gifts?
None of my grandmother’s twelve children, even my mother whom I assume already was quite brave at an early age, even dared to approach my grandmother about putting up a tree.
Yet the fear of being overlooked by Mr. Klaus was palpable throughout the household.
And nothing, and I mean nothing, got past my grandmother.
It was like she could read your mind, but, more importantly, even a hundred years ago, she was a progressive, tough, loving little lady who had no problem breaking with morbid traditions.
During the night, after all the children were asleep, my grandmother and grandfather put up the Christmas tree, complete with the winter wonderland and the Nativity statues and stable beneath the glistening pine.
The following morning, the wondrous site of the tree was a shock to her children. Before they could open their mouths, my grandmother remarked, “Surely, you didn’t think we were not going to put up a tree?”
“Your uncle is dead,” she told them. “Hopefully he can manage to talk his way into Heaven.”
Apparently, she knew something about her dear uncle that the children did not.
“But, that’s not stopping us from celebrating Christmas.”
Her love for her family would not be hampered by superstition or tradition.
Death followed my grandmother around like a curse… not so unusual considering the size of her family.
But, she never let it defeat her or get in the way of living and rejoicing and celebrating special occasions.
Because of her strength and wisdom, this thread of precious memories…a yarn of a mother’s love…remains for us to pass down from generation to generation.
Happy Holidays.
December 15, 2017
A CURIOUS VIEW: CHRISTMAS MEMORIES AND A GRANDMOTHER’S MIRACLE
My obsession with dying would start around Thanksgiving and end on Christmas Eve when Santa Claus came down the chimney (a chimney we did not have), but that’s of little importance.
Between the ages of four- and six-years-old, I would get an unnerving feeling that I would die before Santa could arrive with my gifts, a feeling that was overwhelming.
The only way I could stop this travesty from happening was to stay awake and not fall asleep because, in my impressionable little mind, I associated death with sleeping.
Naturally, my cure against this “plague” called “death” did not work out very well.
I couldn’t tell my parents about this neurosis because I didn’t want them to think that their little Joseph was a coward.
I often thought about telling my grandmother, but I figured she probably already knew because she knew everything.
To shield myself against this tragedy, and my inevitable inability to stay awake, I prayed to God for a little Divine intervention. I promised to behave during the holiday season, and then, if he still felt a need to take me, he could have me a couple days after Christmas.
After all, I deserved a little time to play with my new toys…
Besides, dying and going to Heaven couldn’t be all that bad…my aunts and uncles constantly were departing for the Pearly Gates.
From the beginning, I realized that I was at a major disadvantage asking God to keep me alive for nearly a month, so like a good politician, I decided (in a good faith gesture, of course) that if he kept me alive at least until my grandmother’s Christmas tree went up that wouldn’t be so bad.
The decorating of my grandmother’s Christmas tree was a really big deal. It took at least three of my aunts and two uncles to get the job done.
If I remember correctly, they built a stage to accommodate the tree. The winter wonderland beneath the tree was at least half-a-football field wide.
I was permitted to watch, but not touch…
I used to make it halfway through the process before my greatest weakness overcame me…
And horror of horrors, I fell asleep!
Miraculously, I would awaken the next morning in my bed, thanking God for giving me another day, and run down the stairs to see the tree.
My grandmother would have my Aunt Rena light the tree for me, and I would simply stand there in amazement!!
It was pure magic!!
Apparently, it was bad luck to light the tree before dark, but on this one occasion it was allowed.
Staving off death with God’s help, I would take my bath early, put on my pajamas, and run downstairs.
I would sit beside the lighted tree and gaze for hours at the lighted villages filled with houses, churches, roaming puppies, and at the pretty young girls and handsome boys skating down the slopes of cotton and glittering snow.
It was all so clean and beautiful, so unlike the reality just outside my grandmother’s house.
The Nativity scene was astonishing. Two-foot handcrafted statues from Italy were gathered around the stable where baby Jesus was born to Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary who stood beside the crib that was to hold the Savior.
The three wise men always were kept at a distance because they arrived late and the face of the baby Jesus was kept covered until he was born on Christmas.
Naturally, my old nemesis…sleep…would strike me down after a few hours. The next thing I would remember was waking up in my bed the next morning, thanking God that I made it one day closer to Christmas.
Finally, the big day would arrive, Christmas Eve. Like many Italian families, we celebrated Christmas Eve much more than Christmas Day.
It was the one day, the only day, when a variety of expensive fish, such as lobster, crab, and shrimp were served with dinner. Bottles of red wine flowed freely around the large dinner table…never landing in my hand.
But that was okay because my grandmother didn’t drink any wine either, and if she could forsake the pleasure, so could I.
It was on Christmas Eve that I made a special effort to stay awake.
At about 10:30, everyone left for Midnight Mass at church, leaving my grandmother, my Aunt Jeannette and me alone in the large house.
The three of us would gather around the large dinner table near the tree. The nearby TV got into the holiday spirit with a crackling Yule log and Christmas music.
I would never make it to midnight, and would fall asleep between by my grandmother and my Aunt Jeannette; yet, unlike all the other nights when I awakened, I was not in my bed.
To my delight, I was still near the tree surrounded by Aunt Carmela, Aunt Rena, Aunt Jeannette, Uncle Al, Uncle Tony, my parents, and, of course, my grandmother.
Sitting beside the tree was Mr. Claus!
Cameras would be flashing all around me and, once the cobwebs were shaken loose from my being (After all, it was after one o’clock in the morning), my father would pick me and place me on Santa’s lap where a bunch of gifts were handed to me!
There were so many!! A lot more gifts than I had asked Santa Claus for, but then who was I to complain!
Among all the chaos, I would always look down at the baby Jesus, his face finally uncovered.
I would whisper quietly, “Happy Birthday, Jesus, and thank you for letting me live to play with my new toys.”
The world outside my grandmother’s house in The Bronx might have been quite different, but under HER roof, everything was wonderful and joyous and loving. No Grinch, no reality, no sadness could ever overcome the joy that my grandmother created.
Today, I no longer ask God to keep me alive during the holiday season, but thank him for showing me the magic of Christmas and leaving me with beautiful memories that are indelibly implanted in my mind.
And I whisper quietly, “Merry Christmas Mom, Dad, and Grandma. I hope you and Aunt Carmela, Aunt Rena, Aunt Jeannette, Uncle Al, Uncle Tony and all our loved ones are enjoying Christmas in Heaven tonight.
Happy Holidays!
A CURIOUS VIEW: CHRISTMAS MEMORIES AND A GRANDMOTHER’S MIRACLE
My obsession with dying would start around Thanksgiving and end on Christmas Eve when Santa Claus came down the chimney (a chimney we did not have), but that’s of little importance.
Between the ages of four- and six-years-old, I would get an unnerving feeling that I would die before Santa could arrive with my gifts, a feeling that was overwhelming.
The only way I could stop this travesty from happening was to stay awake and not fall asleep because, in my impressionable little mind, I associated death with sleeping.
Naturally, my cure against this “plague” called “death” did not work out very well.
I couldn’t tell my parents about this neurosis because I didn’t want them to think that their little Joseph was a coward.
I often thought about telling my grandmother, but I figured she probably already knew because she knew everything.
To shield myself against this tragedy, and my inevitable inability to stay awake, I prayed to God for a little Divine intervention. I promised to behave during the holiday season, and then, if he still felt a need to take me, he could have me a couple days after Christmas.
After all, I deserved a little time to play with my new toys…
Besides, dying and going to Heaven couldn’t be all that bad…my aunts and uncles constantly were departing for the Pearly Gates.
From the beginning, I realized that I was at a major disadvantage asking God to keep me alive for nearly a month, so like a good politician, I decided (in a good faith gesture, of course) that if he kept me alive at least until my grandmother’s Christmas tree went up that wouldn’t be so bad.
The decorating of my grandmother’s Christmas tree was a really big deal. It took at least three of my aunts and two uncles to get the job done.
If I remember correctly, they built a stage to accommodate the tree. The winter wonderland beneath the tree was at least half-a-football field wide.
I was permitted to watch, but not touch…
I used to make it halfway through the process before my greatest weakness overcame me…
And horror of horrors, I fell asleep!
Miraculously, I would awaken the next morning in my bed, thanking God for giving me another day, and run down the stairs to see the tree.
My grandmother would have my Aunt Rena light the tree for me, and I would simply stand there in amazement!!
It was pure magic!!
Apparently, it was bad luck to light the tree before dark, but on this one occasion it was allowed.
Staving off death with God’s help, I would take my bath early, put on my pajamas, and run downstairs.
I would sit beside the lighted tree and gaze for hours at the lighted villages filled with houses, churches, roaming puppies, and at the pretty young girls and handsome boys skating down the slopes of cotton and glittering snow.
It was all so clean and beautiful, so unlike the reality just outside my grandmother’s house.
The Nativity scene was astonishing. Two-foot handcrafted statues from Italy were gathered around the stable where baby Jesus was born to Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary who stood beside the crib that was to hold the Savior.
The three wise men always were kept at a distance because they arrived late and the face of the baby Jesus was kept covered until he was born on Christmas.
Naturally, my old nemesis…sleep…would strike me down after a few hours. The next thing I would remember was waking up in my bed the next morning, thanking God that I made it one day closer to Christmas.
Finally, the big day would arrive, Christmas Eve. Like many Italian families, we celebrated Christmas Eve much more than Christmas Day.
It was the one day, the only day, when a variety of expensive fish, such as lobster, crab, and shrimp were served with dinner. Bottles of red wine flowed freely around the large dinner table…never landing in my hand.
But that was okay because my grandmother didn’t drink any wine either, and if she could forsake the pleasure, so could I.
It was on Christmas Eve that I made a special effort to stay awake.
At about 10:30, everyone left for Midnight Mass at church, leaving my grandmother, my Aunt Jeannette and me alone in the large house.
The three of us would gather around the large dinner table near the tree. The nearby TV got into the holiday spirit with a crackling Yule log and Christmas music.
I would never make it to midnight, and would fall asleep between by my grandmother and my Aunt Jeannette; yet, unlike all the other nights when I awakened, I was not in my bed.
To my delight, I was still near the tree surrounded by Aunt Carmela, Aunt Rena, Aunt Jeannette, Uncle Al, Uncle Tony, my parents, and, of course, my grandmother.
Sitting beside the tree was Mr. Claus!
Cameras would be flashing all around me and, once the cobwebs were shaken loose from my being (After all, it was after one o’clock in the morning), my father would pick me and place me on Santa’s lap where a bunch of gifts were handed to me!
There were so many!! A lot more gifts than I had asked Santa Claus for, but then who was I to complain!
Among all the chaos, I would always look down at the baby Jesus, his face finally uncovered.
I would whisper quietly, “Happy Birthday, Jesus, and thank you for letting me live to play with my new toys.”
The world outside my grandmother’s house in The Bronx might have been quite different, but under HER roof, everything was wonderful and joyous and loving. No Grinch, no reality, no sadness could ever overcome the joy that my grandmother created.
Today, I no longer ask God to keep me alive during the holiday season, but thank him for showing me the magic of Christmas and leaving me with beautiful memories that are indelibly implanted in my mind.
And I whisper quietly, “Merry Christmas Mom, Dad, and Grandma. I hope you and Aunt Carmela, Aunt Rena, Aunt Jeannette, Uncle Al, Uncle Tony and all our loved ones are enjoying Christmas in Heaven tonight.
Happy Holidays!
December 6, 2017
A CURIOUS VIEW: THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED...OR NOT? REMEMBERING TOM PETTY http://www.josephwritesdotcom.wordpre...
The song that I was waiting and praying to come on the radio was the classic, “American Pie” by Don McLean: A seven-minute eulogy to the late Buddy Holly, who, along with Richie Vallens and The Big Bopper, died tragically in a plane crash back in 1959.
Drinking from a bottle of Gordon’s Gin, I was not only risking being late for school, but also having my parents catching me as I was drinking from that bottle of gin. The punishment would be severe: A loss of my allowance, pleads to the Almighty for guidance, the never ending question, “What have we done wrong to deserve this?” And, of course, no outdoor privileges, which would have been devastating because I was addicted to basketball and the courts that were right outside our apartment in Parkchester.
Yes, “I was a rebel without a clue,” as Tom Petty sang in one of his famous songs. The power of music is a scientific fact. It can change a frown into a smile and make an average movie such as “Ghost” into a giant box office hit…thanks to the song, Unchained Melody, written by Alex North and Hy Zaret and sung in the movie by Todd Duncan … but originally made famous by the Righteous Brothers.
The recent deaths of musical icons such as, David Bowie, Lou Reeds, Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, and the recent and tragic death of Tom Petty make one reflect even more on the power and inspiration of this greatest of all art forms.
The morning after the murder of John Lennon, I was sitting in the study lounge in my college dormitory cramming for a final’s test later that morning. I don’t recall the test I was studying for, but I remember quite clearly the words of a middle age black lady who used to clean the building. Previously, I had only said ‘hello’ to her throughout the rare times I saw her. She started before dawn and unless I was up from the night before still partying, I did not wake up before dawn.
She entered the lounge with her bag of supplies and immediately started cleaning. Unaware that I was in the lounge, she turned on a small transistor radio that was naturally playing Beatles’ music.
Finally, when she did notice me she went to shut off the radio and I insisted she keep it on. She looked at me and remarked, “Can you believe someone killed that young man? He made such beautiful music, I don’t understand. I love his music.”
I looked at her as tears swelled in her eyes and travelled, unchecked, down her cheeks. We talked for a few minutes and discussed out favorite Beatle songs. She went back to work as I laid my head against the wall behind my chair and listened to “Norwegian Wood” and “Girl” from the Rubber Soul Album. I remembered the first time I heard both songs and the euphoric feeling the music generated inside me. It was sublime. That morning, it was a dismal reminder of the senseless violence that existed in our society.
Music has existed, in some form or another, since the beginning of time. It is mentioned throughout the Bible, allured to throughout Greek and Roman mythology, and antiquated musical instruments have been found dating back ten thousand years.
It is the only art form that can be found in all other art forms. In Literature, Joyce’s “Ulysses” has an unmistakable musical cadence that runs throughout the novel… a result that Joyce said he was hoping to produce. The same can be said for Hemingway’s masterpiece, “The Sun Also Rises,” and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby.” Lord Byron’s epic poem, “Don Juan” is an astonishing, lyrical work of art that could just as easily be sung as recited.
In galleries and museums throughout the world, the paintings and sculptures of artists as diverse and brilliant as di Vinci, Michelangelo, Rembrandt, and Picasso reflect, in nearly every stroke, the influence of music.
Soldiers have marched into battle accompanied by musicians. Ball players enter games as Queen’s song “We Are The Champions” blasts from arena speakers, and I remember shooting alone on the basketball court outside our apartment in Parkchester listening, on my portable radio, to “Silly Love Songs” whose upbeat sound made me believe that with enough practice I might one day be the next Walt Frazier playing for my beloved New York Knicks.
Tom Petty, as much as The Beach Boys, The Eagles, and The Mama And Papas, symbolized the California experience. His lyrics were as strong and powerful as the lyrics of such legends as Billy Joel, Elton John, Bob Seger and Bob Dylan. He played with the greatest rock and rollers of his time, Eric Clapton, Prince, George Harrison, Dylan and McCartney and he always shined like the brightest of all stars.
He fought the record companies and insisted that his albums were never overpriced. He never forgot his humble roots growing up in Florida and he never wanted working class people shut off from his music because of greedy record executives.
Tom Petty died suddenly and unexpectedly at the age of sixty-six. I remember driving down Ventura Boulevard thousands of times in the thirty-one years I lived in beautiful Southern California. Today, I could never think about Ventura Boulevard without Mr. Petty’s lyrics from the song Free Fallin’ ringing loudly in my ears:
All the vampires, walking through the valley
Move west down Ventura Boulevard
All the bad boys, standing in the shadows
And the good girls are home with broken hearts
One of the famous lyrics from the song American Pie is “And the day the music died” but in truth the music never dies. I realized that back when I was talking to the cleaning lady, as tears swelled in her eyes, and the Beatles music played nonstop on her small transistor radio.
On the day Mr. Petty died, his music played continuously on all the rock and roll stations across our great country. And I will never stroll down Ventura Boulevard without seeing the shadows of vampires walking alongside me. Rest in Peace, Tom Petty.
A Curious View: A Compilation of Short Stories by Joseph Sciuto
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