Would this prelude entice you to want to read this family saga?
Prelude
The Bloodlines
December 24, 1966
A strong high pressure system had amassed over western Canada signaling the harbinger of a massive Arctic flow into the Northeast. From Washington D.C. up through Boston, temperatures had plummeted to the sub-freezing level. The Nor’easter began its methodic crawl up the coast after dawn. Large snowflakes had begun to fall rapidly in Philadelphia during the morning commute and by noon the City of Brotherly Love was blanketed with over seven inches with no end of slowing down in sight. By early afternoon the rapidly moving storm had moved up the east coast and the New York City area was also officially in the midst of what was turning into a White Christmas.
Most of the mom and pop stores in Tuckahoe had heeded the storms warning and closed their doors early in the day before three inches had even accumulated. Only the essential small businesses continued to brave the elements until the last possible moment. This tiny village nestled just north of the Bronx had many Italian-American residents and the Christmas Eve meal was sacred and steeped in religious tradition. The few shops which carried fish, macaroni and even lambs head; the main ingredient to Capozzelli Di Angnelli still had a steady flow of customers braving the wintery wonderland.
By 6:00 p.m. though, almost all of these hard working proprietors had decided to call it a night. Collectively, six men of various ages and sizes exited a butcher shop, a macaroni store and a restaurant, locked the doors and turned off the lights for the evening. The three establishments were located next to or across the street from each other. The entire contingent of salt of the earth family providers bunched together to brave the storm and meandered as one along the deserted and snow covered streets. These hardened men were all related in some sort of way; by blood, through marriage, once-removed and had gone through this Christmas Eve ritual together for over a decade. After the quarter of a mile boisterous trek in the worsening elements, the ensemble entered a small inviting house to begin the celebration of the birth of their Lord Jesus Christ.
Waiting their arrival the warmth of the vestibule were parents, grandparents, wives and children who had been busy as well preparing the meal and eagerly awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.
“Michael darling, I told you to wear your gloves!” A young and beautiful wife with a bun of brunette hair and wearing a festive red apron greeted her husband with a hug and kiss as he was painstakingly discarding his flannel jacket that was still caked in melting flakes of snow.
“Maria me love, I’ll survive. You think I’d never experienced a cold night before. Ireland got plenty of chill you know.” In his jovial and sardonic Gaelic brogue, Mike reassured his wife of three years that even though he was still relatively new to this country, he was not new to harsh weather.
After all of the men had removed their jackets they all eagerly accepted the warmth of Christmas cheer placed in their hands. “A toast to this great economy! God Bless the Holiday season.” At fifty-four, Joe was the oldest of the bunch.
“Salute!” Over cheers and jovial shouts all in attendance concurred. This critical time from Thanksgiving to Christmas had been very profitable. It had not always been the case but thankfully this year had been good for all.
“Joe, I thought your other son-in-law, Patty was supposed to help you out today?” Vincent inquired sarcastically as he took a hearty sip of his scotch and water. Not yet fifty, he was still rugged looking and solidly built.
“Hehe, I’m lucky Mikey here thinks he’s still auditioning to be my favorite son-in-law. He was with me all day bright and early. Pat showed up right before lunch with some outrageous excuse that he couldn’t help us out today.” Joe made the comment as the men had begun to sidle into the crowded living room to mingle with the rest of the family.
“Rosa, where’s that husband of yours? I’m still waiting for him to get back from one of his famous top secret missions.” Joe addressed his oldest daughter who was regrettably unhappily married to Pat Fortuno for the past six years. She simply shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes from the dining room and continued to arrange plates and utensils on the table.
Two rambunctious boys in red feety pajamas darted out from a make shift fort they had built on the side of the couch. They shot each other with cap guns then dove to safety behind a chair and the love seat diagonal from each other in the crowded room.
“Will you two knock it off! Show some respect in your uncle’s house.” Greg, the owner of the best pizza place in town snapped at the two hyped-up terrors who were fueled by way too many chocolate bars. They both heeded their fathers warning and carefully moved from the back of the Christmas tree to the protection of their mother on the love seat.
“Greg, speak to your boys in a better tone. Let them have some fun. What do you expect a seven and five year old to do with the excitement of waiting for Santa Claus to arrive? You’ve scared them to death now.” Dina was enjoying a cigarette before she would return to the kitchen to assist the other mothers and grandmothers in serving the first course of the traditional feast of the seven fishes. She kissed the boys on their foreheads, stubbed out her butt and went back to assist the others.
“Okay everyone, time to eat.” The women’s blended voices bellowed from the direction of the hearty aroma of the kitchen. In a controlled chaotic manner, the entire throng ambled to the dinner table. Nobody took any old seat; they all knew their place and when they reached it, they sat.
Before the first bite, Rocco Albanese stood. The big man may have looked imposing, but when he opened his mouth his baritone voice was filled with love. “I’d like a moment to reflect and say Grace along with a special prayer for my boy, Ralph.” Quietness enveloped the table as Rocco quoted a passage from the Bible. His eyes watered as he raised his wine glass towards the direction of his middle son. Ralph sported a buzz cut and was wearing a red cardigan sweater with matching black corduroys. After volunteering for the army, he had recently celebrated his twentieth birthday while in basic training and was home on a short leave before he would be deployed to Vietnam.
After the prayer and well wishes had been extended, Rocco’s youngest son, Jimmy Boy stood to make an announcement. “Dad, mom, just to let you know I’m going to be enlisting in the army after graduation. Al’s got his family, but I can’t let Ralphie be the only one to come home with war medals.” The strapping teen made his proud proclamation with his chin up and already looking very soldierly.
“Think through your decision hard … war is Hell. Not glamorous at all. And you’ll have to cut that hair of yours. You can’t go over looking like one of those bugs.” Vincent, who had a long stint as a marine knew all too well the horrors of battle.
“You mean the Beatles dad?” Rita giggled as she tried to educate her father on the latest fad sweeping the country from England.
“Beatles, bugs, wasps, whatever. I just don’t like the way the young folk have been acting lately. They come into the bar and play those crazy songs on the jukebox. What a racket … dressed like beatniks. Where’s the country going?” Vincent was a traditional man who believed in proper conduct and appearance. He held the bowl of zeppole for his wife and aging mother before taking a few of his own. “Regardless Ralph, just remember to listen to your platoon leaders and the veteran NCO’s. Be safe and keep your head down. God Bless You!”
“I will sir. Thank you.”
While Rocco’s two youngest sons would be going off to serve their country, his oldest, had a family to support. Alfonse and his best girl Rita had gotten married as soon as she graduated from high school and their first son was born last spring. Their baby was not the only bundle of joy to bless the close nit extended families. Dina and Greg’s third son was also born earlier in the year. Mike and Maria had two of their own; a precious toddler who was in rambunctious cruiser phase. The almost two year old was currently sitting on her grandfather’s lap sucking on a bottle and losing the fight to keep her eyes open. They were also blessed with a son who was born last July, on Independence Day. He was presently napping on a large blanket in front of the Christmas tree with the two other infants.
In between courses, Mike took a sip of wine then decided to stretch his legs and walked over to the counter. With so much food on the table, the four gallon jug of homemade red was blocked by a huge bowl of salad. He moved the salad bowl and began to refill his glass. With a clear line of sight into the other room and the spectacularly lit Christmas tree, he moved his gaze to admire the ornaments and decorations. Growing up in Ireland as an only child in extremely harsh social and economic conditions, this life was still very new to him. He considered himself blessed to have been accepted into this wonderful family. Italian and Irish blood blended well. He prayed every night that his two angels would realize that the closeness, love and support of a family were a wonderful thing that should not be taken lightly. The myriad of friends these children would make in their lifetimes would come and go. But because of the bloodlines, all of those within these four walls would forever be bonded and he knew that they would stand by each other to face every challenge head on … whatever that may be.
So far so good; he chuckled to himself that the boys appeared to be getting alone fine … just fine. The precious trio was lying bundled amongst the Nativity Manger, wrapped Christmas presents and the myriad of decorations and ornaments. At that moment, the superstitious Irishman believed that the little ones must have read his mind. Still all comfortably asleep, Christopher and Baby Salvatore were bookending Little Anthony. In what looked like a coordinated movement, they all extended their little arms and reached to grasp each other.
The Bloodlines
December 24, 1966
A strong high pressure system had amassed over western Canada signaling the harbinger of a massive Arctic flow into the Northeast. From Washington D.C. up through Boston, temperatures had plummeted to the sub-freezing level. The Nor’easter began its methodic crawl up the coast after dawn. Large snowflakes had begun to fall rapidly in Philadelphia during the morning commute and by noon the City of Brotherly Love was blanketed with over seven inches with no end of slowing down in sight. By early afternoon the rapidly moving storm had moved up the east coast and the New York City area was also officially in the midst of what was turning into a White Christmas.
Most of the mom and pop stores in Tuckahoe had heeded the storms warning and closed their doors early in the day before three inches had even accumulated. Only the essential small businesses continued to brave the elements until the last possible moment. This tiny village nestled just north of the Bronx had many Italian-American residents and the Christmas Eve meal was sacred and steeped in religious tradition. The few shops which carried fish, macaroni and even lambs head; the main ingredient to Capozzelli Di Angnelli still had a steady flow of customers braving the wintery wonderland.
By 6:00 p.m. though, almost all of these hard working proprietors had decided to call it a night. Collectively, six men of various ages and sizes exited a butcher shop, a macaroni store and a restaurant, locked the doors and turned off the lights for the evening. The three establishments were located next to or across the street from each other. The entire contingent of salt of the earth family providers bunched together to brave the storm and meandered as one along the deserted and snow covered streets. These hardened men were all related in some sort of way; by blood, through marriage, once-removed and had gone through this Christmas Eve ritual together for over a decade. After the quarter of a mile boisterous trek in the worsening elements, the ensemble entered a small inviting house to begin the celebration of the birth of their Lord Jesus Christ.
Waiting their arrival the warmth of the vestibule were parents, grandparents, wives and children who had been busy as well preparing the meal and eagerly awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.
“Michael darling, I told you to wear your gloves!” A young and beautiful wife with a bun of brunette hair and wearing a festive red apron greeted her husband with a hug and kiss as he was painstakingly discarding his flannel jacket that was still caked in melting flakes of snow.
“Maria me love, I’ll survive. You think I’d never experienced a cold night before. Ireland got plenty of chill you know.” In his jovial and sardonic Gaelic brogue, Mike reassured his wife of three years that even though he was still relatively new to this country, he was not new to harsh weather.
After all of the men had removed their jackets they all eagerly accepted the warmth of Christmas cheer placed in their hands. “A toast to this great economy! God Bless the Holiday season.” At fifty-four, Joe was the oldest of the bunch.
“Salute!” Over cheers and jovial shouts all in attendance concurred. This critical time from Thanksgiving to Christmas had been very profitable. It had not always been the case but thankfully this year had been good for all.
“Joe, I thought your other son-in-law, Patty was supposed to help you out today?” Vincent inquired sarcastically as he took a hearty sip of his scotch and water. Not yet fifty, he was still rugged looking and solidly built.
“Hehe, I’m lucky Mikey here thinks he’s still auditioning to be my favorite son-in-law. He was with me all day bright and early. Pat showed up right before lunch with some outrageous excuse that he couldn’t help us out today.” Joe made the comment as the men had begun to sidle into the crowded living room to mingle with the rest of the family.
“Rosa, where’s that husband of yours? I’m still waiting for him to get back from one of his famous top secret missions.” Joe addressed his oldest daughter who was regrettably unhappily married to Pat Fortuno for the past six years. She simply shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes from the dining room and continued to arrange plates and utensils on the table.
Two rambunctious boys in red feety pajamas darted out from a make shift fort they had built on the side of the couch. They shot each other with cap guns then dove to safety behind a chair and the love seat diagonal from each other in the crowded room.
“Will you two knock it off! Show some respect in your uncle’s house.” Greg, the owner of the best pizza place in town snapped at the two hyped-up terrors who were fueled by way too many chocolate bars. They both heeded their fathers warning and carefully moved from the back of the Christmas tree to the protection of their mother on the love seat.
“Greg, speak to your boys in a better tone. Let them have some fun. What do you expect a seven and five year old to do with the excitement of waiting for Santa Claus to arrive? You’ve scared them to death now.” Dina was enjoying a cigarette before she would return to the kitchen to assist the other mothers and grandmothers in serving the first course of the traditional feast of the seven fishes. She kissed the boys on their foreheads, stubbed out her butt and went back to assist the others.
“Okay everyone, time to eat.” The women’s blended voices bellowed from the direction of the hearty aroma of the kitchen. In a controlled chaotic manner, the entire throng ambled to the dinner table. Nobody took any old seat; they all knew their place and when they reached it, they sat.
Before the first bite, Rocco Albanese stood. The big man may have looked imposing, but when he opened his mouth his baritone voice was filled with love. “I’d like a moment to reflect and say Grace along with a special prayer for my boy, Ralph.” Quietness enveloped the table as Rocco quoted a passage from the Bible. His eyes watered as he raised his wine glass towards the direction of his middle son. Ralph sported a buzz cut and was wearing a red cardigan sweater with matching black corduroys. After volunteering for the army, he had recently celebrated his twentieth birthday while in basic training and was home on a short leave before he would be deployed to Vietnam.
After the prayer and well wishes had been extended, Rocco’s youngest son, Jimmy Boy stood to make an announcement. “Dad, mom, just to let you know I’m going to be enlisting in the army after graduation. Al’s got his family, but I can’t let Ralphie be the only one to come home with war medals.” The strapping teen made his proud proclamation with his chin up and already looking very soldierly.
“Think through your decision hard … war is Hell. Not glamorous at all. And you’ll have to cut that hair of yours. You can’t go over looking like one of those bugs.” Vincent, who had a long stint as a marine knew all too well the horrors of battle.
“You mean the Beatles dad?” Rita giggled as she tried to educate her father on the latest fad sweeping the country from England.
“Beatles, bugs, wasps, whatever. I just don’t like the way the young folk have been acting lately. They come into the bar and play those crazy songs on the jukebox. What a racket … dressed like beatniks. Where’s the country going?” Vincent was a traditional man who believed in proper conduct and appearance. He held the bowl of zeppole for his wife and aging mother before taking a few of his own. “Regardless Ralph, just remember to listen to your platoon leaders and the veteran NCO’s. Be safe and keep your head down. God Bless You!”
“I will sir. Thank you.”
While Rocco’s two youngest sons would be going off to serve their country, his oldest, had a family to support. Alfonse and his best girl Rita had gotten married as soon as she graduated from high school and their first son was born last spring. Their baby was not the only bundle of joy to bless the close nit extended families. Dina and Greg’s third son was also born earlier in the year. Mike and Maria had two of their own; a precious toddler who was in rambunctious cruiser phase. The almost two year old was currently sitting on her grandfather’s lap sucking on a bottle and losing the fight to keep her eyes open. They were also blessed with a son who was born last July, on Independence Day. He was presently napping on a large blanket in front of the Christmas tree with the two other infants.
In between courses, Mike took a sip of wine then decided to stretch his legs and walked over to the counter. With so much food on the table, the four gallon jug of homemade red was blocked by a huge bowl of salad. He moved the salad bowl and began to refill his glass. With a clear line of sight into the other room and the spectacularly lit Christmas tree, he moved his gaze to admire the ornaments and decorations. Growing up in Ireland as an only child in extremely harsh social and economic conditions, this life was still very new to him. He considered himself blessed to have been accepted into this wonderful family. Italian and Irish blood blended well. He prayed every night that his two angels would realize that the closeness, love and support of a family were a wonderful thing that should not be taken lightly. The myriad of friends these children would make in their lifetimes would come and go. But because of the bloodlines, all of those within these four walls would forever be bonded and he knew that they would stand by each other to face every challenge head on … whatever that may be.
So far so good; he chuckled to himself that the boys appeared to be getting alone fine … just fine. The precious trio was lying bundled amongst the Nativity Manger, wrapped Christmas presents and the myriad of decorations and ornaments. At that moment, the superstitious Irishman believed that the little ones must have read his mind. Still all comfortably asleep, Christopher and Baby Salvatore were bookending Little Anthony. In what looked like a coordinated movement, they all extended their little arms and reached to grasp each other.
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