I have lived in several places during my nearly 42 years on this Earth. I was born in Brooklyn, NY and lived there until I was about 4 years old. I was raised on Staten Island, and when I was 24, I moved to San Francisco. (Insert longing sigh, as I miss this place more than words can say!) After 3 years in the city of San Francisco itself, I moved to the "East Bay" to a beautiful part of Oakland (yes, there are nice parts). Since my entire family is selfish and refused to re-locate to the west coast I moved to CT in 2000 to be closer to them. I now live in Portland, CT, a small, rural town with about 10,000 people. This is a huge change from living in a city. Both New York City and the San Francisco Bay Area are famous for their traffic jams, mostly on highways that connect the major city with suburbs. Traffic in Portland, CT is a far cry from the traffic to which I became accustomed.
We spend a lot of time on the road visiting relatives. We also see a medical team at NYU Medical Center for my daughter's rare craniofacial disorder, which means more time on the road. There are probably close to a dozen ways to get from CT to NY, and we've probably tried them all. We've learned to check for things like baseball games, football games, bike tours, airplane shows, beach traffic, highway circus acts, and any event that could feasibly cause traffic on our route. We seem to have this down to a science; however, there are always places that have traffic jams for no cause whatsoever at any time of day or night. I have listed my top 5 Traffic Nightmare Zones for your travel planning convenience:
1. The George Washington Bridge, more commonly known by New Yorkers as the "Gee-Dub". I believe that the NY or NJ DOT's actually pay people to cross this bridge and cause traffic jams, as it is never empty. I have crossed it in day and night, in good weather and in bad, in sickness and in health (oh wait, wrong group of phrases)...and there is ALWAYS traffic. I don't know what causes it, nor do I care. I will never set foot (actually wheels) on this bridge again.
2. The BQE, aka the Gowwanis, or to out-of-towners, Highway 278. Yesterday I left Brooklyn at about 1:30 pm and was caught in a traffic jam on the BQE. Who the hell is on the road at 1:30 in the afternoon? Evidently, plenty of people, since it took me 30 minutes to go about 3 miles. Ugh.
3. The Cross Bronx Expressway. I have been stuck on this stupid road more times than I care to count. I have looked over and actually seen rigor mortis begin to set into the drivers around me, we sat there for so long. This is right up there with the Gee-Dub and another road I will never go near again.
4. The Garden State Parkway. DO NOT go near this highway any time during the summer. It leads right to the Jersey Shore, where every lunatic in NY or NJ is heading on a sunny day. If that isn't bad enough, it's a toll road. This means you must stop every few miles and throw a dime into a toll basket...maybe it's up to a quarter now, who knows. The point is, this system is outdated and inefficient. Even if you have an EZ-Pass, it's still a hassle to stop every three miles, or whatever it is. Avoid it like the swine flu. (And to those of you who live in the Tri-state area, GET AN EZ-PASS for God's sake.)
5. The approach to the Goethals Bridge, and the Staten Island Expressway, right after the Goethals Bridge. I don't know what's up with this. Perhaps it's the 45 lanes of toll booths as you exit the NJ Turnpike to get onto the Goethals, with no clear lane markers, a mix of EZ-Pass lanes and cash lanes, and rude drivers. There could be a nuclear holocaust and there would still be traffic at this toll plaza. Once you get thru that and over the Goethals, it's another parking lot on the Staten Island Expressway. Again, I have never seen area this without traffic.
Oh yes there are others: the Belt Parkway, the FDR Drive/Battery Tunnel on weekdays, ANY road to Long Island, and countless other traffic mazes that would test the patience of Job. I do not have the patience of Job; in fact, I have no patience where traffic is concerned. My tolerance has diminished even further since I rarely deal with traffic where I live. I laugh when people say there's traffic on Highway 91 in CT (Oh you mean that string of 10 cars? HAHAHAHAHA!). I can't wait until someone invents those little personal flying saucers like they had on the Jetsons. Until then, I will continue my quest for the perfect traffic-free route. I know, I know, when pigs fly.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Stupid Is as Stupid Does
My father just posted a rant to one of his blogs. My father is a very good ranter. (Is that a real noun?) He gets to the heart of the issue, with just enough complaining, a dash or two of sarcasm, and a final grumble to wrap it all up. Having been under his tutelage for nearly 42 years, I think I am a fair ranter myself. Dad's last blog was about the absurdity of things such as able-bodied people receiving welfare for no work, government bailouts, and the like. This is somewhat of a follow-up. My complaint: People who are rewarded for simply being victims of their own stupidity.
My daughter, who is 6, likes to watch this terrible show about a family who has 8 children. I am unsure why she likes this program; I think perhaps she finds some humor in the chaos. Every few days she asks me to watch it with her, and it is truly painful. The story behind this TV show is that the couple couldn't have children naturally, so they had in-vitro fertilization and had 2 healthy twin girls. Excellent. Most people would be happy with that. However, the mother is a perfectionist shrew and just "wanted to have one more." Well, they did in-vitro again and ended up with sextuplets (three boys and three girls). Mother Nature has a sense of humor and will f^#$@ you every time.
Somehow, in our society, these people have become celebrities. For doing what, I'm not sure. Oh wait...it's for doing what something risky and unnecessary! They weren't happy with the healthy children they had; they just had to have that third one to complete the "perfect" family and now they are screwed because they have 8 kids. I am not sure which is the dumber of the two, the husband or the wife. The husband is this laid-back dude, who seems to be in a constant state of shock that he has ended up where he is. He is also useless with anything. And the wife is always nagging a him to do this and that, and just can't rest if everything is not perfect. I have news for her: nothing will ever be perfect when you have 8 kids. In any event, this bubble head woman has written some book that is flying off the shelves. And they have a TV show that "follows their lives." They go on all these vacations (likely paid for by the network) and have a TV camera documenting every facet of their lives. In the clip I just caught, the wife and all the girls were having pedicures (why do 5- and 3-year-old girls need pedicures?) and the father was doing some masculine activity with the 3 boys.
So, basically, these people made a decision to have have more children and ended up with 8. They are always moaning and groaning about how hard their lives are; well, they made their own beds (all 10 of them), as far as I'm concerned. And what do they get? Fame, fortune, and constant adulation about how wonderful they are. They are some sort of heroes because they are raising 8 children. Well, my grandfather was one of 11, and I know for sure that no one ever gave my great-grandmother her own show or any perks because of choices she made. I also know that many families had large numbers of children because birth control was not nearly as readily available. That is just the way things were; no one hovered over them, praising their every move and marveling at how they can raise so many kids.
I commend them for their commitment to raise all the children and to not abort any of them. What I do not commend them for is exposing not only every second of their own lives, but every second of their children's lives, to public scrutiny. They are adults and can make choices; their children are simply the victims of their parents' desire for money and 15 seconds of fame.
There is also another show (which thankfully my daughter has not found) about a family who has 18 kids and just keeps having more. We are all entitled to our own choices, but really now, are 18 children really necessary? And once again, people go running to the TV to watch these fools juggle their everyday lives. More money for them, more crap on TV for us. I guess I just don't get it. Life is hard enough....why would you want a TV camera in your house day and night, and more importantly, why would anyone watch what goes on in these people's homes?
Well that's my whiny opinion. I know I am in the minority on this. So I guess I'll sit back, relax, and watch the latest episode of "The Real Midgets of Middlesex County."
My daughter, who is 6, likes to watch this terrible show about a family who has 8 children. I am unsure why she likes this program; I think perhaps she finds some humor in the chaos. Every few days she asks me to watch it with her, and it is truly painful. The story behind this TV show is that the couple couldn't have children naturally, so they had in-vitro fertilization and had 2 healthy twin girls. Excellent. Most people would be happy with that. However, the mother is a perfectionist shrew and just "wanted to have one more." Well, they did in-vitro again and ended up with sextuplets (three boys and three girls). Mother Nature has a sense of humor and will f^#$@ you every time.
Somehow, in our society, these people have become celebrities. For doing what, I'm not sure. Oh wait...it's for doing what something risky and unnecessary! They weren't happy with the healthy children they had; they just had to have that third one to complete the "perfect" family and now they are screwed because they have 8 kids. I am not sure which is the dumber of the two, the husband or the wife. The husband is this laid-back dude, who seems to be in a constant state of shock that he has ended up where he is. He is also useless with anything. And the wife is always nagging a him to do this and that, and just can't rest if everything is not perfect. I have news for her: nothing will ever be perfect when you have 8 kids. In any event, this bubble head woman has written some book that is flying off the shelves. And they have a TV show that "follows their lives." They go on all these vacations (likely paid for by the network) and have a TV camera documenting every facet of their lives. In the clip I just caught, the wife and all the girls were having pedicures (why do 5- and 3-year-old girls need pedicures?) and the father was doing some masculine activity with the 3 boys.
So, basically, these people made a decision to have have more children and ended up with 8. They are always moaning and groaning about how hard their lives are; well, they made their own beds (all 10 of them), as far as I'm concerned. And what do they get? Fame, fortune, and constant adulation about how wonderful they are. They are some sort of heroes because they are raising 8 children. Well, my grandfather was one of 11, and I know for sure that no one ever gave my great-grandmother her own show or any perks because of choices she made. I also know that many families had large numbers of children because birth control was not nearly as readily available. That is just the way things were; no one hovered over them, praising their every move and marveling at how they can raise so many kids.
I commend them for their commitment to raise all the children and to not abort any of them. What I do not commend them for is exposing not only every second of their own lives, but every second of their children's lives, to public scrutiny. They are adults and can make choices; their children are simply the victims of their parents' desire for money and 15 seconds of fame.
There is also another show (which thankfully my daughter has not found) about a family who has 18 kids and just keeps having more. We are all entitled to our own choices, but really now, are 18 children really necessary? And once again, people go running to the TV to watch these fools juggle their everyday lives. More money for them, more crap on TV for us. I guess I just don't get it. Life is hard enough....why would you want a TV camera in your house day and night, and more importantly, why would anyone watch what goes on in these people's homes?
Well that's my whiny opinion. I know I am in the minority on this. So I guess I'll sit back, relax, and watch the latest episode of "The Real Midgets of Middlesex County."
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Cynics Beware
Greetings again from my little computer desk in Portland, CT. Yesterday my husband sent me a link to YouTube on the Internet. I figured it was just something silly and I would watch it later. When he came home, he asked me immediately if I had seen it. He brought me into the computer room and we watched it together. It was a video of a woman from Scotland named Susan Boyle who was a contestant on Britain's Got Talent, the brainchild of Simon Cowell, of American Idol and America's Got Talent fame.
Before I continue, let me make it clear that I have never watched American Idol, America's Got Talent, Dancing with the Stars, or any other stupid "reality contest" on TV. I hate most of what is on American TV right now (yet another blog). However, this was different. A woman came on stage. She was frumpy; no other way to describe her. She was from a small village. She told the audience that she had lived with her mother until she died; she had never been married. She now lived with her cat. She said her dream was to be a professional singer. She was wearing what was likely her best dress and shoes. The judges snickered as did the audience. She announced she would sing "I Dreamed a Dream", a song from the operetta Les Miserables. The audience again snickered, as anyone familiar with this song knows it is an unbelievably difficult song to sing.
The music started and she began to sing. There was complete silence as this woman's voice filled the studio. And she was amazing. I mean, she was beyond talented. She hit every note perfectly and belted out this song as if she'd sung it on Broadway for years. The audience went nuts; with each passing lyric the applause grew, and the people jumped to their feet clapping and cheering. The judges were speechless. Even Simon's jaw dropped; soon after, he was grinning from ear to ear, (likely thinking of all the percentages he'd get from her recording contract).
The judges, of course, gave her high marks, and she will likely win the contest and become quite famous. She already has 12 million hits on her YouTube page.
Anyone who knows me well knows I am extremely cynical. I usually dislike stories of filled with shmaltz and sappy stuff. As Bette Davis said in All About Eve "I detest cheap sentiment." But this was different. Here was a woman, slightly brain-damaged at birth, who had lived mostly as a shut-in, singing a song that she seemed born to sing. It is not a cheerful song. In Les Miserables, it it sung by the character of Fantine. The song is about how when she was young, she was full of life and hope; then some guy came along, knocked her up, and left. She was then forced to give the child to an innkeeper and his wife, who used the child as a slave. Fantine was forced into prostitution to send money to what she thought was a sick child, and then she dies tragically (while singing a song, mind you), still hoping the bum would come back. Some of the lyrics are "...And still I dream he'll come to me, that we will live the years together...but there are dreams that cannot be, and there are storms we cannot weather. I always dreamed my life would be so different from this hell I'm living...so different now than what it seemed...now life has killed the dream I dreamed. " Not exactly uplifting.
But what was uplifting was that this woman who - , as one reporter said, "looked so different than anything we imagine a star to look like" - had this amazing voice that brought the house down. And that is a gift. It is something that cannot be taught; you either can do it or you can't. I dug out my CD of the Les Miserables music and listened to the woman who sang "I Dreamed A Dream" in the original production in London. The woman from Scotland was just as good; not as polished, since she was not a professional, but just as gifted.
Since I cannot sing at all, I find this talent to be incredible. And I don't mean the talent of crappy pop singers. I mean people who can truly sing. The only thing I find more incredible (in the world of music anyway) is that people took Victor Hugo's book and made it into a musical with incredibly powerful music. I read the book Les Miserables...it was at least a million pages and seemed it. But I saw the play twice and loved it, which is interesting since all the main characters except two are dead at the end. I am not sure what that says about me. All I know is I have have watched Susan Boyle sing 3 times already...and I have a feeling I may listen to her at least 3 more times before I go to sleep tonight.
Before I continue, let me make it clear that I have never watched American Idol, America's Got Talent, Dancing with the Stars, or any other stupid "reality contest" on TV. I hate most of what is on American TV right now (yet another blog). However, this was different. A woman came on stage. She was frumpy; no other way to describe her. She was from a small village. She told the audience that she had lived with her mother until she died; she had never been married. She now lived with her cat. She said her dream was to be a professional singer. She was wearing what was likely her best dress and shoes. The judges snickered as did the audience. She announced she would sing "I Dreamed a Dream", a song from the operetta Les Miserables. The audience again snickered, as anyone familiar with this song knows it is an unbelievably difficult song to sing.
The music started and she began to sing. There was complete silence as this woman's voice filled the studio. And she was amazing. I mean, she was beyond talented. She hit every note perfectly and belted out this song as if she'd sung it on Broadway for years. The audience went nuts; with each passing lyric the applause grew, and the people jumped to their feet clapping and cheering. The judges were speechless. Even Simon's jaw dropped; soon after, he was grinning from ear to ear, (likely thinking of all the percentages he'd get from her recording contract).
The judges, of course, gave her high marks, and she will likely win the contest and become quite famous. She already has 12 million hits on her YouTube page.
Anyone who knows me well knows I am extremely cynical. I usually dislike stories of filled with shmaltz and sappy stuff. As Bette Davis said in All About Eve "I detest cheap sentiment." But this was different. Here was a woman, slightly brain-damaged at birth, who had lived mostly as a shut-in, singing a song that she seemed born to sing. It is not a cheerful song. In Les Miserables, it it sung by the character of Fantine. The song is about how when she was young, she was full of life and hope; then some guy came along, knocked her up, and left. She was then forced to give the child to an innkeeper and his wife, who used the child as a slave. Fantine was forced into prostitution to send money to what she thought was a sick child, and then she dies tragically (while singing a song, mind you), still hoping the bum would come back. Some of the lyrics are "...And still I dream he'll come to me, that we will live the years together...but there are dreams that cannot be, and there are storms we cannot weather. I always dreamed my life would be so different from this hell I'm living...so different now than what it seemed...now life has killed the dream I dreamed. " Not exactly uplifting.
But what was uplifting was that this woman who - , as one reporter said, "looked so different than anything we imagine a star to look like" - had this amazing voice that brought the house down. And that is a gift. It is something that cannot be taught; you either can do it or you can't. I dug out my CD of the Les Miserables music and listened to the woman who sang "I Dreamed A Dream" in the original production in London. The woman from Scotland was just as good; not as polished, since she was not a professional, but just as gifted.
Since I cannot sing at all, I find this talent to be incredible. And I don't mean the talent of crappy pop singers. I mean people who can truly sing. The only thing I find more incredible (in the world of music anyway) is that people took Victor Hugo's book and made it into a musical with incredibly powerful music. I read the book Les Miserables...it was at least a million pages and seemed it. But I saw the play twice and loved it, which is interesting since all the main characters except two are dead at the end. I am not sure what that says about me. All I know is I have have watched Susan Boyle sing 3 times already...and I have a feeling I may listen to her at least 3 more times before I go to sleep tonight.
Friday, April 10, 2009
You Can't Dress Them Up, But You Can still Take Them Out
Hello faithful readers, (Are there really three of you now? Yipee!)
I have been in a sentimental mood lately, writing about my childhood and grandparents. However, I must take a moment to write about something that has been irking me for some time now.
Here is a question to America: "When did it become acceptable to go out in your pajamas?" Before you think I am being sanctimonious and judgemental, hear me out. I am the first one to admit that I love flannel pajama pants; I would rank them as one of the greatest inventions of the 21st century. However, since they are sleepwear, or lounge-around-the-house wear, I always assumed they should be worn in the house only. Apparently, I am mistaken.
More and more, it is becoming commonplace for people to wear these pajama pants in public. I am sorry, but this is just gross. First of all, the fact that they are usually printed with pink flamingos, pictures of SpongeBob Square Pants, or beer bottles should clue you into the fact that they are not high fashion items. I am not sure how people decide which top to pair with these pants, but it is usually something hideous. People wear them everywhere: the grocery store, hotel lobbies, and last night, someone was wearing them in Friendly's. I do realize that Friendly's is not exactly an establishment of fine dining, but at least put a pair of jeans on, for God's sake. Last night at Friendly's, people came in to eat in pajama pants, dirty sweat pants, and slippers. Yes, one girl was wearing her slippers. I know they were slippers and not shoes because I've seen them in the LL Bean catalog a million times. I don't care if they are $50 slippers, they are still slippers. I was also treated to the sight of someone in workout shorts and flip flops, and a girl in pants so tight I could hear the pants screaming in pain every time she moved.
When I watch reruns of I Love Lucy, or an old movie, I am always fascinated by the clothes. While I know Lucy wasn't real life, she was always dressed in the most beautiful clothes. Even her casual clothes were gorgeous. She wore a hat and gloves when she went out, and always high heels. Ricky always wore a suit, or a coat and tie just to the movies. My own grandmothers almost always wore dresses and nice shoes, and my Great Aunt Lou, at ninety-something, always wears a dress and heels to this day. When my Grandma Salamo would take me "downtown" to Brooklyn, or to Manhattan, we always got "dressed up." I would wear a little skirt or dress and Grandma always looked nice in whatever she wore. In his later years, my mother's father took to wearing some old clothes until they fell apart, including a memorable black sweater my mother actually threw on the floor and stomped on, she hated it so much. (Stay tuned for more details on that event.)
Now I realize I am the last person who should be judging style or fashion. (My sister-in-law is much more qualified to do this.) I am a stay-at-home Mom who chases a 6-year old around much of the day and so I am usually wearing jeans, a sweater, and some clogs. Not very fashionable, but practical. I don't own a lot of fancy clothes because I don't go a lot of fancy places. I have some nice outfits, and I do try to dress up a little for a holiday or when I go out. However, I always look presentable and would never wear my pajamas outside unless the house was on fire.
Thank you for letting me vent on this important issue. And now I shall put on my flannel pajama pants and stay inside the house, thank you very much.
I have been in a sentimental mood lately, writing about my childhood and grandparents. However, I must take a moment to write about something that has been irking me for some time now.
Here is a question to America: "When did it become acceptable to go out in your pajamas?" Before you think I am being sanctimonious and judgemental, hear me out. I am the first one to admit that I love flannel pajama pants; I would rank them as one of the greatest inventions of the 21st century. However, since they are sleepwear, or lounge-around-the-house wear, I always assumed they should be worn in the house only. Apparently, I am mistaken.
More and more, it is becoming commonplace for people to wear these pajama pants in public. I am sorry, but this is just gross. First of all, the fact that they are usually printed with pink flamingos, pictures of SpongeBob Square Pants, or beer bottles should clue you into the fact that they are not high fashion items. I am not sure how people decide which top to pair with these pants, but it is usually something hideous. People wear them everywhere: the grocery store, hotel lobbies, and last night, someone was wearing them in Friendly's. I do realize that Friendly's is not exactly an establishment of fine dining, but at least put a pair of jeans on, for God's sake. Last night at Friendly's, people came in to eat in pajama pants, dirty sweat pants, and slippers. Yes, one girl was wearing her slippers. I know they were slippers and not shoes because I've seen them in the LL Bean catalog a million times. I don't care if they are $50 slippers, they are still slippers. I was also treated to the sight of someone in workout shorts and flip flops, and a girl in pants so tight I could hear the pants screaming in pain every time she moved.
When I watch reruns of I Love Lucy, or an old movie, I am always fascinated by the clothes. While I know Lucy wasn't real life, she was always dressed in the most beautiful clothes. Even her casual clothes were gorgeous. She wore a hat and gloves when she went out, and always high heels. Ricky always wore a suit, or a coat and tie just to the movies. My own grandmothers almost always wore dresses and nice shoes, and my Great Aunt Lou, at ninety-something, always wears a dress and heels to this day. When my Grandma Salamo would take me "downtown" to Brooklyn, or to Manhattan, we always got "dressed up." I would wear a little skirt or dress and Grandma always looked nice in whatever she wore. In his later years, my mother's father took to wearing some old clothes until they fell apart, including a memorable black sweater my mother actually threw on the floor and stomped on, she hated it so much. (Stay tuned for more details on that event.)
Now I realize I am the last person who should be judging style or fashion. (My sister-in-law is much more qualified to do this.) I am a stay-at-home Mom who chases a 6-year old around much of the day and so I am usually wearing jeans, a sweater, and some clogs. Not very fashionable, but practical. I don't own a lot of fancy clothes because I don't go a lot of fancy places. I have some nice outfits, and I do try to dress up a little for a holiday or when I go out. However, I always look presentable and would never wear my pajamas outside unless the house was on fire.
Thank you for letting me vent on this important issue. And now I shall put on my flannel pajama pants and stay inside the house, thank you very much.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
But Never on a Sunday
My father, one of my only readers (thanks Dad!), has been writing about his parents. I thought I might like to share some of my memories of my grandparents. Since Dad wrote about his parents first, I will start with them.
Before I continue, I must make it clear that we spent a lot of time with our grandparents as children. Every Sunday, we visited either my mother's parents or my father's parents. We took turns; they each got us every other weekend. We did see a lot more of my mother's parents, since we visited them during the week also; but that is another post.
No matter which set of grandparents we visited, Sundays always started with church. We rarely went as a family; one parent would go to an earlier mass and the other a later mass. They each took one of us older kids and the baby, Matthew, stayed home with the other parent. I have to admit I liked going with my father because we'd sneak out after communion. Then there was a flurry of activity at home before we all got into the car around 1 :00 or 2:00. When Matt was a baby, the car was stuffed with his play pen, plus a bunch of other stuff. My mother always carried this large green bag, which we called...."the green bag." I believe its predecessor was "the blue bag." (Not the most creative bunch.) The green bag held diapers, wipes, pajamas for all of us, 6 changes of clothes and God knows what else. (Side note: I think my mother only stopped carrying a change of clothes for Matthew when he got married.)
Fran and Tony, or Grandma and Grandpa Pantaleno, lived in East New York. When we visited Fran and Tony, a crucial decision had to be made once we crossed the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island into Brooklyn: Do we take the Belt parkway or "the streets"? The Belt, as my parents called it, was often jammed with traffic, causing my father to swear like mad. The "streets" were often better, but not nearly as fast. If we took The Belt, we always passed this little tree right around the Rockaway Beach area. This tree was smaller than average and stood by itself. For some reason we waved to the tree. Yes, waved to a tree. My guess it was some desperate attempt by my mother to keep us all from squawking in the car.
My Uncle Anthony and Aunt Cathy, my father's younger siblings, lived with Fran and Tony. I think they may have lived in 2 different places while I was growing up, but I can't be sure. For some reason I think they moved next door to the house I remember them living in originally, but I could be wrong. I do recall that one of their kitchens had knotty pine cabinets, the same ones that are in my little country house in CT now.
Tony was a quiet, kind, and sweet Grandpa. He loved to drink his beer (out of a can or a little bottle) and smoke his cigarettes. Fran would make him sit on the steps that led to the roof outside the apartment for his smoke. Sometimes I'd sit with him. He always spoke very kindly to me. He worked in a shoe store and thus we always got shoes at either a discount or maybe for free. He'd bring boxes of new leather shoes for my mother to inspect and have us try on; the extras he'd bring back to the store. I think these were mostly our school shoes - "flat, black oxfords" - something I will never put on my feet again. He liked to laugh and tell silly jokes. I wish I had a chance to know him better; he died when I was 14. He had lung cancer, and must have suffered a lot. I remember one time we visited and he was in the bedroom. It was close to the time he died. My mother went into the room and closed the door. It was an accordion door, made of some sort of stiff cloth. I wanted in the worst way to see him, but my parents wouldn't let me. He must have looked pretty bad, and maybe my parents did not want me to remember him that way. I remember him smiling, sitting in his undershirt, watching the ball game.
Fran was also a kind, loving grandmother. She always had little treats for us. She did have some quirks, though. First, whenever we visited, we would round up any brown paper grocery sacks we had in the house and bring them to her; she used them as garbage bags. This was fine except she kept her garbage in the refrigerator. She did this so "it wouldn't smell." Odd.
She also would pull snacks out of some strange spots. High cabinets, behind the TV console. I think this is an old habit from when my father lived with her and he ate her stash of goodies.
Her cooking was different from my other Grandma's, but just as delicious. For starters, she'd pull out Wise potato chips (YUM!), cheese, crackers, pepperoni. Then we'd have our macaroni. This was served with meatballs, sausage, bracciole, and sometimes shredded pork in the tomato sauce, which we called gravy. Fran's meatballs had fennel in them, which was a big difference between her meatballs and my other Grandma's. They were very moist and delicious. After that she'd serve a salad, dressed with red vinegar, olive oil and salt. Oh and then we had another meal....maybe a roast with vegetables or a chicken. Why stop at just the pasta? Then came fruit, maybe nuts, and dessert.
We usually brought the cake. As we left our house my mother always asked "Are we bringing cake?" Then she'd run into Mrs. Maxwell's bakery, a big place near Fran and Tony's. She often got a German chocolate or some other delicious goodie. Sometimes my Uncle Anthony would bring his girlfriend, who is now my Aunt Michelle, over around dessert time. Aunt Cathy was there, and I loved her dearly (still do).
One strange memory I have is that my Uncle Anthony was studying to be a child psychologist (no that's not the strange part). I guess he must have needed a subject for his research and "Viola!"...I must have been the perfect age, maybe 8 or 9. We'd go into the basement and he'd show me all those inkblots and then have me read passages and answer questions. I didn't care, it was something to do. I wonder of the results are still around; they probably showed that I'd grow up to be a neurotic, sarcastic, lunatic.
In any event, I wish I had known my father's parents a little better. They were wonderful people who always made me feel special. I am glad we spent all those Sundays with them; they were some of the best times I can remember.
Before I continue, I must make it clear that we spent a lot of time with our grandparents as children. Every Sunday, we visited either my mother's parents or my father's parents. We took turns; they each got us every other weekend. We did see a lot more of my mother's parents, since we visited them during the week also; but that is another post.
No matter which set of grandparents we visited, Sundays always started with church. We rarely went as a family; one parent would go to an earlier mass and the other a later mass. They each took one of us older kids and the baby, Matthew, stayed home with the other parent. I have to admit I liked going with my father because we'd sneak out after communion. Then there was a flurry of activity at home before we all got into the car around 1 :00 or 2:00. When Matt was a baby, the car was stuffed with his play pen, plus a bunch of other stuff. My mother always carried this large green bag, which we called...."the green bag." I believe its predecessor was "the blue bag." (Not the most creative bunch.) The green bag held diapers, wipes, pajamas for all of us, 6 changes of clothes and God knows what else. (Side note: I think my mother only stopped carrying a change of clothes for Matthew when he got married.)
Fran and Tony, or Grandma and Grandpa Pantaleno, lived in East New York. When we visited Fran and Tony, a crucial decision had to be made once we crossed the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island into Brooklyn: Do we take the Belt parkway or "the streets"? The Belt, as my parents called it, was often jammed with traffic, causing my father to swear like mad. The "streets" were often better, but not nearly as fast. If we took The Belt, we always passed this little tree right around the Rockaway Beach area. This tree was smaller than average and stood by itself. For some reason we waved to the tree. Yes, waved to a tree. My guess it was some desperate attempt by my mother to keep us all from squawking in the car.
My Uncle Anthony and Aunt Cathy, my father's younger siblings, lived with Fran and Tony. I think they may have lived in 2 different places while I was growing up, but I can't be sure. For some reason I think they moved next door to the house I remember them living in originally, but I could be wrong. I do recall that one of their kitchens had knotty pine cabinets, the same ones that are in my little country house in CT now.
Tony was a quiet, kind, and sweet Grandpa. He loved to drink his beer (out of a can or a little bottle) and smoke his cigarettes. Fran would make him sit on the steps that led to the roof outside the apartment for his smoke. Sometimes I'd sit with him. He always spoke very kindly to me. He worked in a shoe store and thus we always got shoes at either a discount or maybe for free. He'd bring boxes of new leather shoes for my mother to inspect and have us try on; the extras he'd bring back to the store. I think these were mostly our school shoes - "flat, black oxfords" - something I will never put on my feet again. He liked to laugh and tell silly jokes. I wish I had a chance to know him better; he died when I was 14. He had lung cancer, and must have suffered a lot. I remember one time we visited and he was in the bedroom. It was close to the time he died. My mother went into the room and closed the door. It was an accordion door, made of some sort of stiff cloth. I wanted in the worst way to see him, but my parents wouldn't let me. He must have looked pretty bad, and maybe my parents did not want me to remember him that way. I remember him smiling, sitting in his undershirt, watching the ball game.
Fran was also a kind, loving grandmother. She always had little treats for us. She did have some quirks, though. First, whenever we visited, we would round up any brown paper grocery sacks we had in the house and bring them to her; she used them as garbage bags. This was fine except she kept her garbage in the refrigerator. She did this so "it wouldn't smell." Odd.
She also would pull snacks out of some strange spots. High cabinets, behind the TV console. I think this is an old habit from when my father lived with her and he ate her stash of goodies.
Her cooking was different from my other Grandma's, but just as delicious. For starters, she'd pull out Wise potato chips (YUM!), cheese, crackers, pepperoni. Then we'd have our macaroni. This was served with meatballs, sausage, bracciole, and sometimes shredded pork in the tomato sauce, which we called gravy. Fran's meatballs had fennel in them, which was a big difference between her meatballs and my other Grandma's. They were very moist and delicious. After that she'd serve a salad, dressed with red vinegar, olive oil and salt. Oh and then we had another meal....maybe a roast with vegetables or a chicken. Why stop at just the pasta? Then came fruit, maybe nuts, and dessert.
We usually brought the cake. As we left our house my mother always asked "Are we bringing cake?" Then she'd run into Mrs. Maxwell's bakery, a big place near Fran and Tony's. She often got a German chocolate or some other delicious goodie. Sometimes my Uncle Anthony would bring his girlfriend, who is now my Aunt Michelle, over around dessert time. Aunt Cathy was there, and I loved her dearly (still do).
One strange memory I have is that my Uncle Anthony was studying to be a child psychologist (no that's not the strange part). I guess he must have needed a subject for his research and "Viola!"...I must have been the perfect age, maybe 8 or 9. We'd go into the basement and he'd show me all those inkblots and then have me read passages and answer questions. I didn't care, it was something to do. I wonder of the results are still around; they probably showed that I'd grow up to be a neurotic, sarcastic, lunatic.
In any event, I wish I had known my father's parents a little better. They were wonderful people who always made me feel special. I am glad we spent all those Sundays with them; they were some of the best times I can remember.
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