At eight years old, the shock of learning the whole world was not of Italian extraction shook me to my miniscule foundation. Roma, Napoli, Sicilia, Bari, even the tiny village of Quindici, where my family’s roots were planted for two thousand years, were familiar places. I’d heard of them all, seen them in my mind’s eye, visited them through my grandfather’s and father’s reminiscences. But County Cork? Dublin? Ireland? Never heard of them. I asked my older brother Rod, but he told me to “go look at a map.”
“What map?” I asked.
“One of Ireland,” he said. “Don’t you know anything?”
“I can read books.”
“Yeah, but you can’t read a map.”
“We didn’t get to maps yet.”
“You’re in third grade. They gotta show you maps.”
“Why?”
“Because they just gotta, that’s why. What’s the big deal anyway?”
“Some kid in school said his father was from Ireland.”
My brother narrowed his gaze. “Boy, are you dumb.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah! You wanna slap?”
“No!”
“Then shut up and go find a map.”
I put some distance between us before I gave him one more “Oh, yeah?” He ignored me however which made the effort a little lame. I thought of reminding him about his real name, but uttering “Raphael” at the time would have been a gauntlet across his face. Best to leave things alone.
With no help from that quarter I resigned myself to waiting. Only one person had all the answers, and he wouldn’t be home for awhile.
We lived on several rolling acres, removed by a mile from questionable civilization in the guise of Utica, New York, an Upstate community of about a hundred thousand people. My father had the house built in the suburb ostensibly to satisfy my mother who said, “the kids need room.”
The real reason had more to do with her needing room rather than us. She had a fiery temper coupled to a loud and energetic voice. Like a rocket engine, once lit up, she could not be shut down. Everything in the vicinity of that blast would be incinerated on contact. Among the first things we three boys learned were the warning signs of an impending launch. First, the appearance girded in one of my father’s belts in which like a Bowie knife, she carried a long, wooden spoon. Second, the stance, hands on hips, head like a robot sentinel scanning the surroundings for her errant sons. Then the first blast, “Boys! Boys! I’m calling you. Don’t you hide from me!” Which is precisely what we did. I mean, we figured, why take a beating now and get stuck in the house when we could stay out all day and catch the same beating later? What we never understood, but really didn’t care about anyway, was that she did the same thing every time, so we did too.
The situation slowly degraded to the point our neighbors began complaining about my mother’s rants to my father. His solution, the several acres of rolling country a mile out of Utica worked perfectly for her, but not for us until we realized a mile isn’t that far, besides, there was also the added benefit of all those acres. Now my mother couldn’t find us at all.
She reveled in her new surroundings in spite of the fact her boys were part of it. As for us, we felt little comfort in the giant stone and wood structure, and less justice, imprisoned as it were by distance from the old neighborhood. Ma had her spatial freedom however, and that’s all my father cared about.
Without very much to do here in the hinterlands after school and homework, I developed a habit of waiting at the top of a ridiculously long driveway for my father to come home from his office. It always started with a red dot off in the distance. Gradually it grew into a 1957 Buick four door sedan. Coming up the driveway it turned into a metal behemoth with an eerie chromium grin.
Pa always exited the car the same way. The door opened, one leg would come out, then the other. He would stand, stretch a little, then reach back in for the brown, leather briefcase, a staple of his wardrobe. Holding it with one hand, he always ran the other through his thinning hair before leaning back into the car to retrieve a dark gray fedora. Then, for a reason I still can’t figure, he put the fedora on even though in a minute he’d have to take it off upon entering the house.
After the stretching and collecting, he’d stand still, smile, then pretend to look around, as if he could sense something in the vicinity. Slowly he would lower his gaze to me and say, “Which one are you?”
For a long time I was under the impression he really didn’t know, but by that time I had gained a sufficient foothold in the art of language to understand his joke. Still, I played along, if for no other reason than being conscious of a moment in time.
“I’m Peter!”
“Oh, yes, now I remember. You’re the smart one.” It didn’t matter he used the same line on all of us. We believed he meant it.
Then would begin the long walk to the front door. My father did not like entering his house through the garage, or any portal other than the front door for that matter except on weekends. I always worried that if somehow it might be blocked, he would stay on the porch. My concern extended to the self-imposed duty of removing the boots, shoes and articles of clothing blocking the door before he arrived.
Taking my hand, he would ask, “How’s it going in there today?” A reference to my mother’s varying moods.
My oldest brother Mickey would roll his eyes in response. Rod would shrug his shoulders. My sisters, the two old enough to answer, would always miss the point of the question. I invariably felt compelled to go into some detail.
“Ma’s mad at Mickey. She caught him smoking again.”
“That’s not good,” he said sternly. “But all I want to know is the first part, not the second part. Never tell on anyone, especially your brothers and sisters.”
“OK, Pa,” I replied.
He squeezed my hand to let me know it was alright. I had learned something.
“Pa, will you show me something in your office after dinner?”
“Sure. What would you like me to show you?”
“I want to see Ireland.”
“Ireland?”
“Yeah.”
“‘Yes’, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Of course. I’ll meet you there. What’s for dinner?”
“Pasta ceci and some other stuff.”
“Sounds good.”
His coming home ritual extended into the house. First the hat on the rack, then the coat. The briefcase he often left to one of the kids. Fortune shone on he or she quick enough to grab and carry it to his office on the other side of the house. That child had implicit permission to spring open the clasps and look inside for some small prize he would hide there. At times there was something for everyone, but not often. A shrewd man, he geared the gifts to the younger children so the competition for them faded as we grew older.
Before making his way to the kitchen, he would look in the hallway mirror, smooth his hair back and straighten his four-in-hand. Then, turning to whomever accompanied him that day, he would say, “Ready?” Then off he and his companion would go to greet my mother.
A kiss, a greeting, and then the lowdown on the day’s transgressions, in Italian of course, no sense letting the transgressors in on their fates. The only fly in that ointment was that we all knew a little Italian, so when our names were mentioned, we listened intently for the context. Generally, if absent from the conversation, safety. If present, trouble.
This evening’s conversation, liberally dotted with Mickey’s name, meant my after-dinner session in the office would probably be delayed, if it came off at all. But for now, my mother having unloaded her litany, the only important thing in life sat steaming on the table in various bowls and serving dishes.
A man of letters, my father had an enormous vocabulary. No one could stump him on any word in the English language, but every evening at dinner we were required to try. Those of us old enough had to come to the table with a word at the ready. If he didn’t know the meaning, he would give you a silver dollar. Mickey and Rod would attempt the “antidisestablishmentarianism” trick. They soon learned long words didn’t faze the old man at all. On other occasions we would try the old, “pick-one-at-random-out-of-the-dictionary” routine. It too, failed. Tonight’s attempt began and ended the same way with one exception, Mickey had no word. Silently dismissing the break in our tradition, my father said grace after which began a feeding frenzy only a school of sharks would understand. I do not remember anyone ever winning one of those silver dollars.
Since Mickey’s name had been repeated over and over in my mother’s report, this evening’s feast lacked the broad-ranged feel of the free-for-all with which we had become comfortably accustomed. A stiffness hung in the air. Somehow Rod and I were made to feel as guilty as Mickey, if not merely by association then by virtue of the fact we were males bonded in brotherhood. While there was always a chance all three of us would be adjudged guilty because we were in the same vicinity at the time of the crime, the chances were good only Mickey would be called to account tonight. It did nothing to salve the dread of waiting for those words, “After dinner, wait for me outside the office.” No one wanted to hear them since it meant one of us would be facing the firing squad.
It came between the pasta ceci and roasted chicken. Pausing abruptly in the midst of eating, my father placed his utensils on the table, looked at Mickey and issued the command. I admit to cringing. Though rare for the boys, and never for my three sisters, a beating had always been a potential part of my father’s disciplinary repertoire. Getting caught smoking cigarettes for the umpteenth time seemed to pique the old man’s ire sufficiently to warrant one this time around.
Almost six feet tall at thirteen, with jet black hair and a dark, olive complexion, Mickey had a full beard to complement it all. The envy of many his age, maybe it defined him for me just then since I remember looking at his face just as my father ordered their after-dinner meeting. He no longer looked like one of us kids. Though the pace of inexorable transformation into a youth had been normal, the person staring back at my father looked different, older, more in control. Somehow, between the pasta ceci and chicken, my oldest brother became a young man about to offer an older man a preemptive argument in his own defense. But before he could, Rod, ten months younger, smarter and more diplomatic than any of us, cut in.
“Hey, Pa, did you know the Russians have a satellite in space? It’s called ‘Sputnik’.”
“Very good, and yes, I do”, my father replied, “but it doesn’t make any difference how many they put up. They will never beat the United States.”
Without my father’s refined sense of patriotism, yet with a keen sense for moving the group mood in a more innocuous direction Rod said, “So?”
My father seemed slightly pleased with Rod’s effort in subtlety. “Read your history,” he responded in his teaching voice. “This country has never been beaten in anything. And it never will. We may have gotten off to a slow start, but we have the brains and the wealth. We will spend whatever it takes to beat the Russians. They don’t stand a chance.”
Clearly on the path to a successful diversion my brother dutifully finished chewing then asked, “What’s being rich got to do with it?”
Wiping his mouth with the napkin he always had on his lap for a meal, my father folded his hands. This would be a fairly extended explanation which required we all stop eating and listen. I was annoyed with my brother as was pretty much the rest of the family, but there was nothing for it now but to sit quietly while the old man expounded and the food got cold.
“Rod, listen to me, no matter what country you live in, nothing is for free, not here, not in Russia,” and then turning to me he added, “and not in Ireland.” He hadn’t forgotten me, nor did the trouble with Mickey preclude our meeting. I felt a sense of relief for myself, foreboding and pity for my big brother.
At their meeting Pa did not force Mickey to smoke a pack of cigarettes or five cigars or anything else to teach him a lesson. Too big for the belt, and too sensible to argue a losing point, Mickey feigned sufficient contrition to escape with a tongue lashing, several warnings, and the office door slammed behind him as a sign of my father’s disappointment. His hang-dog expression made it clear that bothered Mickey the most. I know he would have preferred a quick beating, we all would have. It hurt a lot less than disappointing the old man.
On the way down the hall he paused to look at me. “What’d you do?”
“Nothin.”
“Just tell him you’re ‘sorry’.”
“For what?”
“For whatever you did.”
“I didn’t do nothin.”
“Better not talk like that in front of him.”
“Like what?”
“Like a stupid idiot. Don’t say, ‘nothin’, say…oh, forget it. Never mind. Just say you’re ‘sorry’.” With that crumb of brotherly advice, generously advanced in light of his recent troubles, he left.
Again I waited for a modicum of safe distance between us before I screwed up enough courage to yell, “But, I didn’t do nothing!” He shot a dismissive, adult glance over his shoulder and kept going.
My turn now, but I had to wait until summoned.
There was an old oak bench in the hallway just outside his office. It always reminded me of a church pew, or something you’d see in the principal’s office. Hard on the behind, I used to think it was the price we had to pay for an audience with the lord of the manor. Sitting there, legs dangling, I could hear the creaking of my father’s old, wooden desk chair, his voice as he spoke to someone on the phone, the sound of drawers being opened, rummaged through then closed, footsteps across the room, and finally the turn of the doorknob.
Poking his head into the hallway he looked first left, then right taking no notice of me, acting instead as if he had finished in the office and now would be about other things. Pretending to be satisfied no one else appeared to need him or his time he shut the door, stopped, turned, looked down at me and said, “Which one are you?”
“I’m Peter!”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh, no.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, Pa.”
“Well, I’ll make an exception this time, but next time you have to call at least a day ahead.”
“Ok,” I agreed, after which I asked, “Who do you want me to call?”
He laughed. Taking my hand, he ushered me into the office. “Ireland.” He said as if farming through a card catalog in his mind.
“Yes, Pa. What is Ireland, Pa?”
“Let us see,” he said with mock formality.
The shuffling and moving around I’d heard through the door had been in preparation for our meeting. His old globe, accompanied by two large atlases had been moved to the desk, a giant rectangular affair covered in burgundy leather with brass tacks running the periphery. It matched four equally large wing-back chairs strategically placed in a semicircle in front of the desk for optimum closeness without familiarity. When business associates were visiting, they were seated according to a predetermined protocol. The privilege of moving a chair closer to his desk, and thus him, was reserved for special people. To my great pleasure he said, “Here, wait a minute,” while tugging the nearest chair out of its indentations in the carpet to a position right next to his. “Sit here.”
I did, and as the lesson began I caught the familiar scent, a mixture of shaving cream and Old Spice. It had a warm, calming effect. Every now and then I think I can catch it in the air, as if he is somewhere close by. I can hear him too, explaining to an eight year old that “not everyone is Italian”.
“Some people come from Ireland,” he said at our meeting. “And though Italy is where excellent people come from, some very good people come from here, and there and even here,” he added, pointing to various countries around the world including Ireland.
“But, Peter, do you know where the very best people in the world come from?”
“Where, Pa?”
Closing his eyes, he spun the globe with one hand while holding the other aloft. Slowly, mimicking some mechanical armature, he extended his forefinger, then turned it downward at the spinning globe.
In another second the finger dropped, the globe stopped. I stood on tiptoes trying to see where on earth he was pointing.
“Right…there,” he said.
I tugged at his hand for a better look, and was delighted to see he had performed a magic trick of sorts.
“That’s where we live,” I said. “That’s America.”
“Yes it is, Peter,” he said in a low voice. “Yes it is.”
A small lesson in geographic anthropology to be sure, but the perspective I gained that evening transcended academics. My world broadened far beyond the limits of our globe in those twenty or so minutes. It included the richness of my Italian heritage, transposed and re-forged in the American experience, not on the foundations of the Old World, but on the promises of the New. He never made distinctions between peoples in this country. Instead, my father expressed his faith in the trueness of our new blood, enriched by old traditions and sustained by the oneness we share in this, the place from which the “very best people” come.