Packing for a trip to Manhattan, trying to ensemble a stylish wardrobe for five days, in almost spring-like weather. Wishful thinking. Wool coat or trench? Tights in mid-April? Oh, how I detest the chore of arranging, stuffing clothes into a suitcase. New York, New York, a near state of mind, electrical, fast-paced grid of streets, mapped in memory. Instantly, I feel like a New Yorker when I replant my feet there. And why not? My grandfather sailed into the Manhattan harbor, in 1902 and died there in 1942. Italian immigrant full circle of life, shuffling in vagabond shoes, living and working on West 36th Street and 7th. In Little Italy, nuts roasted on Mulberry and Grand with the familiar greetings from the old country, "Ciao, buongiorno... come stai?"
Midtown, swanky motor cars cranked past him, in front of the Algonquin Hotel, and the Marquee bright lights blinded him on Broadway. Uptown, high rise winds tussled his scarf and tossed his hat. My grandfather, a small town boy from Ivrea, marveled at the loud sparkle of the city, as if he were transported back to the future, a new frontier. A buzzing city robbed of Melatonin. I want to be a part of it, New York. A song played at my father's funeral. Research, I'm grabbing from life like an artist or sculptor. Old blue eyes, Sinatra and his wild, rat pack, my dad's favorites. Alec Wilder wrote many of Frank's songs at the Gonk. A sharp tongue like Dorothy Parker. One martini, too many she or he might be under the host.
Further south, my father tramped with his own rat pack: The Sunshine Boys. Bolero dice. Shrines to Franklin and Hamilton. Cadillac fleet. The El Dorado leader, Steve McQueen racing on Ali Baba Avenue, ducking for cover, driving on sidewalks in Opa Locka. Trapped in the Liberty City Riots. Windows blown out. Bullets sprayed. "Mommy, what happened to Daddy's car?" I asked, watching my father get out of his car without a scratch on his face. My hero, memories flash like a screen projector reel. Jammed at the last dance, six years TODAY, one long drawn out breath, one that giveth life and taketh away. The ironic will of nature. Beside him, his second wife, Joy, a beauty from Kingston with Beijing bloodlines, and I, his first born, baby girl sat in a hospice room, sobbing farewells to the crazy, old fox, Ronny. A peaceful exit for a wild soul. A life fully lived. Military salute at Quantico. A montage of photographs: Drummer in a garage band. Soda Fountain at Sals, the ABCs of the five families working there. Washington Lee High chasing hemlines. Shirley MacLaine. Watch out for Warren. Beatty posing in the background like Billy the Kid, ready to pounce. Ronny loved the ladies just like Beatty. My father's tall, muscular frame onward and upward to the Air Force. The Korean War. Russian chatter, did matter. Do svidaniya! Goodbye! GI Bill to Georgetown, a Hoya until his last dance. Canning Lobbyist inside the Beltway. Watergate penthouse. An exotic, tall woman from Havana locked at his elbow at showboat parties. Joan Kennedy and her, unrivaled the belles of the ball, the politicos had toasted. Down to the flat waves and blood sucking mosquitos in Miami. Keystone Point. Business man. Orchids. A mysterious attaché case, Beretta and a 18-karat gold cigarette box filled with a fresh pack of Pall Malls. Ladies flocked at Pumpernicks, where I noshed on a bagel, marveling at a tough, fearless, yet loving family man. Then, he took an easy walk in his Bally's to Burdines. He played it safe. Took the Cannoli. He was one of the lucky ones. Lost in the backdrop of a sunset on Miami Beach, never pulled back in. Miss you like crazy, Daddy... 🌸🌸🌸🌷💐💐🌷🌹🌹🌺 🙏👼
Midtown, swanky motor cars cranked past him, in front of the Algonquin Hotel, and the Marquee bright lights blinded him on Broadway. Uptown, high rise winds tussled his scarf and tossed his hat. My grandfather, a small town boy from Ivrea, marveled at the loud sparkle of the city, as if he were transported back to the future, a new frontier. A buzzing city robbed of Melatonin. I want to be a part of it, New York. A song played at my father's funeral. Research, I'm grabbing from life like an artist or sculptor. Old blue eyes, Sinatra and his wild, rat pack, my dad's favorites. Alec Wilder wrote many of Frank's songs at the Gonk. A sharp tongue like Dorothy Parker. One martini, too many she or he might be under the host.
Further south, my father tramped with his own rat pack: The Sunshine Boys. Bolero dice. Shrines to Franklin and Hamilton. Cadillac fleet. The El Dorado leader, Steve McQueen racing on Ali Baba Avenue, ducking for cover, driving on sidewalks in Opa Locka. Trapped in the Liberty City Riots. Windows blown out. Bullets sprayed. "Mommy, what happened to Daddy's car?" I asked, watching my father get out of his car without a scratch on his face. My hero, memories flash like a screen projector reel. Jammed at the last dance, six years TODAY, one long drawn out breath, one that giveth life and taketh away. The ironic will of nature. Beside him, his second wife, Joy, a beauty from Kingston with Beijing bloodlines, and I, his first born, baby girl sat in a hospice room, sobbing farewells to the crazy, old fox, Ronny. A peaceful exit for a wild soul. A life fully lived. Military salute at Quantico. A montage of photographs: Drummer in a garage band. Soda Fountain at Sals, the ABCs of the five families working there. Washington Lee High chasing hemlines. Shirley MacLaine. Watch out for Warren. Beatty posing in the background like Billy the Kid, ready to pounce. Ronny loved the ladies just like Beatty. My father's tall, muscular frame onward and upward to the Air Force. The Korean War. Russian chatter, did matter. Do svidaniya! Goodbye! GI Bill to Georgetown, a Hoya until his last dance. Canning Lobbyist inside the Beltway. Watergate penthouse. An exotic, tall woman from Havana locked at his elbow at showboat parties. Joan Kennedy and her, unrivaled the belles of the ball, the politicos had toasted. Down to the flat waves and blood sucking mosquitos in Miami. Keystone Point. Business man. Orchids. A mysterious attaché case, Beretta and a 18-karat gold cigarette box filled with a fresh pack of Pall Malls. Ladies flocked at Pumpernicks, where I noshed on a bagel, marveling at a tough, fearless, yet loving family man. Then, he took an easy walk in his Bally's to Burdines. He played it safe. Took the Cannoli. He was one of the lucky ones. Lost in the backdrop of a sunset on Miami Beach, never pulled back in. Miss you like crazy, Daddy... 🌸🌸🌸🌷💐💐🌷🌹🌹🌺 🙏👼
