The Short Writing World of Dominic Caruso
Part One
Published by Deitak Books
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2011 by Dominic Caruso
Smashwords Edition
CONTENT
A Rodson Farm’s Christmas Tree
Anthony, the Bronx and the War Years
We Could Have Been Vespuccians
Love, Moon,Stars, Wine, Music, Good Food and Other Things Italian
A letter to my granddaughter, Katelyn…
Katie darlin; Although you're only 5 years old, I know you can understand what I am going to say. I'm sure appreciation will come with time.
I can't be here for all of the rest of your days, only the rest of mine. That's the way it was meant to be. It's right that elders should leave this life before their young ones.
I pray that you are lucky enough to have a normal life. A life that will take you through so many changes. From a child you will become a young girl, a young lady, a wife, a mother, a grand mother and if you are real lucky Katie, a great grandmother.
Somewhere during these changes in your life, a time will come when I will no longer be able to hold your hand. If you should find that you have a desire to speak to me, tell me something you can't tell anyone else or well just anything darlin, this is how you can reach me. I won't be able to respond, but I guarantee you I will listen. I will feel your words.Put your words and thoughts for me in the memory of your heart and on the first clear night, look almost straight up to the sky and find the North Star. It will be the brightest star at the top of the world. Deliver your heart felt words and thoughts to it without making a sound.
No matter who, where or what I am to be, I will spend my life or lives here after looking at the same star. No matter where I be, I will be watching and waiting to feel whets in your heart. I will be there for you. I will be there for you until it is time for you to join me.
It is my request that you tell your children and your grandchildren of our star. Ask them to join you when they have a need to and mention me to them from time to time.Love and affection always.
POP POP…
Katie, don't forget to look up!
Dominic Caruso (c) November 1991
The Origins of the Mafia
Almost from the beginning of time when it was felt that the Island of Sicily was of some worth, some value, it has been occupied or exploited by foreign powers. Often allowed to occur by the powers that be on the main land, Italy. It has been conquered and ruled by the Arabs, the Greeks, and the Spanish, the French, the Romans and more. For centuries the faith of the Sicilian people was in the hands of various powers.
Being located in the center of the Mediterranean, at the tip of Italy’s boot, and separated from the main land by ninety miles of water called the Straits of Messina. When problems arose on the Island and it was in the best interest of the main land to ignore, the Italian authority on the main land would conveniently turn a deaf ear to the islander’s plight.
After centuries of failed attempts by the Sicilian people to help themselves, at about the fourteen hundreds, the natives of this small island could no longer tolerate the many abuses of the past and would not settle for what seemed to be a new type of abuse.
The most brutal of the abuses occurred at the hands of what became known as pirates. For about fifty years they would all but rule the seas. Because of the busy world trade ports from Spain to Turkey, Sicily became an easy place of replenishment. These pirates comprised of the scum of the earth to educated disgruntled naval officers of the British fleet.
This was also the time of Spanish wealth and ruthless merchant captains from many different lands. Besides the burdens place on the people by foreign entities, now they had to endure murder, rape and the kidnapping of their men, women and young children to serve these merciless men on board their ships never to return. When their usefulness was over, they would be killed and disposed of in the oceans of the world.
At about this time a small and secret organization was created by a group of daring, dedicated men of Sicily to protect themselves and all they cared about. Among them were small businessmen, farmers and average countrymen who for the most part had suffered a loss at the hands of these men.
This group with no name, became so successful at dealing with the Islander’s problem, that within twenty-five years of its existence, the murders, rapes and kidnapping had all but come to an end. The small businessmen and farmers now found themselves becoming wealthier than they could have ever imagined.
Almost all of the charter members of this small band of men had now become wealthy landowners or wealthy businessmen. The new security that the Islanders came to know and enjoy now needed protection and with that goal in mind the secret group enlarged and became even more powerful and secretive.
There was no name for this secret society because it was not needed. If it had no name, it was harder to refer to and was harder to find. There was only a hand full of powerful men who knew everything about its operations. The men, who performed the required duties, did so without asking questions. Directives were given and orders were followed to the letter, upon penalty of death.
Over the next three hundred plus years the group became so successful that by the eighteen hundreds, like any large corporation, it started to protect itself against itself. That is conflict and dissension from within. In so doing it became as greedy as any large company who does not want to surrender its sole domain.
As suspicion of each other and the seeds of greed set in, the group started fracturing and smaller groups emerged. A group’s strength would be determined by the land its powerful owner possessed. These packages of land became known as providence’s.
In turn, the small towns within these providence’s would be given to a trusted member of a wealthy landowner to supervise and rule. By now there was so much respect for this secret organization among the islanders, especially by those who were not involved, that the judgments and demands placed on the Islanders were tolerated and honored with the utmost in silence. When the silence was broken, the offender would be disposed of, never to be heard from again.
So in general, when the people of the island witnessed something that was out of the normal, they would turn a deaf ear and their backs to it, offering complete submission and dedication to their protector, the organization that they did not want to know anything about. Often their own relatives were part of it, but its existence was never mentioned.
Unofficially and without speaking a vow of silence was taken by all. In this silence a sense of trust and faith came to be formed by knowing that they were being protected by their own, Something that they had never known at the hands of others.
During the second half of the nineteenth century, places like Ellis Island opened its gates to the world. From places around the world like Sicily came good, hard working people. People who not only wanted to get away from the need for this secret organization, but people who earnestly wanted a chance at a better life, a chance to change their lot.
There also were the young tyrants who could not make in roads in their native country of Sicily, but had the vision to see the possibility for protection rackets of all types in this new country. So they mingled in with the decent people and were accepted at the gates of this new country.
These young tyrants weren’t Mafiosi but simply gangsters. Once here they adopted the banner of the Mafia but in reality they were rejects from the Sicilian Mafia. The Sicilian Mafia very seldom recognized them a Mafiosi and as a consequent within less than one hundred years the United States government demoralized and fragmented them to a level that the Sicilian Mafia considers the American Mafia comical.
In bypassing America as a possible Mafia market the organization has gone on to conquer the rest of the world and plays a part still not suspected by the American public and for that matter most of the countries of the world. It may never really be known how much involvement the Mafia has in any and all of the events in the world.
Although there are many new types of mafia organization throughout the world the Sicilian Mafia is the only crime organization with the experience and abilities to keep growing its markets and controlling fledgling markets. To think that it can be completely defeated is naïve. The best most optimistic outlook is the control of the organization and that doesn’t appear to be possible anywhere but at America. Anytime America has tried to reach further than its shores, it has been on the losing end. Many times the Sicilian mafia has aided the United States government, most widely known was the assistance it gave the American troops when they landed at Sicily during the Second World War. There are many more alliances between the two entities that are only known to the U.S. Government and will never be known by the American public.How it was named “The Mafia”
The word “Mafia” is derived of the word Mafioso. The word Mafioso in Italian means strong, fortitude, brave, etc. Because Italians consider certain words and all organizations either in Male or Female gender, Mafio would be incorrect because it is an organization and the word Mafio should end in an “A”, feminine, “Mafia”. In which case, it would be wrong to say, “He’s a Mafioso with the Mafio.” It would be appropriate to say, “He’s a Mafioso with the Mafia.” This is not my opinion, its fact. Recommended reading:
Octopus, by Claire Sterling…
Dominic Caruso(c) May 1991
Catherine of my heart..
“Once upon a time and very long ago.”There's a place in the center of my heart, where no one goes, not even I. It's the place that Catherine with a capitol "C", once touched in the spring of our love at Washington D.C. in the spring of 1958 in a way only she could. With only her fingerprint there, it is a lonesome, painful place that I have difficulty ignoring and hardship in living with. It is a place where not even I go.
It is a place where long ago Papa saw his daughter-in-law, beautiful Catherina, smiling at him when I mentioned her name. A place, possibly that reminded him of Valenta, his childhood sweetheart from Sicily from so long ago. It’s a warm place in the troubled heart of his beloved son. I know I have made him sad, because his lovely Catherina lives in my heart only in memory.
As long as I live, whomever I love, from now on, to the end of my dance, she will never know of this place in my heart that no one else can fill. The empty space that is taken by the memory of my Catherine and her fingerprint where she planted it. The empty space in the heart of her 'Sailor Boy' in dress whites, that I guard. To prevent entrance. By anyone. It wouldn't be fair.
God help me get from here to there. I don't want you to erase her memory from that place, its all I have left, just help me honor our love for the rest of my days and help Papa to understand and forgive his tormented son, for not keeping his Catherina in that special place in his heart. Help me understand what I have done and help me know some peace before I die. Pray for me Lord. You too Papa. I know she is. She told me so…………
July 1959
Read the note from a special lady.
Prayers are good! I'll take all I can get.
Dominic Caruso... (c) September 7, 2000
The Olive Garden
God created the earth and in his spare time molded all of earth’s animals. He took a hundred pounds of clay and made a ‘She’. Calling her Eve, it was apparent that she was not fulfilled and prone to fits on lonesomeness and lack of kindness to her animal friends.
One day while she napped under the worlds first oak tree, God took one pound of clay from eve and placed it on the groin of a ‘He’ that was created to fill Eve’s day with craziness and child like folly. He would be named Adam.
God told Eve and Adam that they could part take of ANYTHING on earth except the “&%^$#%$^” fruit of the Olive Tree in the Olive Garden. The inquisitive nature of ‘He’s’ is surpassed only by the inquisitive nature of ‘She’s’.
Despite Gods warning to stay out of the Olive Garden, Eve and Adam were drawn to its gates. Having breached the Garden gates they gazed upon the fruit of the Olive Tree.
Not liking the smell or the color of the olives they left the Olive Garden dropping the fruit on the ground outside the garden gate. Years later the dropped fruit grew into a beautiful dark green leaf plant that produced the worlds original organic Olives.
Convincing themselves that tasting these ugly, bad smelling fruit would be free of the warning God had issued them, they tasted of the Olives and at once Adam not only discovered his Adam’s Olive but came to the realization the he didn’t have any clothes on and immediately covered his groin with his hands. Having the same realization Eve just barely had enough hands.
The moral of the Olive Garden Story is that we as ‘She’s’ and ‘He’s’ know when we do something right and we sure as hell know when we do something WRONG!!!! We know from birth the difference between right and wrong and that, “An Olive by any other name is still an Olive.”Dom Caruso(c)04-08-2000
How I discovered Valentino.
I was twelve years old and it was the first summer I would be spending with my Uncle Frankie from the Bronx. He was a ballroom dancer like his older brother Louis, but Frankie didn’t want the life of a dancer. So he stay amateur and only competed for prizes and awards of which he had a cabinet full of first, second and third class prize trophies from places like Roseland, the Palladium and Madison Square Garden.
He had been after me since I was seven years old and finally I wanted to try it. However the next summer would be our last together. Uncle Frankie would die of a brain tumor that fall. I was shatter because I could not afford to buy what Frankie could give me and so I decided that it was all over.
At thirteen I dated my first girl, Jennifer. We went to a movie. I was too young to drive so her father drove us to and from the movie. Over the next six months I discovered that her mother had Ullmans book on Valentino. I’d heard Valentino’s name only once from Frankie. She was kind enough to lend it to me and I’m afraid I wanted to keep it, but Joan and I broke up and her mother remembered I had it and asked for me to return it, which I did.
I was now fifteen and I had heard that a movie studio was searching for someone to play Rudolf Valentino in a movie of his life. Having had two summers of dancing lessons from Frankie, Tango included, I started saving my money to buy headshot and other professional photos. My Uncle Louis was helping me to have something that I could present to the studio.
When I was sixteen, the worst thing that could happen to me happened. The studio announced that they had found a person to play Valentino. Anthony Dexter was his name and when I saw him it was clear I was no Valentino. It was like Valentino had come to life. How could two people be so God dam good looking? First I loose Frankie then Anthony Dexter appears. I felt there was a message in these two events. Forget it! And I did.
Anyway, at seventy-two years old, I would defend Rodolfo Valentino to anyone to the death. Such is my admiration and appreciation for the man. In my heart is a measure of respect that demands that I do not address him as Rudy. I take consolation in knowing all these years later that at that young age, I had the good sense to channel my energies to trying to play Rudolfo Valentino.
Oh yea, years later I would find out that Uncle Lou once befriended him.
Valentino once said that the women who love him only love what they saw on the silver screen. Little did he know that the women knew him better than he knew himself? That was because he didn’t take himself seriously. Yea, I know I can’t prove that. For myself, I don’t have too.
And at that age, by the way, I used to slick my hair back. I ruined many pillowcases. There was nothing but Brylcreme, Vilalis and Vaseline. Guess what worked the best! VASOLINE. Yes, the young girls named me Valentino.
That, I can prove…
June 1951Dominic Caruso (c) March 1964
To WEEZER with LOVE!
A family friend brought Weezer to us when he was so small that he could barely walk. With in three weeks he was back with us, this time to stay. He spent the next 15 years with us. I’d like to hope that we gave him all that he gave to us, but I know better. He truly was a family member. But to me he was at times the difference between sanity and insanity.
On the last day of his life, December 15, 1996, dying of cancer, he stood up as best he could and in a labored wattle came over to me, placed his head in my hands and collapsed. Then he took his last breath. His head went back as if to look up at me, but it was an involuntary motion, I’m sure and his time with us came to an end with his eyes remaining open. I begged him not to leave me. I told him not to leave me, “Don’t leave me, don’t do this to me Weezer!” And then for a few minutes I tried to keep him warm in my arms, crying my tears on him. I didn't close his eyes until I buried him. I just couldn’t. It seemed so final.
It was two weeks before Christmas, December 15, so I placed some holiday ornaments in his grave along with other things. My navy scarf and my Navy beanie hat, a stuffed animal he liked, some twigs that he had been chewing on that day and some ‘Bonz’ that he used to love to snack on. I wrapped him and his gifts in a warm blanket, covered him gently and prayed over him. When I filled in his grave with soil and stepped back to look at it, I wanted to open it up so I could hold him one more time. But I didn't. He had suffered enough.
In posting this photo of my Weezer minutes after his death and just before I buried him, I hope people will understand how difficult it was for me to post it, be upfront and open with my love and tribute to him. It was a difficult decision for me to make. My buddy was gone.
Something happened to me when I lost my Weezer. It's terrible. It’s hard to explain; I can't imagine what it must be like to lose a child. How do you survive? How do you go on, how do you deal with the memories and the grief. No wonder the body gets old. I don’t know how many types or causes of Dementia there are, but I sometimes feel like I now know of one kind.
There are not too many days that the thought of him isn’t part of my day. He was the most loyal thing I will ever know. Your loyal companion, Dominic.................
Final resting place
Dominic Caruso. (c) July 12, 2000.
Nessun Dorma, the Story…
While there are many translations of Nessun Dorma, the world famous Italian aria from Puccini's "Turandot", nowhere can there be found the whole story behind the opera, the most unknown love story of the operatic world, especially unknown to the general public. The story of two hearts, one that would rather die than not be loved and another that would die if it was loved. Loves story of love.
Puccini, in the Italian manor, in this opera, interprets Love as the complex, non sensible, yet overwhelmingly, over powering state of heartache that it most certainly is. With this in mind, I present my version of' Nessun Dorma' in story form for your entertainment, so that you may, when listening to this beautiful song next time, from his powerful love opera, feel what Puccini intended for you to feel and enjoy. The magnificence of the realization of total LOVE! Life's most precious moment. When the heart knows for sure.
His opera takes place in Imperial China of long ago and sings of a young, beautiful, callus, cold-hearted Princess named Turandot, who has taken a vow of purity. Her beauty is so captivating and enchanting that it casts a magical spell over any young suitor who would dare to dream of her favors.
Once under her spell they have an overwhelming need to be with her and approaching her they ask for her hand in marriage. Proposal made, she asks but one thing of them and if they comply, she will submit. Posing three riddles to him, he must figure out each of the riddles, fully knowing and not caring that if he falters, he will be decapitated. The cold, calculating beautiful Princess has no intention to marry any man. Not now or ever.
But, along comes the young, handsome, Prince Calaf, Unknown to anyone and mysterious to say the least. In his matter of fact attitude and confident manner, he declares that she, Princess Turandot, will marry him and be his wife, the mother of his children. Unaffected by her spell, his words are those of the heart directed to the heart of the lovely Princes. Taken aback by his apparent rudeness, she declares that before this dream of his might take place, there are three riddles he must answer. She then asks him if he knows his faith should he fail any of the three riddles. He falls to one knee and proclaims, "Yes your highness, I will give you my head,…… for my heart will have no need of it."
Standing in front of the kneeling Calaf she recites each of the three riddles and after each, he speaks the answer…………….Correctly. Stunned, she falls back onto her throne and sits in deafening silence for she cannot marry this man, any man; it will not, it must not happen. But she has given her word in a proclamation that cannot be reversed. Many have lost their heads and there must be one more. She will see to it.
Calaf asks permission to rise. Granted, he walks to her side and looking into her beautiful almond shaped eyes he poses a riddle to her saying "Tell me my name before morning and as the sun rises I shall die by your word. But be forewarned, do not answer Calaf,…… or you will surely loose!"
The day is young but the eager Princess commands her guards to find her his name. Family, relatives and associates are to be questioned in haste under the threat of death. The Prince's father Timur is ordered to tell them the Princes unknown name to which he replies, "My son’s name is Calaf!" Standing by Timur's side Liu's proclaims, "I am the only one who knows the Prince's real name of which you will not learn from me!"
Liu, the lovely slave girl has been in love with Calaf since she was a child and knows the Princes real name. She is removed from her village and tortured until she dies, her last words "Calaf my love." Sunset approaching the guards return to the castle and report that no one knows his name. It is unknown. Angered, she declares that this will be a restless night for everyone. She proclaims a new decree that no one shall sleep until the name of the Prince is revealed to her. No one shall sleep until then. Nessun Dorma, Nessun Dorma, no one sleeps, no one sleeps! The heralds announce the decree throughout the region all night on foot and horseback.
The night is slipping away and she is confused by the feelings in her heart. One of anxiety, anger, fear and another, which is foreign to her. Could it be love? In the minute before the suns glow crowns the snow caped peaks of the mountain range, the Prince grabs the lovely Princess and in a forceful but gentle grasp, enfolds her in his arms and kisses her lips. Their eyes close and in what seems to be a lifetime, their lips part and as she opens her eyes and not understanding this last emotion, she see’s his handsome smile and whispers to him in a soft voice, "I know your name Prince. It is LOVE! Your name is love and I love you." Alas, its too late, the sun is rising and love will not know death.
In a tumultuous show of nature's forces, the skies light up and the morning stars flash and blink for a moment and as the new days sun rises from behind the mountains, on their world, its too late to proclaim his demise but time to celebrate her surrender to the unknown Prince Calaf. LOVE… The Motto of the story……………………..
Beware the Prince baring nothing! LOL…..
Dominic Caruso, (c) June 2008
My Bronx...
Why is it the only singular place In the USA with a ‘THE’ before its name…?“The Bronx”Without going into a long drawn out history lesson I would like to answer the question "How did the Bronx get its name." You ready? Stand back! Sit down. Well, In 1639 a wealthy immigrant called Jonas Broncks purchased a package of land, 500 acres, north of the Harlem River. He named the land 'Broncksland', as some early maps state and the enormous house he built on it was called 'Emmarus'. So the man had notions, that’s obvious. He also named a waterway after himself. The Bronx River. By now he had a fathead.
As the years went by, when people wanted to get out of the city, they would load their horse drawn carriages and later after the invention of the horseless carriage, with picnic supplies and 'gitty up out of town’ to The bronck's. The cry was "Let’s go to the Broncks!" Eventually, like all in life, someone just had to change it on us. They changed it from ‘the Broncks’ to ‘The Bronx.’ Thankfully!
P.S. This area of The Bronx, my area of The Bronx, is where “A Bronx Tale” was filmed. Notice no “The”!!!!!!!!!!
Dominic Caruso(C)March 1960
Hicksville Railroad Station
We moved away from the Bronx when I was eight years old. My father, my brother and I left the Bronx first so we could get the house ready for Mamma and my sisters.
They would come out later with the moving van. We would be living in Jericho Long Island, but we had to pass through Hicksville.
I awoke hearing Sal's voice. Papa told me to get dressed fast because we had to get going. I washed up, got dressed and sat at the table to have breakfast. Papa and Sal had already eaten and were getting the bags ready for the trip. Mama had done most of the packing for the trip the day before. As soon as I was done eating, Papa said," let's go." We put on our jackets and we all kissed Mama and said our farewells. Papa told Mama that we would be seeing her in two day's and Mama told them to take care of me. She gave me a hug and told me to be good and to listen to Papa and my brother Sally.
Papa picked up the two suit case's he would be carrying, Sal picked up one suit case and his sea bag and Mama handed me a bag with four loaf's of Italian bread, one ball of provolone cheese and a stick of hard salami. Papa said," Don't drop it Dominic, that's our food for the next few days." To which I responded," I won't Papa." Mama saw us to the elevator and I waved goodbye to her as the door of the elevator closed.
I remember the door of the apartment building slamming shut behind us as we started walking up the street to the avenue. Papa turned to wave goodbye to Mama who was looking out of our living room window. As we got to the corner of the block and made a left turn, I looked across the street towards the school and the lot in front of it with the huge rock on it that we used for our fort. It was to far away to see anything but I knew it was there. I think I was looking for Anthony more than anything. As we passed Angela's parents restaurant, I looked in the window but no one was there. It was early and all of the stores and shops were closed. I'd never seen the avenue like that. It was real quiet and I could hear our breathing and footstep's as we walked. Papa told Sal to give him the sea bag. Sal told Papa that he didn't have to do that but Papa insisted. I think he was proud of Sal and wanted to carry his son's sea bag. He put one suitcase under his arm, the other one in his left hand and threw the sea bag over his left shoulder. Sal took the bag I was carrying.
We entered the subway station entrance and were on our way to the Grand Central Station where we would catch a train for Long Island. Never having been on a train before I was excited. After what seemed to be a short while, we boarded the train and put our bag's up on the racks.
The whole ride so far was under ground and there wasn't much to see. As we left Manhattan things started changing. We came out of the tunnel and into the day light and I noticed that there were no more tall brick building's, no more subway L's. Even the air looked different, everything looked clean. As the train roared up to speed we started seeing houses along the tracks. All different sizes, all different color's. They'd go by real fast. Some house's by themselves others in a bunch. The further out we went the further apart the houses were. The train started stopping at stations. All though the conductor would call out the names, I can't remember any of them.
Even the people looked cleaner. At the station's there would be automobile's all shinny and clean with people in them, either picking up people or dropping them off. The people seemed to be well dressed, at least as well dressed as the people who used to belong to those brat's at Howard Johnson's restaurant. It brought to mind Anthony and the rest of my friends which I would never see again. The excitement of the moment over rode the sadness I felt.
Papa, Sal and I were quiet for the most part, but at one point Papa turned to Sal and said, " look for a sign that say's Hicka-siville, Sal." Sal looked back at him and with a smile on his face said," Hicka-sville?" Papa with his Italian/American accent kind of pronounced it funny. He pronounced it, Hick-isa-ville. “You making fun of your father,” Papa asked? To which Sal replied, "No Papa. It just sound's funny, Hicksville I mean."
Finally the conductor called out, " Hicksville, Hicksville next stop." We watched as the Hicksville train station slowly came up to greet us. The train came to a noisy abrupt stop and the people started getting off.
Papa and Sal grabbed all of the bags and we followed the passenger's off and onto a wooden platform. The station house was made of wood with a gravel parking lot out back for car's. Over the year's I've seen many paintings and illustrations of train stations that have reminded me of that day and our first stop at Hicksville. I remember a big white scale sitting along side the main entrance to the station house and a shot distance away a white and black crossing bar that was lifted and lowered by hand with a big round wheel.
We walked into the station house, which was about the size of our living room. Sal walked up to the ticket attendant and asked him if we could catch a cab. He said there should be one in the parking lot, if not for us to wait, it would be back.
We approached the taxi driver and he asked us where we were going. Sal told him Rodson Farms, on Cedar Swamp Road at Jericho. The driver was a little old skinny man with white hair. It didn't look like a cab to me. It was big and black with a big hump where the trunk was. We loaded everything in the trunk and Papa asked the driver if there was someplace where he could buy some wine. The driver said he would take us to the Hicksville liquor store and wait while Papa purchased what he wanted.
It was a long ride, something like almost two hours and thing's really started changing. After a while it looked like everything was disappearing. No more towns, no more houses, not even traffic lights. All I remember was all kinds of beautiful trees and two lanes of road, one going and one coming. Every once in a while we'd see a lake. I'd never seen a lake before. We went through one traffic light the whole distance. There was conversation with the driver but I don't recall any of it.
The last time I saw the Hicksville station house was the summer of 1956 while home on boot camp leave from Bainbridge Naval training center in Maryland. With my sea bag on my shoulder like the one papa carried for Sal so many years ago, I stepped off the train in the same way I had done years earlier with my father and brother. Walking through the tiny station house, I thought about how much smaller it was than I thought it was the first time I saw it. I went through the back doors, hailed a cab and headed home for a visit with Mama and Papa. Dominic Caruso (c) October 1957
Bereft
As Nicholas Cage declares in the movie Moonstruck, when Cher meets him for the first time to invite him to his brother’s marriage to her, “Alright….It’s nobody’s fault, accidents happened.” Well, that sort of sums up my life, it’s nobody’s fault, it just happened. That’s what I always thought. That is until I started studying my family’s history and found that in my case it went allot deeper than that, though in a sense it is and was no one’s fault.
It was an accident that I came to be. Because of a broken heart and the hope that one life could replace another I was born. In fact it was a series of accidents and un-intentional mistakes, errors in judgment that lead too many walls being created that would never be toppled or climbed. Walls that would come between my father Francesco Cheech Caruso and myself for all of his remaining days on this earth.
Walls that would keep us apart even though and perhaps because he saw much of himself in me, more so than any other of his sons.
Early on in my life, pre-school, my Grandmother sat me on her lap and kissed the palm of my little hand, right in the middle and said “Dominic, I want you to understand always that you are a special little boy. Do you understand me?”
I remember looking towards mama who was standing there looking at me with a smile on her face. I nodded at Grandma as if to acknowledge that I did understand, but I really did not.
At sixteen I quit school to take a job as a laborer and almost immediately my life started coming apart at the seams.
Upon filing for my working papers I realized for the first time in my life that my birth certificate had no first name on it. It read “MALE CARUSO”. I was born on April 24, 1936,
at 1579 Madison Avenue between 106th street and 107th street in Harlem, New York.
At the moment of my birth by mid-wife in my parent’s bedroom on the 3rd floor, there was a major argument that occurred between my Mother and Father, an argument that I would not know about for the first forty years of my life.
Since there were only four of us in that little apartment at the time, it was only by chance that I brought up the issue of not having a first name on my certificate to my Mother who was the only person alive at the time who could have answered my question. Less the cart, go before the horse we should move on to more time relevant issues.
I grew up only knowing one parent, my Mother even though Papa was always around. I mean he was a good Father I guess. He went to work and came home every night and was always home on the weekend. He was a good provider. I know there were times when he felt that he wanted to do more. I could see it in his actions and attitudes.
But as one of his only two sons, he never reached out for me and I thought that was normal for a strong willed man so I never questioned it until years later when I would pick up sensations from him in things he would say to me or ways he acted to me. He never spoke to me about anything and I recall that on more than one occasion he would make remarks to me like “ Go ahead Dominic fix it”. Meaning that if I got my hands on something, it would never work again.
Something happened in our family years before I was born, something we never spoke about, something real bad. I remember Papa sitting at the window with tears in his eye’s and crying quietly, “They killed my son”; in Italian he would say that they killed his boy, my Joey. When I saw him do this I felt so bad for him that I used to cry. It still affects me the same way so many years later. I wanted to reach for Papa but I didn’t know how, I wasn’t used to it. I never felt bad for myself after all I was his son too. I guess I just didn’t understand. How could I, I was only a child.
I was fast becoming a Mama’s boy. I never had anything to do with Papa. He played no part in my raising. I had no role model. I used to see other boys playing with their fathers and I wanted the same thing from my father, but it just wasn’t there. I didn’t know that men or boys were expected to be more aggressive, a little tougher. As a child I was meek and a little backwards.
It was April 16, 1968 and I was living at Maryland. The phone rang and my wife picked it up. I heard her say “Hi Lee, how are you?” and all of a sudden everything became quiet. She was listening to Lena and she wasn’t speaking, then she said “Wait Lee, Dom’s here.” I took the receiver from my wife and spoke to my sister. My world came to a stop when she said she had something to tell me. “Papa is dead. He died a while ago. He was asking for his son. He wanted to speak to you Dom. Before they but him in the ambulance he asked me to get in touch with you. He wanted to speak to you. To have you come here, but everything happened so fast that I just now am able to call you. He said he was never gonna see his son again. Then they closed the doors to the back of the ambulance and they took him to Misacordia Hospital. I followed them in my car with mama.” I asked her if she knew how he died because I knew he didn’t trust doctors and for him to go on his own it must have been bad. She told me that she watched him as he lay on the stretcher in the emergency room violently shaking and all of a sudden his Shaking stopped and he came to rest. She couldn’t see if his eyes were shut. I asked about the funeral arrangements and told her that I would be leaving the next day. I hung up the phone and told my wife that I was going up to the bedroom.
I didn’t know what to say to Lena. I was quiet for a few seconds and I could hear my heart beating. Then I said “Oh no….no”. She went on to explain how he died. He didn’t want to die in the little apartment he and Mama shared at 213th street in the Bronx New York, so he had Mama call Lena who lived around the corner and she called the ambulance for Papa. In the meantime Papa somehow was able with Mama’s help to walk out to the front of the building so the ambulance people could pick him up at the curb. He knew that if he had died in their little apartment that Mama would not want to go on living there, and on their meager Social Security there weren’t too many places she could afford to live on her own.
The ambulance arrived placing Papa in the back on a stretcher and Lena and Mama followed the ambulance to Missacordia Hospital in the Bronx. Lee was able to watch Papa on the stretcher through the emergency room window. As she watched him his shaking became more violent. She ran to tell someone that he was shaking violently and that there weren’t any medical workers in the emergency room and they told her that they would get someone back there immediately. She went back to the window and watched Papa as his tremors became worst and all of a sudden he stopped yelling and his body started to calm down. Then he stopped moving and his body relaxed. She knew it was all over. She said, “I saw him die.”I told Lena that I would be leaving for New York as soon as possible. I told her I’d stay with Mama. After hanging up the phone I turned to my wife and told her that I had to leave as soon as possible. She already knew and expected me to say that. She didn’t expect to hear what I told her next. “I need to be alone. I’m going to go up stairs and lay down. I need to be alone. I’ll start packing later tonight” and I turned around and walked away. I could hear her ask if I was going to be okay but I didn’t respond.
I lay down on the bed, placed a pillow over my head and started crying. All of a sudden, in an instant I knew what I was crying about. That quick it was so clear to me. I had never told Papa that I loved him. At thirty-three years of age I had never told my father that I loved him. Not once, how stupid of me. I knew I would never have the chance again. It was gone.
He was gone like so many thing in my life, so many things that were gone before I could do anything about them. Now I found that I could make a list of all the things that I could no longer say to him. Lost moments, lost love. It took the loss of my father to know what I had done to myself and to him. I lay there crying in silence and thinking and it was driving me crazy. How stupid we can be. My thoughts went from one thing to another and for the next two hours it felt like I was in hell torturing myself.
After the burial, I returned to my home at Maryland and tried to find some peace in my heart but it was difficult to do. I was punishing myself for allowing this to happen and I knew it. I was the strong one. Mama and Papa had been through allot and they were tired of life and its burdens when I was born. Mama was forty-two and Papa was forty-seven. That’s a hard time to have a child come into your life. Sometimes I can’t help but think that my sister Theresa and I, who was born two years after me were both accidents, but in my heart I know better. Papa wanted to make another Joey.
Joey was one of my older brothers who had died in 1927 of Diphtheria. He was six years old when he died and was the apple of Papa’s eye. Mama would say that Pappas sun would raise and fall by Joey. Speaking to my siblings about Papa I came to the decision that there were two Papa’s. The one that some people knew before Joey died and the one that we were old enough to know afterward. Joey was named after his Grandfather at Sicily and looked allot like him. He had blue eyes and blonde hair, just like grandpa.
Dominic Caruso (C) December 1968
Colosimo’s Café
National prohibition of alcohol (1920-33)--the "noble experiment"--was undertaken to reduce crime and corruption, solve social problems, reduce the tax burden created by prisons and poorhouses, and improve health and hygiene in America. The results of that experiment clearly indicate that it was a miserable failure on all counts. The evidence affirms sound economic theory, which predicts that prohibition of mutually beneficial exchanges is doomed to failure.
On January 17, 1920 famed American gangster Al Capone celebrated his 19th birthday and Prohibition by leading a crime organization based on the illegal trafficking of alcohol during the Prohibition of the 1920’s and 30’s. He is widely regarded as the most recognizable symbol of the collapse of law and order under the ban on alcohol in the United States. Capone graduated from petty crime to acting as an apprentice’ in gangster John Torrio’s bootlegging business.
When Torrio was shot by a rival gang and decided to leave Chicago, Capone inherited the bootlegging business. He quickly expanded it, and soon controlled a variety of business ranging from nightclubs, brothels and racetracks to the largest cleaning and dyeing plant chain in Chicago. When it was necessary for Capone to deal with law enforcement, he did so through bribery, threats, and assassinations. After one disorderly conduct arrest in New York, Capone murdered two men. This testament to his willingness to kill prevented any witnesses from agreeing to testify against Capone, and the case was dismissed. He was never charged for the murders, again due to lack of compliant witnesses.
Capone did attempt to gain approval from the general public through sporadic “good deeds”: he opened the first soup kitchens in New York during the Great Depression, provided daily milk rations to schoolchildren, and he often sent flowers to the funerals of people he killed or ordered killed. He occasionally went so far as to attend the funerals. Capone viewed himself as a pillar of the community.
UPPER LEFT is a photo taken of The Colosimo Café entrance that was Al's big hangout. The UPPER RIGHT is a smiling Al Capone in happier times.
This photo is the interior of the then fabulous cafe'. After Capone killed Big Jim Colosimo, although he never owned it, it was his for the asking. To the back of the restaurant, not visible in photo, was a booth saved for Capone. Many of the stars and notables would pay their respects to him when they were in town or passing through. You Name a star or celebrity, notable and guaranteed, seventy percent of the time you'd be right. Good odds. Why not, you could do everything Prohibition said you couldn't, in grand style and public defiance. And no one would say a word.
See the dance floor and the stage to the left of the beautiful Colosimo’s Cafe' photo? I can see Lechard, in his handsome Italian self, spinning around in his black tailed tux and waiting for the beautiful Irish, exotic, her self Leta, in her long flowing gown as she walked down either of the curves stairways to meet him for their dance to 'Amapola' in "G". His arm extended, he grasps her lovely little hand and off they go, entertaining Chicago's elite.
This was no Dinner Show; the people would actually watch the entertainers. NOW HOW BEAUTIFUL IS THAT! I missed it, but Big Al Capone didn't and along side him on any given night sat Al Jolson, Clarence Darrow, Jimmy Durante, the handsome John Barrymore or Sophie Tucker or Texas Guinan, May West and many more. A first name basis friendship evolved between the dancers and Al. The politicians today could take a lesson from Capone. One things for sure! You can bet that there wouldn't be 4.00 a gallon gasoline. Tell me how we’re better off? Once again we have the IRS to thank.
Dominic Caruso (C) May 1986
The Barn
I was barely done with the painting I call "The Barn", when a friend asked, "Why would you go through all the work you did just to paint a picture of an old dilapidated barn that should be demolished anyway." Being kind of taken aback by the sharpness of his question, I could but only stop for a brief moment to think of a reason, but it didn't take long.
I told him that as an artist, I some times feel that I have an obligation to paint or draw things that permanently record forever a brief moment, an event that I think may never be known or seen again if I don't bring attention to it. He said, "You mean you painted that picture so no one would forget it?" I smiled and replied, "Yea, that’s it sort of but its a little more than that. Let me explain it to you." When I sell this painting, the person who buys it will get the sketch I made of it, a story about the barn that will make them feel that they knew the owners of the barn and the time they lived in.
I said that I was driving around St. Mary's County in southern Maryland looking for anything that I could convert into paintings when I saw an old barn quite a distance off the road partially hidden by some trees. I turned into the long dirt driveway and as I approached the barn I saw an old run down house with a covered porch.
On the porch was an old man seated in an old whicker chair, so I drove up to the house. He had a hat on his lap, a three-piece suit and leaning against the chair arm was a wooden walking cane. I asked him if it would be okay for me to take some pictures of the barn. I told him that I was an artist and would like to paint a picture of it. He pointed his finger to the barn and said, "Go ahead."
I asked him if he knew the owners of the property and he said," John and Mary owned it." He went on, the barn, the house and all two hundred acres belonged to John and Mary Chandler. He continued to talk as if there was something he wanted to say, something he wanted me to know.
Johns father was a first generation farmer who moved his family from New York New York, (Manhattan) to Connecticut where he started his new life as a farmer. Mary’s family was five generations into farming. During high school John and Mary fell in love and upon graduation they married.
They decided to come to Maryland to raise tobacco. They settled at Charlotte Hall, right here. The ten-acre farm they purchased would in time expand to its present size. Already having a farmhouse on the land they made plans to build their first barn. Being welcomed by their new neighbors from the surrounding farms, a barn raising party was held and within a weekend the barn was erected.
That Sunday night after all of their neighbors had left, John and Mary grabbed a bottle of wine they had brought with them from Connecticut and climbed the hay loft to celebrate their love, good fortune and their new life. Nine months later John Jr. was born. They would have two more sons. Next were Charles and finally Thomas. They lost a little girl when Mary miscarried.
The barn has gone through many colors since it was built. First it was its natural wood color for a number of years then red, then grey, then white and red again and a few other colors in between. The roof started out wood and ended up tin. Although it has remained tin for a long time its needed very little work. It just got rustier and rustier.
Many, many repairs to its walls, there were many repairs. Some because of the constant sun, others because of the rain and many because of the wind. At times the barn looked like a patch quilt of wood and colors. It was altered by the effects of new spring life, summer sun and humidity and the fall morning due on the pumpkins that signified the harvest of Indian summer. Not to forget the many White Christmas's.
The barn has been witness to many inhabitants and has known many good and bad times. The very first night that John and Mary slept in the barns hayloft, they were witness to a barn owls discovery of the roof rafters where he and his mate would eventually have generations of owlets. Other inhabitants were a family of groundhogs, some possums and many raccoons. Not to mention all of the beautiful barn swallows.
It’s seen the birth and death of many things. Three foals were born in it, many lamb and a few kids. Sally their hard working workhorse died of all the ailments that old age brings with it. John and Mary took turns sleeping in Sally's stall the last few nights of her life.
It was also witness to happy and sad moments at the farmhouse. All the many Christmas holidays, the Thanksgivings and the Halloweens enjoyed by the family. The sadness when John Jr. told his mother and father that he had decided to become a doctor rather than a farmer and moved to California. When an Army lieutenant knocked at the farm house door and told John and Mary that their son Charles had died heroically in a place call Okinawa, Japan on June 10,1943. The body was never found. A gravestone was place on a piece of ground in the back of the barn in his memory.
In the summer of 1952, John died of cancer after a long illness. Mary, who could not live without John lasted less than six months. What started out to be a life full of promise and prosperity found Thomas alone to manage a 200-acre farm full of memories both good and bad and no one to share them with.