LITMIR.BIZ

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in Abruzzi, in 1920. My father was in the Italian army during WWI. My mother didn’t like what was happening after the war” under Il Duce, Benito Mussolini, and feared for her three sons. Julie’s mom encouraged her husband to emigrate to America. After returning to the old country a couple of times, Julie’s dad finally settled for good in Brooklyn, with his whole family—Mario, Eddie, kid bro' Giulio, and two sisters. But, Benito had a long arm, and Italians in Brooklyn had to evade it, not just the black hand of local warlords. In Bensonhurst, Julie attended a few meetings run by Mussolini’s representatives. The kids were given uniforms, sang patriotic songs, and were promised a free trip to Italy, and thence to Africa to take part in Il Duce’s glorious restoration of Imperial Rome. Julie didn’t buy into it, but “A good buddy of mine went over, and I never heard from him again.”

      I don’t want to paint a picture of Brooklyn as an extension of the “old country” as embodied by Julie. He and Tootsie made an annual pilgrimage to the Grand Ole Opry. They loved country music. Julie’s jeans were held up with a handsome leather belt and cowboy buckle. Julie and Tootsie made friends with other fans from the Southland. South Brooklyn to Southland—what a country.

      Watching Julie receive Mom’s vitriol—lovingly administered like castor oil—he seemed so mollified, and his retorts were equal parts gruff, tender, and ineffectual. He was Mom’s great sparring partner, and each got stronger from their encounters. I saw his strength when I arrived in Brooklyn on the eve of Mom’s scheduled lumpectomy. It appeared that she was being swallowed by New York’s bureaucratic medical morass—miscommunications and lost messages were about to scotch the surgery. She had to navigate that system, relying on public transportation to various treatment venues. While Mom never learned to drive, Julie’s eyesight now precluded it. So, Julie was no longer Mom’s escort, and his instructions over the phone were clear and commanding, telling me to take no guff from intermediaries, demand to speak with people in charge, and to force the issue, as a Brooklyn son should. She did have the surgery, endured seven consecutive weeks of daily radiation sessions on her own, and spent the next seven years “cancer-free.” Alas, the magic of seven had a time limit.

      In mid-2015, I chatted with Julie on the phone. His eyesight problems were now keeping him mostly house-bound. I know Mom would have served as his guide-dog on many occasions. Working together in the kitchen? Well, friendship goes only so far.

      I quote Julie verbatim: “When I’m on 86^th Street, I say ‘Vina, where are you?’ She had an effect on people—they came to her. If she had a different husband, her house would be like Mary Napolitano’s— always full of people.”

      That may have been the last time we chatted over the phone. A few months later, Julie entered a nursing home, and he passed at the very end of 2015. He lived ninety-five full years.

      Photo courtesy Toni Caggiano

      Julie, Vina and the Adams at a family gathering.

      Front five participants, counterclockwise from left: Tootsie de Ramo, Vina, Georgette Adams, Julie de Ramo, Arthur Adams, 1998;

      Good-looking lady, left background: Armida, Toni Caggiano’s sister.

      3. Musical Interlude

      Music was always a part of Vina’s life, and it very much extended to one of her two kids—younger bro’ Michael. Mom connected with music at all levels and all genres. This musical interlude takes us from Bensonhurst to Madrid, from the Moulin Rouge to the Bensonhurst Holy Family Home. Julie’s Grand Ole Opry and 86^th Street music are part of the passing landscape.

      Some may recall Shelton Brooks’ “The Darktown Strutters’ Ball:” “I’ll be down to get you in a taxi, honey. You’d better be ready around half past eight; now baby, don’t be late…” There was a more “ethnic” version—“I’ll be down to get you in a pushcart, honey.” Pushcarts were code for the Lower East Side, where Mom’s two older brothers were born. The Lower East Side was Chinatown, Delancey Street, and, of course, Little Italy.

      Lou Monte had a southern Italian dialect version of the “Strutters’ Ball,” and Mom did a great rendition. As a volunteer in the Holy Family Home, she used to sing a duet of it with an old fazool resident—precious. You will note, dear and appreciated reader, that I tend to use Italian-Americanisms throughout my reminiscences. That dormant language virus was awakened by my frequent trips to the “old country” during Mom’s struggles. Okay, fazool? Every Italian kid knew of Pasta Fazool, a hearty dish of pasta con fagioli (beans and macaroni). Somehow, we called older Italians, the ones with the accents, “old beans” or “old fazools.” We may have liked to say fazool ’cause it started with F and ended with “ool,” and rhymed with a curse that translated as “Go sodomize yourself.” Or, less colorfully, Brooklynese may have elided “fossil” to “fazool.” Alas, there is no Royal Academy of the Brooklyn Language to rule on this. Royal Academy? Why not? Brooklyn is the County of Kings.

      Mom was also pretty good with Eduardo di Capua’s “Eh Marie, Eh Marie,” popularized by, among others, Louie Prima and Lou Monte. Mom’s singing activities were in line with her being the unofficial entertainment chairlady of the Holy Family Home. She was also the chief seamstress—after all, what is an opera or musical without ostentatious costumes? She made the costumes for the famous Moulin Rouge can-can. Costumes by Vina were complete, so that the finale’s showy backward bow demonstrated tastefully ornate, embroidered, bloomer-festooned derrieres that belonged to the volunteers, Mom included. This awakened even the most moribund residents. Oh yeah, Mom did a fine tarantella as well.

      Mom’s musicality ranged from the prosaic to operatic poetry. I was always amazed at how she was able to keep opera in her life, because we were not the family to traipse to the Met. We lived in three small rooms in back of our linoleum/carpet store on the famous 86th Street, the “Casbah” of open-air markets and small family businesses, all graced with shade from the West End El. My brother and I would sit in front of the store girl watching—especially rewarding in the summer, when the West End El disgorged people returning either from Coney Island or from Manhattan jobs. Stepdad quietly ogled—he not one to voice comments about the young ladies. But, he did not refrain from caustic, intentionally audible remarks about the passing characters. He had a way of casually insulting the Italians in Yiddish and the Jews in Italian— equal opportunity practiced to an art. He slipped these invectives, with a straight face, in the middle of face-to-face conversation. Of course, in keeping with the musical theme, Stepdad did many renditions of “Mala Femmina” (“Evil/Bad Woman” by Totò) from his perch in front of the store; see below. I am sure the ladies saw the irony of that song, a favorite of many males in the ’hood.

      More 86^th Street and music: Hypochondriac Abe was one of the daily passing characters. “What do I know? I just schlep haberdashery!” We all called him Healthy, a nickname coined by stepfather. Abe was deeper than a door-to-door peddler. For example, he loved the opera, and would frequent the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Back in the day, I am sure the BAM was an oxymoron to much of America. Healthy and Mom would occasionally sing a duet to an aria or two—Healthy with a look of ecstasy on his face. I recall their duets in front of the store. When I left home for college and grad school, it was difficult for me to buy my underwear in JC Penney or Sears. And it was difficult for Mom to escape to an opera, a real opera, in those days.

      Healthy may have had a further cosmic connection to our musical lives. My Argentinian colleague, Ariel Goldraij, informed me that polaco meant precisely a Jewish door-to-door peddler in Argentina. Ariel helped further to weave this musical net by telling my brother of his love for the music of the Argentine, Astor Piazzola—“out of the box” tango composer and player of the bandoneón (modified accordion). Michael and Ariel connected because Piazzola was already one of my brother’s musical heroes.

      A couple of years after Mom was widowed, she got to see a whole opera in a truly a beautiful world-class venue. During my sabbatical in Spain in 2000, she and my kids visited over Christmas, and I was able to cop a couple of ducats to Verdi’s Il Trovatore at Madrid’s Teatro

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