Monthly Archive

Made it.

My first NaBloPoMo officially done.

It was great.

 Actually the entire month of November was a non-stop creative ride.

I didn’t hit the 50k at NaNoWriMo, but I did decide to continue working with my character.  She will be the star of an ongoing fictional blog.  All my notes are finally in one place, and the blog will officially launch on my 46th birthday.  A gift from me to me.

I want to say a special thank you to all the members of She Who Blogs.  What an amazingly supportive group of women, it’s an honor to be among you.

Wishing you all a wonderous December.

One of the first digital photographs I took with the first digital camera I bought myself in July, 2004.
It will always be one of my favorites.

What we are doing at the moment is more that just one thing added to the rest; it is a memoir.

Author Unknown

My friend Heart is still traveling - it’s been nearly a year now.

Yesterday he surprised me with an early birthday present.

Hand-Made.

One-of-a-Kind.

Priceless - Like Him.

The moment I saw it replays itself over and over on my mind’s screen.

A separate and beautiful page in my life’s book.

**the gift is an original work of art which I am not displaying because I don’t want it “borrowed” - thanks for understanding

Recently I walked by the church I attended as a child.

This statue has stood in front of the rectory all these years.

One Sunday when I was about 7 I noticed the hands were missing.

They had fallen victim to a game of stickball.

I remember asking the priest why Jesus’s hands were missing.

A few minutes later he preached a sermon about how we were all Jesus’s hands.

He mentioned me in the sermon, and that was a very exciting moment for a 7 year old.

Light Play

Memories of Thanksgiving 2007

This rainbow appeared on my table at Joe Junior’s diner on Thanksgiving Day.  I had stopped in for lunch while I was out on a photostroll.

Guess it was a combination of the fluorescents, light fixtures and formica.

No other table had one, definitely a good omen.

I caught these odd shadowly images on Balloon Night 2007. As the crowds past The Museum of Natural History I noticed part of the building was shrouded. They do that in New York when renovations and things are going on. There was more than one strange stare aimed my way as I shot my pics.

It’s the same photo in color and  b&w.

Eerie huh?

I love Coney Island.
Recently I heard that this upcoming season will be the last for the old rides and concessions.
It’s to be brought up to date.

I want to visit it one more time.
I want to sit on the boardwalk.
I want to eat greasy hot dogs with even greasier crinkle cut fries.
I want one more banana custard please.
I want to go on a few of the rides.
I might even leave my fear of heights home that day, and ride them all.
I want to see it, smell it and be part of it one more time, before it’s sanitized, plasticized and exudes that corporate glow.

<

Every time I see this sign I think of my father.
When I was 16 we went to register me for my junior year of high school.
Daddy hadn’t been on a subway since they cost a nickel, and the conductors wore white gloves.
On the way to the school we passed a Tad’s Steaks.
The special of the day was filet mignon for $2.99!
Hey, it was 1976 and things were a little cheaper.
Daddy said he just had to have one, so we went there for a fun lunch.
The other day I was out for a photostroll, and decided I just had to eat there.
I couldn’t believe it; they still use the same red glasses and tan salad bowls.
The $2.99 filet mignon special wasn’t available, so I had the Cowboy.

Balloon Day 2007

Every year Macy’s inflates it’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons on West 77th & West 81st Street.
It’s an event that thousands of kids & grown-up kids attend.
Here’s a few pics.

Wishing You All The Best!

Things For Which I Am Most Grateful

1.)   Daughter, Hubby & Son-In-Law

2.)   Grandma, Daddy, Uncle Petie & Joey - They’ve all left this realm of existence, but I have some amazing memories of them.

3.)    My Education - I only did 2 years of college, but it was a great experience that made up for high school.

4.)    Best Galpal - She’s 12 years younger than me; it’s like having a little sister.

5.)    Heart - His picture should illustrate the word friend in the dictionary.

6.)    My Apartment - We live in a  little studio in a building that’s nearly a hundred years old.  When I get home and kick off my shoes I am totally at peace.

7.)    Blogging/Digital Photography - The Internet led me to the creative outlets I needed after years of concentrating on business.

8.)    My She Who Blog buddies - Ohmigosh I love this amazing group of women. 

Central Park

Thought we’d have a little break. and see what’s going on in downtown Manhattan.

Yesterday I wrote about how hard grandma could be about certain things.

And I’ve often written about my dad and his own farout view of life.

Last night I got to thinking about how I handle stuff.

For instance, when my daughter married and moved away, I requested that they spend all holiday meals with his family.

My son-in-law comes from a big family, that does holidays up Norman Rockwell style.  There are lots of small children, which is I know is fun for my only child.

She tried to fight me on this one, but I told her whenever they drive down is holiday time for me.

My idea of a family holiday meal goes like this:

The four of us go to a restaurant and order whatever we like.

Nobody is dressed up.  My husband, son-in-law and daughter are all very involved in the church.  They’re dressed up all the time.  I don’t want anyone worrying about getting sauce on their suit.  Everyone wears washables! 

We catch up on all the goings ons that got missed in phone calls and emails.

Then we come to what I like to call the cash and prize distribution portion of the program. 

Afterwards we let the kids go run around New York and have fun - by themselves - hey they’re a young couple.

Duration of holiday meal: 3 hours max.

No stress. No mess.  Just fun.

My father would approve of how I do things.  Oddly enough I think my grandmother would too.  I don’t know why, but I feel her approval coming from wherever she is now.

Peace.

I often say grandma was mix of Marie from Everyone Loves Raymond & Sophia from The Golden Girls.

The woman said whatever she pleased whenever she pleased.  The bonus was you got it in Italian and English.

Anything that she deemed a slight could bring horrible repercussions. 

My father trained me from an early age that grandma was on a need to know basis.

He was not so successful with my brother or his own younger brother Peter.

Peter with a secret was an especially comical and dangerous person.

You knew he was sitting on some hot info as soon as you saw him.  His eyes would be darting back and forth, and when you said “Hi” he would freeze like a train was heading straight for him.  His body would tremble for a second or two, and bang out it would all come.

You wanted information out quick - you told Peter.

Grandma rarely went to other people’s homes.  She felt that it was the duty of the children and grandchildren she raised to visit her.

It took a lot to get her to a special event like a family wedding.  That dark day when grandma received an improperly addressed invitation is still clear in my mind.  The envelope only had her name on it.  The family member assumed it was a given that all of us would attend with her.  My grandmother said she couldn’t go, because Peter had not been invited to escort her.  The relative made numerous calls.  On the day of the event they sent a car and driver to pick her up; she slammed the door in their face.  She and the relative did not speak for nine years.  The relative was her oldest son.  The event - his 25th anniversary/wedding vow renewal party.

Don Corleone would have been an easier deal.

My Room & Other Things

When we moved to the new apartment I got my own room, because I was a girl.

It was a small square shaped room. The walls were painted white, and the carpeting was dark gold to match the gold trimmed white furniture.

My mother’s statue of the Madonna stood on a high narrow table was in a corner.  Uncle Tony’s storage box was next to it.  Grandma made matching covers for the table and box.

On the box were dolls my grandmother had bought me when I was little.  Grandma said I had never played with them.  Above the dolls was one one of those big eyed paintings of a little girl holding a mandolin.  On the table with the Madonna was a framed picture of me in my communion dress and veil.

Near the window was a stand that held my all-time favorite black & white GE TV. 

Unlike my brother, who spent every waking minute in the living room with grandma, I liked being in my room by myself. 

As I look back I think she was hurt by the fact that I went to my room and closed the door as soon as I got in from school. 

Most of my time in there was spent watching TV, doing homework and reading.   During my teen years I watched Tom Snyder chain smoke and interview celebs on his late night talk show, and then watched old movies.

At about age 11 or so I was allowed to walk the three blocks to the store to help daddy.

One night I got an idea that I wanted to cook my own dinner.  My father, a big advocate of eating what you like, said fine.  If I remember right I chose club steak and baby peas.

My grandmother watched me prepare it all quietly. 

This was something I had longed for.  Grandma’s Sunday & holiday meals were really good, but I had a problem with her every day fare.  Every dish seemed to have big pieces of celery, green pepper and onion.  Vegetable were cooked to mush, and her meats were all well-done. 

Celery has been and will always be the enemy, and I hate big pieces of anything in soups or sauces.  I love rare steaks, but have gone to medium these days because it’s just safer. As for vegetables, I like mine crisp or raw. 

Grandma said only a savage would eat raw food.

This was also the time that I began to do all my own laundry.

Grandma said fine and shrugged.  Then she noticed that I laundered and ironed well, and you know what happened right?

I ended up doing everyone’s laundry!

Showing my independence early hurt her.  My brother tended to cling, and she liked that.  She combed his hair every morning till he was 13.   Guess it made her feel important.

In was in later years that grandma and I became really close.  When she went into the nursing home I had Power of Attorney, and helped her make all decisions regarding her care.

It was a big surprise to me who had been called the crazy one for so many years.

A close friend was not surprised: “She’s known about you for years Frannie, she just wasn’t ready for you yet.”

Kitchen Memories

Thanksgiving is coming up soon, and Grandma’s holiday menu comes to mind.

Italian Wedding Soup.  Rich chicken broth loaded with boned chicken, tiny beef meatballs and pasta. 

Cold Antipasto.  We always went to the Italian butcher down on 9th Avenue for the salamis, pepperoni, capricolla and cheeses. 

Lasagna loaded with cheese and home-made sauce with meatballs and sausage.

Turkey with sausage & chestnut dressing - cranberry sauce on the side

Ham with pineapple & bright red maraschino cherries

Roast Beef

Baked Yams & Idaho Potatoes

Assorted Fresh Vegetables

Dessert was always pumpkin pie or as Grandma called them pumpakin pies.

Grandma did not have any of her recipes written down.  She did not own measuring cups or spoons either.  Everything was measured with her sharp chestnut brown eyes.

Unless I’m baking something I don’t use measuring cups or spoons either. 

I remember shopping for my first Thanksgiving meal as if I’d been doing it for years.  When I pulled the tray of stuffing out of the oven it looked just like hers.  And tasted like it too.  I felt like she was right beside me directing it all.

Grandma enjoyed my cooking too.  One year I made the Thanksgiving turkey and a pernil.  A pernil is a roast pork thigh.  I made mine Puerto Pican style with lots of fresh garlic & adobo.  While Grandma carved the bird she ate a piece before anyone else.  I can still see her chewing, one eye closed, nodding her head in satisfaction - the ultimate compliment.  My brother Joey began carving the pernil, and would have eaten all by himself if we hadn’t all started yelling!

I remember the afternoon I cooked chicken & dumplings at her apartment.  The dining room table was near the oven, and grandma sat in her cushioned captain’s chair carefully watching.

I put her in charge of skinning and de-boning the chicken after I pulled it from the stockpot.  The woman was in her late eighties, and had the job done in no time.  Every stage of the process fascinated her. 

When it was finally done she dug into her bowl with gusto.  She even had seconds.

Uncle Peter and everyone else had thirds!

I often think of my grandmother. 

She’s on my mind’s screen right now sitting at her place at the dining room table.

Dressed in her uniform of house dress with matching cardigan & house slippers, she is sipping tea from her favorite golden colored cup.

Uncle Tony bought her those cups when he returned from the Korean War.

“Frannie there’s something for a sandwich in the ice box.”

“Okay, Ma but first see what I brought you.”

Grandma loved fresh produce, so I would comb the local markets for finds.

A giant green and white cauliflower from the farmers market.

Two perfectly red, ripe tomatoes that actually smell like tomatoes.

Tiny red bliss potatoes.

And something from the Chinese restaurant!

Sliced beef with veggies including her favorite baby corn.  I spoon some on a plate for her.

“I shouldn’t I’m too fat.”

The fork looks so big in her hands these days.  She used to be 5′ 4″ tall, now she is under five feet.

“I’ve shrimped,” she often says.

Grandmaisms are great.

Shrimped is shrunk.

Bunions are onions.

Coat hangers are irons.

She only speaks Italian to me.  When my daughter was very little, she spoke English to her.  When my daughter was about 8 she stopped the English and only spoke Italian.

“Mommy, grandma speaks Italian to me when I go visit.  What will I do?”

“Don’t panic just understand her.”

And she did.   In a very short while she operated just like me.  Grandma spoke only Italian to her, and she answered in English.  Grandma understood English perfectly.

Hey, her stories were in English, and Grandma did not like to miss her afternoon stories.

Everyone knew not to call her between 1 and 4 pm on weekdays unless it was important.

 I can see her now smelling the tomatoes, and admiring the cauliflower.

“Franny eat your Chinese food.  Then make a sandwich if you still hungry.  I had Petie buy the cheese you like - you want tea?”

“Sure Ma I’ll put the pot on.”

“So what’s new?”

“Oh Ma you’ll never believe what the woman ahead of me was doing in the…”

It was December 1980.   I was home lying in my bed watching TV.  Suddenly the program was interrupted with an announcement that John Lennon had been shot at the Dakota; the building on West 72nd Street where he and Yoko lived. A short while later John Lennon died at Roosevelt Hospital.

My 19th birthday was just few days away.  I knew who The Beatles were, but really didn’t know anything about them - yet.   It was all any one talked about; I didn’t have much to contribute.

Sunday December 12th came and I was very upset, a family argument, so I decided to go out for a walk.  It was a beautiful clear winter day,  and I walked along Central Park West.  Near the Museum of Natural History you could hear a sort of rumble in the distance. 

People were pouring out of Central Park.  Many dressed in tie dye t-shirts, patched jeans, leather vests and blankets wrapped around them.  Obviously they had slept in the park overnight.

It was a memorial for John Lennon.  I continued walking.  By 75th Street you could barely move, but I didn’t want to turn back. 

Beatle songs played from tape decks people and many were singing along.  The sidewalk trembled beneath my feet from the weight of the crowd.  The lamp posts bent from people trying to climb them.

The world had become as one.  Thousand of broken hearts were united that day.  You could almost taste the salt in the air from the tears.

It almost 27 years ago, and yet the images are clear on my mid’s screen.

It was realizing how much difference just one small group of people can make in the world.

And how important the loss of a human being is to the world.

Peace.

I hear and I forget. I see and I remember. I do and I understand  ~ Confucius

Yesterday I ran down to the laundry room, and started a couple of loads of wash.

When I came upstairs I turned on the TV, and began channel surfing.

And what did I see coming up on The Soap channel?  The two episodes of Dallas where JR got shot, and the person who did it is found out.

Talk about your blast from the past.

That was the big question during one of my teen-aged summers. 

Who shot JR?

I really enjoyed watching them both while I fluffed & folded my jeans & sweats.

It also got other memories flashing up on my mind’s screen.

Sitting with grandma in front of the televsion set, at the old apartment, and watching the first man walk on the moon.

Calculators small enough to take to school with you.

Digital watches.  That was a biggie.  They cost hundreds of dollars when they first hit the market.  Now you find them in cereal boxes.  The ones in cereal boxes have more features than the originals.

Pong - it was huge - trust me.

Cable televion with only three or four different movies a month - we were thrilled.

Anyone here remember 8 tracks, portable battery operated 45 players and transistor radios?

Oh, and in case you’ve forgotten: Sue Ellen’s sister shot JR in his office with his own gun. Of course, they were having an affair and she wanted to get her sister out of the way by framing her for murder.

I found these old memoir posts while browsing through a blog I kept two years ago.



The weatherman said to get outside and enjoy today’s warm weather because there’s nothing to look forward to but rain, cold and snow - so I did.

I’ve lived on the Upper West Side all my life; four different buildings in 43 years to be precise.

My residence at the first one was a mere 16 months or so, and I had no recollection or photos of it until today.

While looking at my birth certificate recently I took note of that first address a mere city mile or so from my current residence. And today I went there. Just had to see the first place I or better my parents called home.

So here’s good ole number 311.

This is the second building my family and I lived in; a five floor walk-up on the Upper West Side. A 65 dollar a month two bedroom on the top floor complete with dumbwaiter, a toilet with old fashioned wooden box above it, and linoluem on the floors. We moved out in ‘68. The pizza parlor was an Irish bar then, and the bodega (tiny grocery store) was a beauty parlor. That beauty parlor was where I got my one and only perm. My grandmother washed it too soon, and I looked like a dirty blonde chrysanthemum for all of third grade.

Ah memories!

Losing Weight

I finished high school in January because of credits I had picked up in summer school.

College was in September, and I worked full-time for my dad in the store.

One morning I got up and decided to go on a diet.  I lived on cantaloupe, veggies and lean meat for three months and lost just a little over as hundred pounds.  When you’re in your teens weight just melts off.

My father was worried that I was sick.  It was 1980 and anorexia was big.  I assured him over and over that I was not going to starve myself to death.

I remember the day I replaced my entire wardrobe.  Even my shoes were loose on me.  I had one pair of white carpenters pants left that I could wear with a tightly cinched belt.  My top practically hung to my knees. 

It was a hot summer day, and I wandered in to Boltons on the Upper East Side.

The saleslady was in her mid-fifties with ash blond hair piled high on her head.  She wore the perfect little black dress.  She looke dt me like I had just washed up on shore from a shipwreck.

“I’ve lost a little weight, and I need some new clothes.”

“No kidding kiddo.  What size were you?”

“22.  These pants are a 16.  I bought them about a month and a half ago.”

“I see.  You’re a 12 now.”

The room spun.  12?  Me an actual size twelve.  

We hit the racks.  I’ll never forget what it felt like to slide into size 12 Gloria Vanderbilt jeans.  I left the store with two loaded shopping bags.   Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, silk shirts, boyfriend shirts and black slacks.  To this day I believe you just can’t have too many pairs of good black slacks.

The show store was next.  Black heels, Bass loafers and a pair of turquoise leather Indian style mocassins.  I don’t know how I got it all home.

After I dropped off the first load it was down to Macy’s for all new lingerie, and then on to Screaming Mimi’s for some vintage.

While it was fun to buy new clothes and stuff, I did find there was a downside to losing weight.

First off all the backhanded compliments like my favorite you look so great now.  They made to emphasis was on the now, because I frightened small children and animals you know.

There was a lot of jealousy too.  I remember one of my best friends asking me, “Why are losing so much weight Frances.  Are you trying to compete with me or something?”

Another sighed with relief when I told her I was a twelve.  “Thank God I thought you were down to a 10 like me.”

My father, brother and uncle were all overweight, and we all worked in the store together.

Customers constantly asked them when they would follow my good example.

I told people not to compare my relatives to me, and they were angry at my ingratitude for their compliments.

After 25 years of marriage I’ve slowly put all the weight back on plus some.

Once again I am working on a diet.  For sure a 100 pounds won’t melt off in three months.

I’d just love to be under 200 at this point; 199 is a pretty attractive number to me right now.

Peace.

The High School Years a.k.a The Necessary Evil

I’m not one of those people who has a boatload of great high school memories.  No pep rallies, no proms, or teams.  I didn’t even attend graduation.  Just picked up my diploma at the office and moved on.

I don’t have any bitter memories either.

It was just  something I had to do. 

I attended three of them actually.

The first two years I went to a small all girls parochial school. 

There were about 200 of us. 

Every girl in my freshman class was from a different school.  Amazingly enough they immediately formed cliques on the very first day.

It was like everyone knew where they belonged.  The Trendy Tinas, Athletes & Brains all recognized each other. 

The leftovers were me, Evelyn & Jasmine.  Me and Evelyn teamed up and hung out the two years I was there.  Jasmine never hung out with anyone.  She got super high marks, barely ate at lunch, and spoke in a whisper.  Everyone just figured she was super shy and left it at that.

Years later I saw her on the East Side.  She had on a pair of high heels that would give you a nosebleed, and her jeans and make-up looked painted on.  Guess she stopped being shy.

Evelyn was a cool friend who was a martial arts freak.  She was always working out.  Every once in a while she would get on me about my weight.  Several years after high school was long over I saw her on 34th Street.  Evidentally she was not working out anymore; she was bigger than me.  I decided to be kind and not say “hi.”

I bailed out of parochial school in junior year.  I just didn’t go back.  The first day came, and I didn’t go.  The second day came, and I didn’t go.  Two weeks later the school called, and I told the prinicipal I just didn’t want to go there anymore.

I spent one term at an all girls public high school, but it was too long trip on the subway every morning.  I did have the pleasure of hanging out with Theodora.  Her family was Greek and super strict.  Her dad found out she babysat for a woman who was divorced, and cut her off financially.  No money for lunch, clothes, nothing.  She babysay every night to keep herself in burgers and footwear.  We could talk for hours.

The next term I registered at the local public high, and it was absolutely fine.  The student population was over 2000, and I happily lost myself in the crowd.  As I remember I even helped out on the yearbook & did service in the Vice-Principals office.

** fellow students names were changed

My first truly recognizable independent moment came during the summer of 1976.  I was 14 and a half, and I wanted to go to the movies.   Nobody available to go with me.

With the exception of school I never went anywhere alone.   Movies or any other event required a family member or a family approved friend along with me. 

That Saturday I decided that I was going to a movie on my own. 

Knowing there would be questions  my case was prepared well in advance.

Daddy’s green eyes peering at me over his horn rims are still clear in my mind.

Where is this movie?  East 86th Street.

How will you get there?  There’s a crosstown bus at  Columbus Avenue & 86th.  I’ll walk there from here.

What’s the movie?  Gable & Lombard.  It’s about old movie stars.

Gable made some great pictures.  You know they don’t make any really good movies anymore.  Especially cowboy pictures - can anyone tell me why they don’t make any cowboy pictures anymore?  Randolph Scott now that was an actor.  He was a great cowboy too.  Him and Esther Williams were my favorites.  Ever see an Esther Williams picture Franny?  Now that was a bee-yoo-tee-full girl!

Score!  He was going to give.  Talking about the old days always put him in a good mood.

What time does this movie begin?  Here’s the ad.  It has the theatre address and the next show time.

Let me see that.

Okay, we’re going to try this out.  The next show is at 2:30pm and the next one begins 4:30pm, so with travel time and everything I expect you back here by 5:30pm.  Okay? 

He gave me some money, and I walked off toward the magic of a movie alone. 

After seeing that movie kearning about all the old-time movie stars became a passion.  I devoured every book I could find about old Hollywood.   Two of my favorites were The Moon is a Balloon & Bring On The Empty Horses by David Niven.

Soon after I discovered the old retro movie houses like my favorite Thalia.   So many of my evenings were spent watching classic black & white films.  Oh and let’s not forget the technicolor wonders of the fifties.

My father used to chuckle over me paying to see old movies.

You could watch it on late show for free Franny.

“But Daddy when it’s on the big screen, and there are no cat food commercials it’s just so much better.”

I still enjoy going to the movies on my own to this day.

My mother Geraldine Ann.

This is the only photograph I have of her.

My grandmother saved it for me.

Me and Joey circa 1964.  He was about a year old here.

We’re in grandma’s room at the old apartment.

That’s a picture of Uncle Tony in his Marine uniform on the dresser.

I was only taller than Joey for a little while.  By time he was six he was nearly as tall as grandma.

She used to argue with all the bus drivers when they tried to charge her full fare for him.

I went to live with grandma when I was about 15-17 months old.  My brother Joey came a short while later; he was three days old.  My mother was not well, and could not care for us.  Daddy moved her from the West End apartment to one on the 3rd floor of grandma’s building. We were on the 5th floor.  It was the five of us; grandma, Daddy, Uncle Petie, me and my brother.

 The apartment is still clear in my mind.  When you opened the door the first thing you saw was grandma’s little bedroom.  She had a big old brass bed with a snowy white chenille spread.  There was a dark wood dresser with a big mirror and lace curtains on the windows.  To the left was the big bedroom that daddy shared with Uncle Peter.  They slept on matching single beds with light wood frames.  There was an alcove in the back of that bedroom that became my room.  Next to my bed was a big window with a green fire escape outside of it.

To the right was a narrow hallway.  The first door on the left was the bathroom.  It was really old fashioned.  The toilet tank was made of wood, and you pulled a wooden handle on a chain to flush.

The hallway ended with the living room.  The kitchen was the last room in the house.  It even had a real dumbwaiter.  Grandma would put the garbage in it, and send it down to the cellar.

The floors were covered with blue linoleum.  The kitchen table was white with gold speckles.  The radiator was huge and hissed when the steam came up.  Grandma used put fresh orange peels on it, and the heat would spread the scent.

Grandma always said, “Children need fresh air,” so every afternoon we would walk 15 blocks to visit Daddy at his deli.
 
The deli was very small, but it had a big fruit and vegetable stand outside.  Mitty lived at the store.  A small black cat with white paws, she adored daddy and hated us.  One afternoon she scratched my brother’s leg because he was sitting on Daddy’s lap.
Columbus Avenue was block after block of old tenement housing, but change was in the air and suddenly there was a lot of construction going on.  It was very impressive for a six year old.  The new buildings that were going up seemed to touch the sky.  On our walks Grandma would discuss the changes with us.
There was one particular site near the store that Grandma went to look at every day; it was near Central Park.
“I wish we could live there,” she sighed one day.  Then we went to the store, and she spoke to Daddy.
My father’s major mission in life was keeping his mother happy.  And this my friend’s could be real tricky sometimes.
If grandma wasn’t happy then nobody was going to be happy - especially my father.
There was no question she giving her all for us.  She was 52 years old when she took on a toddler and a 3 day old infant.
Daddy had asked her to keep us for a couple of weeks, while he sorted things out.  We had been there nearly four and a half years; everyone knew it was permanent. 
Daddy found out the particulars about the building, and made an application to rent a three bedroom apartment as soon as the doors open.  The application was accepted, and grandma was beside herself with joy.
The ultimate dream come true - a new apartment that no one else had ever lived in.
My grandmother hated anything that was not new.  Apartments, clothing, furniture it didn’t matter what. 
I remember how mad she would get years later when I came home with vintage clothing & shoes. 
“That might have belonged to someone who died,” she would yell.  She was firmly convinced I was bringing “spookies” into the house.
So now we were moving to a new place where no ever died.  The building would be finished in about a year, and grandma began to make plans.  She was cracking open the big piggy bank for this one.  The new apartment would have all new furniture. 

 Only a few things from the old place made the cut.  The wooden storage box our Uncle Tony made her years before came with us, as well as the religious statues and paintings.  For reasons that I never knew the little plaque with a basin for Holy Water was not hung near the new door.
We never left the old apartment without grandma blessing us with Holy Water.  This did not happen at the new place. 

Funny thing is that I never remember missing it till I began these memoir postings.

Another thing that happened when we moved is that grandma stopped going to church.  She hired an older girl to take us every Sunday.  As I write many images from my childhood flash on my mind’s screen. 

This is becoming quite an experience.

Family Photos

My grandmother Josephine (1910 - 1993), my grandfather Joseph (1888-1961) & my favorite Uncle Peter (1943-1993) at his first communion.

Grandfather & my father at his confirmation.

My beloved father Natale aka Nick (1934-1991) at his high school graduation.

As you can see by the dates my grandfather was quite a bit older than my grandmother. If both were alive today they would 120 & 97 - amazing huh?
My father’s answer when asked his age was 19. On my 26th birthday he said;”Frances, you’ve let this birthday thing get totally out of hand. You’re seven years older than your father.”
My father graduated from high school and became the sole support of his father, mother and younger brother Peter nine years his junior.
At 18 he worked full-time and paid all their expenses.
My father married in January of ‘61, and my grandfather passed away in February of the same year.
By then my father owned his own deli outright with no debt at 27 years of age. My Uncle Peter worked with him; he was 18 at the time. My father along with his brother supported his mother until his death. My Uncle never married and lived with and supported his mother until his death in ‘93. She followed him four months later.
They just don’t make them like that anymore.

Photo Memories

This is my parochial school graduation photo circa 1974.  I was 13 years old.

This is me at 13 too - after school!

A Personal Hero 

Our family’s grocery store was just a block from Central Park, so there was a lot of jogger traffic.

Some days it was like watching a Cecil B. DeMille movie.

One jogger in particular stands out in my memory: a silver haired man who jogged in shorts and no shirt during the winter. 

It was the 1970’s, I was in my teens, and I would see him heading back from the park late at night.  His silver hair gleamed  under the street lights, bare chested even when snow was falling.  It was impressive to see.

Fast forward to 2005.

I stop to  rest on a bench during an afternoon walk around the Central Park Reservoir.  Next to me is an older gentleman with a walker.  He’s wearing a Marathon jacket and hat.  He gives me a warm smile, and I can’t help but smile back.  Before you know it we are chit chatting.

His name is Alberto Arroyo, he will be 92 in February, and he is The Mayor of Central Park.  Everyone calls him Al.

He points to the photographs of himself in a special box on the Reservoir’s Gate House.  His walker is outfitted with a special seat that doubles as a storage place.  Al begins to bring out books and articles about himself for me to see. 

As I look through the pictures I realize that he is the “shirtless jogger.”

Al is 92 now, and he goes to the park every day to sit on his bench; it has a special plaque with his name on it.

Tourists love to stop and chat with him.  As people jog past his spot you hear quite a few “Hi Al’s.”

And I am sure he is one of the most photographed men in Manhattan.  He poses for dozens of pictures every day.

So here’s some pics of one of my personal heros Alberto Arroyo

And do click the links to learn more about him.

I was born at Mt. Sinai Hospital on Manhattan’s Upper East Side on December 12th 1961. Mt. Sinai is the big black building in the photo.  It’s way more friendly than it looks.

After a few days of resting and being admired through the nursery window,  I crossed the park to The Upper West Side where I’ve lived ever since.



The two towers that you see in the next picture are of The Ardsley & Eldorado; they’re two rather ritzy buildings on Central Park West.  The buildings are home to some big names including Barbra Streisand.

My dad’s grocery store was just a block from the park.  Over the years we had many celebrity sightings.  One afternoon in the ’70’s La Barbra strolled with another woman who needed some smokes.  One of our cashiers gasped; “It’s Barbra Streisand!” My father who nothing about musis said, “Who’s Barbra Streisand?” Needless to say he got a filthy look from the great lady as she turned on her heel and left.

Daddy always shot hard from the hip. William Hurt was a frequent and friendly customer for a while.  He was up for his second Oscar in two years, and when I saw him I wished him best of luck.  My dad peered at him over his glasses and said, “Lucky for you I didn’t do a movie this year.”