The Iconographer

 Set 1

(The Iconographer is an extended monologue in three sets. The images of the icons on the wall later in the sets must pour through the “window on the world.” The last Icon to be seen is a Mother of Sorrows. The actor who plays Jason must not permit himself to be misled: Jason is a man who is happy. A twilight lit studio in a retro-fitted mill in Hartford overlooking a park. Light pours through a window throwing colors on a wall opposite. The reflection, though diffuse, has the appearance of a stained glass window. This mirage later will become various icons. Jason, a painter, sits at a table upon which are a bottle of wine and two wine glasses. Throughout, Sorlée is represented by a disembodied voice.)

Jason: Socrates said “know thyself,” and ever since people have been dreadfully confused, artists more than others.

The modern age, God bless it, is in despair over its essence. But this has always been the case. This expression – ‘the modern age’ – is fluid, right? One might almost say it’s not very expressive. After all, in the 19^th century, the impressionists, who now seem to us old-hat, were modern, very cutting edge. They were displaced by the abstractionists, as I call them. And pretty soon artists were throwing slops against the wall, hoping some of it would stick. These in turn were displaced by a whole series of absurdists – conceptualists, for example. Conceptualists have murdered art; they have done away with the art object -- the painting, the sculpture, the piece of music, the conveyer of beauty. Art is to them subjective, an interior slice of life, a passing fancy. The idea’s the thing; art for the idea’s sake.

(Waving his hand dismissively) Never mind; this chase after the modern is very wearing. Let’s face it; to be modern is to be “like us.” We are the moderns, those of us who are accidentally alive.

The modern artist is the man in revolt, the anarch-artist. He does not want to satisfy your aesthetic sense, your yearning for beauty. All that is incomprehensible to him. He wants mostly to arouse an emotion in you, to scrape his fingernails on surface of your soul until you screech, “LEAVE… ME… ALONE!” There are ways of doing this; truly, most ways of making money lead downward.

You’ve got to give it to Sorlée though. She was a great screech inducer, a true modern. A few years ago, an idea popped into Sorlée’s fertile brain. Well, you know, that head was a plowed field, waiting for seed. Artists were hungering for their next victim. Who would it be? The God-bitten already had been trussed and dressed; after Mesmere, they had become inured to insult.

Mesmere was the genius who smeared mud –though later it turned out to be brown paint-- on a replica of a Mother of Sorrows icon. Insult art, you know. After all, considered as an emotion, what is the delight of beauty when compared with resentment?

The highbrows were amused; the lowbrows, some few badgered old ladies and priests still clinging to their outworn faith at a cathedral where the holy icon had reposed unmolested for years, were moved to sorrow, very different from resentment. Mesmere was nonplussed. What’s all the fuss about anyway? The icon’s a replica, not the real thing. Even the mud was fake.

A museum refused to include Mesmere’s insult art in a show. This assured his notoriety. Queries began to pour in, followed by money. And before you could say death to beauty, he was rolling in commissions.

Other artists took notice. Who can we insult now, they wanted to know? And the hunt was on for the next hapless victims.

Sorlée decided it must be the artists themselves. No one had yet so much as touched them with a feather. They were spotless, virginal, placid, unmoved. This was intolerable. And so she began to produce icon-like paintings.

Well! They shrieked at this retreat into the Dark Ages, this inexcusable retrogression. Icons? Icons? Are you mad?

Excuse me, my throat is dry for some reason. (He pours out and takes a sip of wine. Looking out the window) I wish you could see this view. Viewed from the heights, it is  beautiful… (Laughing)… that word again. This studio in a retro-fitted mill in Hartford is my window on the world.

My first window on the world overlooked Petrin Garden in Prague. That is where I met Sorlée. Now, you must know this about Sorlée: She is beautiful, beautiful in the classical sense: hair black as a raven’s wing, high rolling cheekbones, expressive sable eyes, a nose not perfect, blessed, I would say, with imperfection, full lips and a smile that lights up the world.

Personally, I can tell you, that smile did it for me, the way it transformed her mobile face; that and the diffident, catlike way she moved, And she is intelligent too, which makes her all the more alluring. (Takes a sip of wine)

My doctor says red wine is good for the arteries. Scripture says “take some wine for thy stomach’s sake”…

Yes, why not icons? Have you noticed the word has been overused in the modern period? Madonna is said to be “iconic.” (Laughing) Oh, dear, I suppose we shall have to distinguish between icons here. Madonna the singer is said to be iconic. Of course, the Blessed Virgin Mary, that Madonna, always was iconic. In the modern period, chronically unable to make proper distinctions, everything – and nothing – is iconic.

Did you know that buildings are now iconic? Yes, buildings… and soccer players. Anything that represents anything else is iconic. The word has been horribly debased. In the so called dark ages, the icon was a sign of holiness. In our age it has become a meaningless appendage.

Chagall incorporated iconographic elements into his paintings. In fact, it was Chagall who led Sorlée to icon making. Like many pre-moderns – and remember, anyone preceding us is a pre-modern – Chagall liked to eat; which is to say, he liked to make money, for him always a means to some nobler end. In those days, it was still possible to think of an artist as a sort of priest called to a vocation, dedicated to his muse.

You know the Rockefellers of course -- the redundantly rich Rockefellers? It appears that some of them were humane. They wanted to celebrate the good things their family had done over the years. So, when their father and mother died, David Rockefeller and his wife Peggy decided to memorialize them by commissioning an artist to make a stain glass window in the Union Church in New York where their family had worshipped. David’s wife persuaded Matisse to do a single window, his last art project before he died. While in Paris, she had seen an exhibit in stained glass done by Chagall, and – BANG -- something erupted in her soul. Chagall did a window in Union Church on the theme suggested by the family, the Good Samaritan, and it was only much later, after Chagall had completed other windows for the small church, that David realized there had been a previous Rockefeller-Chagall connection.

Chagall was a Russian Jew who had settled in France. In 1940, he fled Nazi occupied Paris to Marseilles, where he was plucked from what the Rockefeller’s understatedly called “an increasingly desperate situation” by Varian Fry of the Emergency Rescue Committee, a group charged with snatching artists and intellectuals from the iron jaws of totalitarian regimes. (Takes a sip of wine) It always seemed reasonable to me that Chagall would not relish getting stuffed into a crematorium.

David was surprised to discover that the Rockefeller Foundation, headed by his father, funded the effort that brought Chagall through Spain to America. Chagall had illustrated a Bible, and his life experience had opened his heart to the beauty of the parable of the Good Samaritan. (Another sip of wine, and the glass is finished) Just a bit more (He pours a half glass. Transfixed, as before, by the scene out the window)… That winding stream, that blue sky, would delight any artist in the service of beauty; the leafy green of the trees, a splash of yellow, a splash of blue, there a woman in a red dress and a child together curled like a serpent by a bed of flowers, dark roofs, life moving and shimmering outside the window… Try to imagine all this color and beauty caught in window itself, and the images too… (A sip of wine). There you have the windows of the Union Church, and a story, as well, of pursuit, sanctuary and redemption.

An odd thing is art -- that could catch all this joy and fear and rescue in a window that, at certain times of the day, pulses like a heart with light… (Takes a sip of wine. Light floods through the window and throws on the wall an image of an icon – the Mother of Sorrows)

I fell in love with Sorlée. Have you noticed – one always gives oneself permission to fall in love, yes?

It happened one morning at the Kavarna Slavia in downtown Prague. I hadn’t seen Sorlée in a long while – two years – and then, suddenly, she was there before me, quite alone in the hubbub of the cafe, nursing a coffee… There is weightiness about some people, a too solid, almost unbearable mass. That was Sorlée, nothing ephemeral about her… Or maybe it was me; it may have been my fitful fall into love.

She was wearing around her neck a small cross on a slight chain, spider web thin, that would have been inconspicuous on anyone other than her. As an artist, you know, she was used to sending messages. We all are. And I thought, (scornfully) “A cross?” Among artists, gestures like this shout.

Here she was in a tourist café – she who despised tourists -- far from her usual haunts, small cramped places full of intellectuals and aspiring artists, I almost said “aspiring atheists,” wearing a cross. Well, you know, among our kind at that time, this was a provocation. If you are going to step into a nest of vampires, it’s best to leave the crosses at home.

I thought to myself, “Why get excited; it’s only jewelry.” So, I brought myself and my coffee to her, and noticed almost immediately that something had changed, though I didn’t know what it was until much later, when it was too late.

In those two years, Sorlée had been a witness to suffering on a grand scale. I tell you, the stench of death changes one in subtle ways; one becomes more reflective (searching for exactly the right word) … perfected.

(Sorlée’s voice is rendered here in italics. Though not personally present in the play, she is a presence, through her voice)

She said, “Hello, Jason.”

(He sits at the small table. On the chair opposite, is one of his icons propped against the back of the extra chair. There is a full, second wine glass on the table. He will not drain this until the end of the play. For him, the icon stands in the place of Sorlée, and he talks to it)

Those sable eyes, that canopy of hair -- still, I thought, the glory of a woman, that hair. Later, she wore her hair short.

“I haven’t seen you. You’ve been hiding, eh?”

“In a way. I’ve been behind enemy lines..”

“That couldn’t have been too pleasant.”

“No.”

(He takes a sip of wine) “Your cross is pretty.”

“More useful than pretty.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

I wanted to get a rise out of her. “I think you know that here crosses cannot be too useful.”

“Yes, here. It’s good to get away for awhile; you know, see something of the world, break out of this dead end. It broadens your perspective. The cross” she fingered it lovingly – “is a sign of hope in suffering.”

And now, decades later, how I wished I were that cross.

“Well, one generally wants to avoid suffering, even at the risk of abandoning hope.”

“Yes Not everyone is so fortunate. Where there is much suffering, one finds hope. There are many crosses in the suffering East. The underground churches are full.”

And with that the laugh – or rather the generous smile, because there was no mendacity in Sorlée, ever – was on me. She was referring to an earlier conversation we had had, about Job and suffering and empty churches. Prosperity in the West, she had said, had emptied the churches.

Even people who know nothing about scripture know Job, artistic agnostics too. They are always shoving Job in your face. “What about suffering? Why does God tolerate it? What about Job? If I were God, I’d be a little more compassionate, I can tell you” (He laughs). Poor Job; he has become a sharp stick to poke Christians with. He used to be a man. Now, he is little more than a reproach.

I remember Sorlée’s take on all this. Suffering is one of the paths to God. Those who do not suffer do not need God. The rich, the self satisfied, those who have never tasted suffering, those who are full, are destined to go away empty.

How easy it was to murder all this… (The light from the window is fading)… The light is going. (To the audience) You’ve been so still, so patient. Really, you’re a saint, to sit there all this time, a silent witness to all this. (Fade slowly to black).

The Iconographer Set 2

Do I sound like a professor? Sorlée said that to me once: “You sound like a professor.” And now look, I’ve become a professor, happily retired. But who would have guessed I would have turned to iconography.

(Looking at one of his icons) These things, you know, are difficult to make. Luckily, there is a place in Connecticut off the coast of Mystic – evocative name there – where one can learn to write icons. At Ender’s Island, a master icon maker pointed me in the right direction. And an orthodox priest in New Hampshire, Father Andrew Tregubov, introduced me to the work of Gregory Kroug. Alexander Solzhenitsyn, then in exile from Russia after he had exposed the Soviet Union’s vast Gulag Archipelago, found sanctuary in his church. 

Kroug’s trajectory was that of a falling star. He was born in Russia in 1909 and immigrated to Estonia after the 1917 revolution. Later, he found his way to the Academy of Art in Paris. There he was joined by a brilliant group of Orthodox theologians, lay people and monastics, who bore within themselves what has since come to be called the Russian religious renaissance. Together they restored the art of icon making of Holy Mother Russia as it had been before Russia’s “western captivity.” Their work of love was interrupted by the violent religious persecutions of the communists.

Violence is nothing new to revolutionaries. Revolutions destroy utterly what they replace. During the French revolution, several nuns were led to the scaffold. One of them asked to pray before she died. “Shut up,” she was told. “Die.”

Artists, who murder and create, are also revolutionaries; or they consider themselves such. But the revolution this time was burning in Russia, where icons were being ground underfoot, and Paris, the city of light, ironically became a refuge for the rebirth of Russian iconography. Imagine! A couple of centuries earlier, Parisian revolutionists had made a cow barn out of Notre Dame Cathedral.

Kroug became a monk, imposed upon himself the yoke of poverty and asceticism, and died in 1969 in the Skete of the Holy Spirit, a small hermitage near Paris. In the course of his life, Kroug wrote 550 icons and wall paintings. He was very active.

Paris again; it opens its arms to Chagall and Kroug, to émigrés in which the spirit lives and works its wonders.

And it was in Paris I met Sorlée for a second time.

Can you guess why she was there? (Big smile) As fortune would have it, she was there to visit Noisy-le-Grand, Montgeron and Mesnil-St-Denis to see the icons of Father Kroug.

Life has some surprising twists in it.

It was raining. A friend had been kind enough to let me use her apartment while she was on business in England. The rain drew me to the window, which I noticed had not been cleaned. The pelting rain was beading up on the soiled window, making little meandering tracks of dirt. An image flying past the window stabbed me in the eye. Across the street, I could see a woman in red move by. Immediately, I knew it was Sorlée. I ran down the stairs, breathless, flew out the door and shouted,  (He shouts out the window) “Sorlée, for God’s sake, Sorlée!”

But she had disappeared. Then there was a profound silence, an abyss of emptiness. She stepped around the corner.

“Jason?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

I could feel the warm rain on my face. My heart was dancing.

“How did you know it was me”?” I asked after I had led her back to the apartment. (He sits at the table)

“The voice is a signature.”

Imagine! People are present even in a voice, little more than a puff of wind. She was uncomfortable in the apartment, I could see, so we went to a small café.

“You still cradle the coffee with your hands.”

“Some things don’t change.”

“I’m glad to see you.”

She smiled her world conquering smile.

“I’m glad to see you too.”

“Is there someone for you here? Is that why you were uncomfortable at my invitation?”

“No. There is no one.”

“I’ve been reading about Jonah and the whale.”

She laughed.

“You have this way of continuing conversations as if no time at all has passed since we last saw each other.”

“We are alive and young. We leap over time.”

“Yes. What about Jonah?”

“Where is your cross?”

“It’s raining. I have it under my blouse. What about Jonah?”

“I said that to catch your attention.”

“Why are you in Paris?”

“Do you know the icons of Father Kroug?”

She laughed heartily and rolled her eyes.

“Why do you laugh?”

“Know them? I’ve lived in them for the past year. And how do you know Father Kroug?”

“Through an orthodox priest in New Hampshire, Father Tregubov. Don’t tell me you know him.”

“No.”

“The coincidence is astonishing. So then, you’ve seen the icons?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you think?”

“They are beautiful. Works of love. Little pieces of heaven fallen to earth. But they are disappearing. Father Kroug was a poor priest; he used inferior paints.”

“Why don’t we get married?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It’s impossible.”

“Will you show me the icons?”

“Yes.”

(The Icon of Christ Pantocrater appears on the wall)

Amazingly, we were alone in the chapel of Noisy-le-Grand, both of us looking at Christ Pantocrator, a familiar image in iconography.

But Sorlée was looking through the icon, as earlier I had looked through the soiled window and saw her, a splotch of red moving swiftly down the street.

“There is much ennobling suffering here. This little chapel was once a barn owned by a poor Orthodox nun in Paris, Mother Maria Skobtsova. Do you know her?”

“No.”

“She tended to the poor and the homeless. She had very little money, yet somehow she was able to acquire this farm, her retreat from a bruising world. One of the sheds she turned into this chapel. She died the death of a martyr later in a German concentration camp; she went to the crematorium in place of a woman with a child. The script in the open book of this icon is a verse from Mathew: “Come to me all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

“Why won’t you marry me, if there is no one?”

“Please,” she said, and with such passion…

I make my pilgrimage, whenever I can, to Noisy-le-Grand. Not too often, because retired professors are not rich, you know. I go first to Paris, and hope for a cleansing rain, then to the chapel. Father Kroug lavished much attention on these icons. They are brilliant, just brilliant. Here is the light of Christ – here, and no where else, for me – caught in the writing of these icons. You see it, peeking through the transparent wash of paint, a celestial light, otherworldly, arrows of light dancing on Christ’s brow, there in the white of his eyes, in the slivers of golden light piercing his shoulder – the first light, the light of creation.  I was in love here. And everything was strangely mixed up, this ferment in my heart and soul… this (he raises his glass of wine) … wine, this fruit of the vine (as he sinks in to a reverie. He walks to the window, looks out) I wait, in joyful hope, of your coming. (Fade to darkness)

The Iconographer Set 3

(The twilight stage. Intense light pours through the windows, and we see on the wall opposite a clear reflection of a Mother of Sorrows icon. Jason is still looking out the window) But she never came. I met her brother here in Hartford…

I have my view. I’ve always insisted on a view. This one overlooks a slice of park, a large weeping willow, a duck pond befouled by Canada geese. No one seems to know how to rid the park of these unwelcome geese. They are not native to the area and drive out the more desirable native species. Everything has been tried. Someone stuck a stuffed hawk in the willow tree. This worked for awhile. But soon the geese were back, bad habits with feathers. Dogs were let loose in the area, but then the park administrators began to fear they might be sued if one of the dogs bit a child. Believe me, nothing is so rabid as the bite of a lawyer. And so finally, having exhausted every stratagem to rid the park of these menaces, the park administrators began to see some virtues in those geese. But the pond is now polluted, and it is hoped that the geese may move on…

I have the patience of Job (laughing to himself)… Job again. We never get far from Job… I was waiting – for hope to come and swarm in the empty places in my heart. Then, one day, a letter arrived. It was from Sorlée. She mentioned Jonah. It was a friendly letter…

I’ve since burned it. She was right – it was impossible. I nursed the memory of her in my heart. But she was fading, like the icons bleaching into the walls at Noisy-le-Grand.

Finally, a messenger arrived in Hartford: her brother.  I could see a resemblance. But this was decades later. When I had last seen Sorlée, both of us were young. Her brother, younger than her by a dozen years, had spikes of gray in his hair.

“And your sister Sorlée, how is she?”

“Gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“She just disappeared. We thought—an accident... Such things happen. I came here because we found your letters. I’ve brought them to you.

I burned them. When you get to be of a certain age, nostalgia is a deadly companion; hug her and, like a vampire, she’ll suck the breath from your mouth in a fatal kiss.

In our time, there are many Leviathans, many Jobs.  So then, something had opened wide its jaws and swallowed my beautiful Sorlée.

The Sorlée I knew, at least in the early days, was an ardent rebel. She once told me she admired the early Russian anarchists, Dora Brilliant, a member of the terrorist Combat Brigade, in particular.

“Dora Brilliant, a pseudonym?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know. Dostoyevsky, at some point, became involved in the socialism of the day. Some extremists, though not those in Dostoyevsky’s group, were serious atheistic regicides. They  wanted to strike through the mask of Czarism to kill the God that supported the king. Dostoyevsky’s imprisonment was a bureaucratic error. His involvement in the Petrashevsky circle was hardly revolutionary. After suffering much in prison, the artist discovered the God hidden in the pleas of the poor and wretched, and he turned in another direction. Others, less worthy, came later to complete the work begun by the terrorist brigades – Stalin, for instance, whose mistakes were intentional and deadly. By that time, the purity of Dora Brilliant  had been corrupted: A murdered Christian God was replaced by the deadening hand of the god of history, at whose alter we still worship.”

 I can tell you, Sorlée had many friends. She was in rebellion against everything, everything. And then an inordinate love of beauty led her by the hand to icons, and soon she was lost to us. Pretty much everyone turned against her. Not me. Because I loved what she loved, for the love of her.

And so here I am – an old man, at the butt end of September. Soon, winter will come. I have my icons. I have my window on the world. I have my wine. There are not many pleasures in this dessert of modernity worth the bother; most of them leave the taste of cardboard in your mouth. With this (he holds up the wine) I toast the revolution to come. Wine has become my only sacrament. That and the beauty of icons is enough. Sometimes, I wander towards the window and imagine other vistas. Sometime a shot of red goes by and I think -- my deliverer lives. I am happy to think I may someday expect a visit. In this demonic human comedy, stranger things have happened. It pleases me to think Sorlée is alive and moving about in the world. I have never since met anyone so joyful. And I am joyful too. It is my vengeance on a world that has taken her from me. (He drinks the second glass of wine. Fade to black) 

A Brief History Of Italians In America, 4 The Cross And The Flag

The Cross And The Flag

It never was a walk in the park being a Catholic in Connecticut – or, for that matter, anywhere in New England. Italian and Catholic Irish “papists” in the post-Civil War period could routinely expect ill treatment, and sometimes outright persecution.

In Boston, during the American Revolution, voices raised in celebration of religious freedom were also turned, almost mechanically, against orthodox Catholics. In a frequent celebration reminiscent of Guy Fawkes Day in Britain, an effigy of the Pope seated on a chair was carried through the streets of colonial Boston and liberally pelted with rocks and rotten fruit by the anti-Catholic mob. Wealthy merchants, the River Kings of the Connecticut Valley, joined in the fun, as did Boston ministers who had conveniently put aside the central tenant of Christianity: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Following election to the presidency of John Kennedy – a Catholic in chains who had to assure voters he was not an agent of the pope -- it was thought that this many headed hydra had been disposed of, once and for all. But anti-Catholicism runs deep. The historian Arthur Schlesinger, whose father was a Prussian Jew and whose mother was an Austrian Catholic, wrote that anti-Catholicism was the oldest and most enduring of American prejudices, a live option in both Jamestown and Plymouth Colony. Like the underground river in the Yucatan Peninsula, considered the longest in the world, prejudices run hidden from view and occasionally splash up to the surface – which brings us to Saint Oronzo, the patron Saint of Lecce in Southern Italy, located on the heel of Italy’s boot on the Adriatic facing Albania.

What we know of Oronzo, the cultus of the Saint, comes to us by way of a twelfth century manuscript. It is doubtful anyone in Windsor Locks was familiar with this record, including the pastor of Saint Mary’s Church, Father Finance – his real name.

According to the legend, Justus, a disciple of Saint Paul, was on his way to Rome when he was shipwrecked on the beach of San Cataldo de Lecce. During his stopover, Justus converted two citizens of Lecce, Orontius (Oronzo) and his nephew Fortunatus. Fortune had smiled on Oronzo whose father, Publius, had been treasurer during the reign of Emperor Nero. Publius was on his way to Rome when he was shipwrecked. Oronzo had succeeded to his position when his father died. In affirming Christianity, Oronzo had much to lose and only a martyr’s crown  to win.

Denounced as Christians, Oronzo and Fortuatus fled to Corinth, where Oronzo met Saint Paul. He was confirmed as the first Bishop of Lecce but shortly after was imprisoned along with his nephew by Nero’s representative Antonius, who threatened to kill them both if they did not reject their new religion. Nero, and other Caesars as well, were sticklers on the point.  The two converted Christians refused and yet were released. After preaching at the Salento and at Bari, they were again arrested by Antonius and executed by axe a short distance from Lecce on August 26. Oronzo had earned his martyr’s crown. Justus was also martyred. Nero, caught in a power struggle, later lost the backing of important senators and was compelled to commit suicide following an all too frequent upsurge in republican virtue -- very inconvenient to tyrants -- that occurred regularly during the reigns of Suetonius’ twelve Caesars, nearly every one of whom was mad as a hatter.

Oronzo was a genuine martyr, a hero of the faith, and Italians in Windsor Locks had found a place for him in Saint Mary’s Church – on the left side of the transept, tucked away in a twilight corner adjacent to a statue of Jesus of the Sacred Heart. There the stalwart Oronzo stood, mute and powerful, until August 26^th, when he was dusted off, outfitted with a red cape and paraded through the town, a joyous occasion for all that ended with song, wine, rich Italian food and pastries, at what then was the only park in the town, adjacent to Saint Mary’s parochial school. By the time Oronzo arrived in the park, his red cape had turned green, this owing to monetary contribution made along the way by poor sinners who wished Oronzo to intercede on their behalf, sometimes to smooth quarrels with their neighbors who had failed to heed Christ’s command to love thy neighbor as thyself. The statue of Oronzo, it was rumored, was the property of an local Italian  whose name has not come down to us, but the bearded saint,  soon after he had been installed, quickly  won an honored place in the hearts of many Italians in the town and elsewhere. He had a strong following in New Britain and parts of Hartford among Italians who had emigrated from the province of Apulia.

Father Finance, however, was not a fan.

The good father had been assigned to Windsor Locks to increase contributions and so put the books of Saint Mary’s in balance. His homilies were peppered with admonitions to accomplish this end: “Now, don’t you bother putting coins in the basket this Sunday. The collectors are straining under all that weight. Paper currency would be kinder, and more charitable too.”

No one in Windsor Locks minded pocket book appeals. Businesses, the townsfolk knew, needed money to grind along, and the church was, among other things, a business. They were prepared to be generous. Father Finance’s calls to repent and empty your pockets for the greater glory of God and his church were kindly if not warmly received. His flock uncomplainingly acceded to Father Finances’ pleas for more generous contributions. But there was something off-putting about this priest. First of all: “Finance” – what sort of a name was that? What country did the man hail from, and what town? Clearly, he was not Italian.  Was his name a nom de guerre? Why was he so thin? Tapeworms? And those sharp elbows, what did they signify? And what was his beef with Saint Oronzo? It could not have been the statue; the church was full of them. The ceremony then? Could that be it? A priest who was averse to ceremonies would be positively irreligious: The mass was a ceremony, and a joyous one at that. To what private joy did Father Finance bend his knee? What WAS his problem?

The Italians in the town – and, most especially, the carpetbaggers who came from out of town – are not likely to remember the substance of Father Finance’s homilies.

Father Finance often grew warm citing Mathew 6: 1-3: “Beware of practicing your righteousness before men to be noticed by them; otherwise you have no reward with your Father who is in heaven. 2 So when you give to the poor, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be honored by men. Truly I say to you, they have their reward in full. 3 But when you give to the poor, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing,…”

Most likely, the priest’s tender sensibilities were bruised by the Oronzo ceremony, part of which involved a greasy pole climbing contest at the park, where the festivities concluded with songs, some in Italian, wine drinking and … the food! Women brought with them their favorite dishes. The poor here were not fed crumbs from the table. Everyone feasted. Everyone noticed everyone. The kind of humility recommended by Mathew was nowhere in evidence on Saint Oronzo’s Day. The men played games. The women, veiled in the church, now cast off their veils and paraded their finery. Oronzo’s green money-covered cloak was returned to Father Finance – who, unfortunately, was indisposed.

The very moment the church doors had burst open -- Saint Oronzo hoisted on the shoulders of the celebrants in his red cloak -- the doors of the rectory were disgorging Father Finance, who appeared to be, to the crowd approaching the Saint with fistfuls of dollars, rejoicing with the saints in Heaven. Later, after the festivities had been concluded, word went round that Father Finance had breathed his last as his body was being carried towards the ambulance under the very hand of the Saint, outstretched as if in benediction.

The town was, for the most part, sorrowful at the passing of Father Finance. His obituary in the Windsor Locks Journal gave the priest his due, There was – Carlo the fox apart – little overt anti-clericalism among Italians in the post-war world. Many of the old Italians were rarely overt with anyone but Italians; and even here, one had to take care. Prudence was nearly always the better part of valor, and Italians, when I was a boy, did not want to stink in the nostrils of those prejudiced against them.

Carlo kept his own counsel. He had no confessor and rarely visited Saint Mary’s Church. Nuns, in particular, set his soul spinning. Saint Mary’s parochial school, to which he sent his children, was just off Center Street, a short three minute walk from the homestead. The school’s nuns, the Sisters of Saint Joseph, a teaching order, would pass his house in a clump on their peregrinations. Outside tending his roses or pruning his fruit trees, The Old Man, as we affectionately called him, could easily spot them flocking down the hill, their black habits fluttering in a breeze like the broken arms of crows, at which he would hustle into the house and, for all we knew, hide under his bed. Something about the nuns stirred some deep antipathy in his psyche.

My brother, sister and I have often speculated about all this. Had the nuns beat him when he was child in Costa Nescovato, Italy, a small town only two miles from Castellania, where his wife, Louise Imperiali, hailed from? His fear or repulsion was palpable, even a bit hysterical. There was, according to my mother, some difficulty in Costa Nescovato. Carlo returned to his hometown once and was badly beaten. My cousin Bill Mandrola (he spells the family name differently) has done yeoman’s work unearthing data from old ship manifests. Bill speculates that Louise, who came to Windsor Lock alone a year or two before Carlo, may have expanded her age a bit on the manifest sheet. A young woman traveling alone might have excited a good deal of curiosity and interest, both of which were sometimes fatal to immigration ambitions. She was, according to the ship’s manifest, unmarried; Carlo, however, reported himself as married. Could they have married in Italy? Bill concludes they likely married here.

In the absence of hard and reliable data, the imagination runs riot.

“What was the problem in Italy?” I asked my mother.

“Don’t know. He visited once and came back badly beaten.”

A modest discretion at such moments is understandable: A beating at the hands of your friends or enemies is not the sort of trophy one puts on the shelf to entice the admiration of family members.

There are various theories. A card game gone bad, brother Jim speculated; certainly a possibility. But a romance gone bad, a craftily arranged elopement, a sudden quarrel with toughs in the town, all might account for the beating.  Why did Carlo return to Italy in the first place? He had already escaped the “difficulty,” why return to it? Jim’s alternate theory was that Carlo fled Italy to America to escape the draft. Perhaps he bumped into an engorged and patriotic Sergeant Macaroni on his return to Costa Nescovato, which was not too far from Casalnoceto, where the Pescis hunkered down.

Carlo treated nuns in particular as if they had been witches who might put a spell on him. It has become fashionable in our time to denigrate nuns and priests, the whole lot of them, as – well, parochial, when in reality, they were focused on their vocations. Not all but some of the nuns were brilliant and accomplished. Catholics who have had in their childhood an intimate and warm relation with nuns denigrate them later on to satisfy the neo-pagans who surround them in a de-Christianized culture. Growing away from the church rather than into it, they have become stunted Catholics. Is there anyone more destructive than a Catholic who has turned his face against his church? It was a nun who taught me how to draw. She was herself an accomplished artist, and she tutored me because she saw in me some raw talent that, with a little nurturing, might blossom into something that would bring me joy. This nun, whose name I think was Sister Ursula, sang as she drew, lovely melodies that sweetened the dull air of the school. I will never forget her flashing, encouraging smile. She had no reason at all to favor me, a stupid and thoughtless boy, with her attentions.

“What would you like to draw?”

“I don’t know, sister.”

“Do you like birds?”

She deduced from my blank expression I had no great affection for birds.

“Red birds! Glorious red birds! Not Robin Red Breasts. Do you know the story of Robin Red Breast?”

I pleaded ignorance.

“I will tell you. When Jesus was hanging on the cross, beaten and bloody, crowned with thorns, forsaken of all, but for the few apostles who stood below him along with his dear weeping mother and other women, the Father in Heaven, who forsakes no one, not even thieves and murderers, sent to his Son a sparrow that sang to him a pretty song and pulled and pulled at the nails fastening him to the cross. And what do you think? Blood from the Savior of all men fell on the breast of the sparrow. And forever after and all, there were in the world Robin Red Breasts, among the first birds to appear in the spring, when winter has been frightened off by the great promise of new life. But today…today, for you my child, we will draw THIS bird…”

And she pulled from behind her black habit a picture of a scarlet cardinal sitting on a spring twig, its flaming red head turned in the direction of a boy stricken with wild anticipation. It was as if I had never seen the color red before.

Her eyes were wide, and her voice had in it the lilt of Irish I had heard before in the voice of Mr. Shaw, an old man who swept with a huge scythe the hill I climbed every day to reach Saint Mary’s, pausing every so often to sharpen his blade with a whetstone. I sat in the tall grass, invisible I thought, while he, swinging his great scythe, mowed down my cover. And there I was, caught hiding and seeking, his smile sweeping over me.

Together we painted the cardinal. Sister sang softly a quiet tune. Decades later, when I hear the piercing whistle of a cardinal or see a blast of red skittering through the trees, I almost remember the sister’s song.

I can’t remember whether it was Donna or I who first discovered that Santa Claus – not the real saint, but the chimney dropper whose familiar image was penned by Thomas Nast, the anti-Catholic bigot – was what Christian denialists have since come to call a “myth.”

It may have been Donna; she was my Christopher Columbus. I can’t recall the date of the awful discovery either. The reality of Santa was just one of those “white lies” you felt compelled to keep intact for the sake of younger children. For this reason, the nuns at St. Mary’s would resort to permissible subterfuge when they were asked by youngsters of a certain age whether Santa was real. A white lie was, in common parlance, what Catholic theologians might have called an evasion.

Catholic theologians will tell you that it is, on very rare occasions, permissible to depart from the governing rule: Tell the truth and shame the Devil. If a justa causa can be established, a difficult barrier to surmount, four actions are then permitted: a material but not a formal lie, an equivocation, an evasion, or silence. Example: St. Augustine says that if a murderer stops you on a road and asks which way his victim went, it’s permissible to mislead him. I do not know whether the existence of the Clement Moore-Thomas Nast Santa falls into this straight jacket of the permissible lie. I do know what a proper nun-like response to the question “Is Santa real?” might be, because I put just that question to Sister Immaculata. Her curt response was: “Ask your father.” I suppose some Catholic theologians might regard the Santa white lie as a hybrid equivocation-evasion. Boys when I was a boy were geniuses in evasive action; we hated bald faced lies, but loved the loops that led us round inconvenient truths to safe and pleasant harbors.

In my case, the arrival of Christmas was associated with things other than gift-giving, among them the arrival of the Pertusi brothers from New York, the good cheer that banged on the back door, both before and after the Great Day, in the form of my boisterous uncles and their more quiet and subdued wives, the plenteous feast laid out by my mother, Saint Mary’s Church, garlanded and wreathed by religious women, rising like a prayer above the snow, the story of the First Christmas, a mewling babe in a crib, pondered over by shepherds and wise men from the East, the great joy and sorrow that intersect like shining swords on this day when salvation opened its mothering arms to a wounded world.

“Sit there,” my busy mother would say – “there” was the bench that stretched the length of the kitchen window – while she puttered about the kitchen, readying things for the following day, when she must accommodate the crowd of family and visitors that would sit around the dining room table, brimming with good cheer, chattering all at once, exploding in laughter, my uncles provoking the sly joy poured out abundantly in the stories they told, in the good natured ribbing they administered equitably to all but themselves.

And there I would sit, turned slightly, looking out the window – waiting, waiting, waiting. So crisp was the snowfull day that everyone walking down Suffield Street towards Main Street was preceded by semitransparent balloons of breath that fogged white at the touch of air.

My line of sight was fixed on Pellegrini’s house across North Main Street. There was a small clump of Maple trees that abutted the Pelligrini house, until one merry Christmas, when Louie Peligrini had been given his heart’s desire, an axe that fitted nicely into a holster that hung from his scout’s belt, this lumberjack of the neighborhood rushed out, while his parents were not at home, to do battle with the half dozen Maple trees and, plying his axe to them, felled them all. His father, I believe, beat a good deal of sense into Louie following this misadventure.

To the right of the Pelligrini house stood two tall twin towers, a small house perched on top. Years later, Phil Lombardi and I would summon up enough courage to climb the corkscrew stairs that led from the ground to the house, wondering as we scaled them the purpose of the chute that followed the same twisted path. It was, we discovered after sliding down it several times, a coal chute no longer in use. The siloes on either side of the stairs and chute, now empty, once held coal. We returned home that night at about seven o’clock, the hour at which we did a good deal of our mischief, our backs scarred with black soot, two very apologetic boys. My mother knew instantly what had happened, sent me to the shower and burned my clothes. Lombardi’s mother was less accommodating.

The train, arriving at the station, had already hooted a warning to the cars crossing the metal framed bridge that connected Windsor Locks with Warehouse Point, the oldest section of East Windsor, so called because there, when Windsor itself was a colonial fort, strong men would ferry trade across the Connecticut River on barges pushed forward with long poles, carted up and down the river by horses. The metal bridge is now gone, replaced by a Soviet styled concrete affair, unbeautiful, cold and eminently practical. The one-sided Main Street that leant character to the town is gone, a victim of the redevelopment fervor that struck Connecticut in the mid-1960’s. Gone is the Realto Theatre, the Donut Kettle, Marconi’s and the many bars along Main Street that filled the air with the odor of hops and whisky. All gone.

But let me call it back for a farewell kiss.

I was fourteen in 1957, seated at the kitchen window bench, my eyes fixed on that point at which North Main Street disappeared at the foot of what we boys called Bunker Hill. Every rise of hill in the town was at that time a Bunker Hill for boys who cherished the honor and heroism of Connecticut revolutionary soldiers, farmers like Israel Putman who dropped his plow when told his countrymen had been fired upon in Boston and rushed with his comrades to fight the redcoats. The train whistle had cracked the cold air. Beneath me I could feel warm gusts arising from a hissing radiator that had to be bled every so often – or it would explode and carry us through a hole in the kitchen wall, dumping us, shocked but not seriously injured, into the piling snow. And I was waiting, waiting, waiting…

And then, miraculously, the hill disgorged the Pertusi brothers, John and Anthony.

I screamed, “They’re here.”  Now Christmas could begin.

A Brief History of Italians in America, 3 Perimeters

Perimeters

Every man, woman and child on the planet lives their lives within a series of concentric circles, growing ever wider as they move forward in time. And then, at some point, they meet a stop, and the circles begin to contract, at which point the wanderer arrives home again. These circles only seem to embrace geographic areas; but they mark a spiritual territory that has little to do with geography and much to do with the life of the spirit, which knows only the frontiers of the heart. In what we sometimes mistakenly call “real life,” the mind retains all the circles we have passed through during our brief hour on the stage, and we may visit them whenever we like. Occasionally, like persistent angels, they crash into our reality unbidden. When William Faulkner said that the past was not over – “It is not even past” – he was thinking of these message bearing angels who affect our lives sometimes more powerfully than the reality that lies directly under our noses. Man is a considering, thought bearing being. Like Odysseus, who bore his father out of burning Troy on his shoulders, he carries the past with him wherever he goes. And as a father speaks to his son of serious things, the past solicitously pours its wisdom into his ears. Remember, my dear nephews and nieces, God whispers in the whirlwind. You must pay close attention.

World War II ended in Europe about 1945-46, in May and June as it happened, when the Rose of Sharon bush outside my mother’s window at One Suffield Street, had put forth its fragrant flowers. What followed the war – what always follows decisive wars – was, discounting the Korean “police action,” a protracted peace and the consequent alarming growth of a rededicated America. Though he still woke up at night turning in the iron mechanical jaws that had ripped the bodies of his fellow soldiers in the Marshall Islands, Charlie healed. The Mandirola brothers were together again. They married, and ever after were called by twos: Charlie and Mary, John and Nell, Tom and Dotty, Ray and Leatrice.

Clay Hill – so called because if you drove a spade into the ground, you would hit unforgiving clay about one foot down – marked one border of our family’s various concentric circles. It included the whole of our immediate neighborhood, the access to Main Street, the houses of most of my fast friends: Dave Sheridan, Phil Lombardi, Mike Grady, Mac McConnell, Fudzie Fuller, Con O’Leary and many others. My brother and sister’s friends and enemies also were Clayhillers. Ella (Tambussi) Grasso, later to be elected governor – the first woman in the United States who won the governorship in her own right – was a Clayhiller. Drive a spade into her and, just beneath the skin, you would have hit adamantine clay, the sort of clay God molded in his hands before he made Adam and then pulled Eve from Adam’s rib. Salt of the Italian earth was she.

Most of Ella’s biographers either do not know or will not mention that before she launched her political career, Tambusi was a Republican. It was Dr. Carniglia who drew her aside one day and said to her, “Ella, if you are serious about winning office in Windsor Locks, you had best re-register as a Democrat.”

Nearly the whole town – with the exception of a few brave holdouts such as my father and a handful of other Alamo-like Republicans – were ardent Roosevelt-Truman Democrats. As my father, a political visionary, explained, “It’s all they knew.” The political tide in Connecticut, following the death of Saint Roosevelt and the accession to the presidency of “Giv’em Hell Harry” Truman, clearly favored Democrats. It would be a mistake to think my mother was indifferent about politics, but she was less fiercely attached to political parties than my father or some few other molecular Republicans in town. Frank did not mind at all swimming against the political stream. In fact, he found it exhilarating and would have appreciated G. K. Chesterton’s remark, had he been familiar with it, that it is never a trouble to float downstream: Even a dead body may float with the current, but only a live body can swim against it.

Truman was the first President I saw in the flesh. I cannot remember the year or occasion. He was passing through Windsor Locks on his way to some important political function in Massachusetts. I recall walking with my father to the train station, a building now in disarray and unused, within sight of our house. A small crowd of fervent Democrats was milling about, waiting for the train to inch by the station at a speed slow enough so that the audience could see and applaud the president. So it happened: The train slowly ambled along as it approached the station, and there on the caboose, with two men in dark clothes bookending him, was Truman, dressed in white and wearing a white hat, smiling at the crowd and waving placidly as the train moved away from the station, a figure growing smaller and smaller, finally disappearing as the train got up speed. My father had hoisted me on his shoulders.

“Did you see the president?”

He unhoisted me, put me on the ground, knelt before me so that our eyes were level. The last dying hoot of the train faded away. His eyes were flames, and my own eyes sympathetically caught fire.

I was nine years old, two years beyond the Age of Reason, when “I love Ike” was persuaded by a group of Republican panjandrums to run for president. General Dwight “Ike” Eisenhower’s sleeve had been tugged by both Republicans and Democrats, but he had adroitly escaped their claws. After considering a Shermanesque denial of interest in the presidency – "I will not accept if nominated, and will not serve if elected” – Ike yielded at last to importunate Republicans. His campaign was the first successful presidential draft of the 20^th century that did not involve an active politician.  In 1952, Ike defeated Democratic nominee for President Adlai Stevenson and became the 34^th president of the United States. Of the two, Stevenson had been the brainier and wittier. In the 1952 campaign, Stevenson reminded a New York audience that “Laws are never as effective as habits.” Democrats in New York habitually voted for Democrats. And in Denver, Colorado, Stevenson told his appreciative audience, “Man does not live by words alone, despite the fact that sometimes he has to eat them.” It would have taken God and the Devil working in tandem to the same purpose to wring such witty favors from Ike.enson But Ike had won the war, and Stevenson didn’t. Americans were determined to show their appreciation. My father was equally determined to help install Ike and Dick Nixon, a Vice Presidential candidate Eisenhower chose to mollify conservative Republicans stung by Ohio Senator Robert Taft’s questionable loss to Eisenhower during the 1952 Republican National Convention in Chicago.

And so it was that sometime that year my father showed up in the driveway with a battered truck. My mother, peering out the window, let out an Amazonian like scream that shivered the timbers of the house on One Suffield Street.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, your father has bought a DUMP TRUCK!

We all ran to the window to see. And true enough, there was Dad in his business attire exiting a Ford truck, the bed of which, I could not help notice, was severely scarred and rusted. He slammed the door, which squeaked and gave off a screaming sound of metal being pounded on an anvil. If my mother had been an Italian Marquesa of the preceding century, she would at this point have fainted and fallen cautiously to the floor, a lace hanky pressed to her fluttering nostrils. But she was Rose, who had survived a half dozen children not her own, as well as the births of both James and the TWINS, one of whom – me – she had given over to my Aunt Nell to preserve her sanity.

Rose rushed to the back door to intercede with my father and persuade him to return this dilapidated trade-in and retrieve his less than two year old car. In the hallway leading to the kitchen, much Italian passed between them. As they entered the kitchen, the Italian verbiage trailed behind them in whispers and disappeared like the jet streams one sometimes sees melting into a cloudless blue sky.

Dad had not bought the truck, we learned later. He had borrowed it and left his Buick at the home of the truck’s owner, so that the gentleman who was kind enough to lend my father the truck could go about his daily business, while my father attended to his. The owner of the truck was the supervisor of the local dump who my father once – and only once – had invited over the house to take coffee one Sunday when he thought my mother would not be at home. He had miscalculated. My father first met Alfeo during one of his dump picking jaunts.  Introducing himself, he learned their families had come from the same province in Italy. Dad told Alfeo he was in the market for house shutters.

Alfeo pressed his palms to the side of his head in mock astonishment.

“Come on, you knew, eh?”

Someone only ntroducing himself, he learnedrtains dispite her unfalling efort ame directly from the dump  He had miscalculated. My fathertwo days earlier had dropped off a load of shutters, used but serviceable. They needed a good wire brushing and a couple of coats of paint. Dad secured the shutters on the spot and attempted to press ten dollars – these were 1952 dollars, remember, real money – upon a reluctant Alfeo.

“What,” Alfeo demurred, spreading his arms to indicate his domain, the king of all he surveyed, “You father from Piedmonte, no? My father too.”

Frank could not deny it; he would have to accept the generous gesture of friendship, and he did, inviting Alfeo over for some refreshments the following Sunday. Alfeo soon became acquainted with two of the Mandirola brothers, the inseparable Tommy and Charlie, who proved to be faithful and frequent customers. They all did a flourishing business with each other.

Unfortunately, Alfeo had not dressed up for his Sunday meeting with my father; he came directly from the dump and carried with him in his clothes odors of burning leaves and tires mingled with the usual smorgasbord of dump smells, which clung to my mother’s curtains despite her unflagging efforts to rid the house of Alfeo’s shadowy but pungent after-odor. Following their friendly meeting over dark coffee and Budino di Ricotta, Frank was advised never, NEVER EVER, to entertain Alfeo in the house, unless he could assure his wife that he had been hosed down first.

Dave Sheridan’s sniffer was sharper than my own or Phil Lombardi’s. These were two of my close friends and neighbors from Clay Hill whom I, at my father’s bidding, had recruited to plaster Windsor Locks and parts of Suffield with “You Win When You Vote For IKE AND DICK” posters.

Once in the bed of the truck, Sheridan’s nose began twitching. Sucked through his nostrils, the odor finally crashed headlong into his brain cells.

“What’s that?” he asked no one in particular, suddenly alarmed.

Lombardi put his snout under his left arm pit and sniffed.

“It’s the truck,” I offered. “Dad borrowed it from the dump guy.”

This settled the mystery of the vagrant odors to everyone’s satisfaction. It wasn’t one of us.

Part of the morning was spent fending off Democrats and their vicious dogs, neither of which took kindly to political proselytizing. Dad kept the dump truck for two days, during which time we littered the town with fliers, returning home smelling like festering lilies. Dad switched the vehicles with the dump guy, and my mother suffered the Buick’s foul odor until Elizabeth Grady, who lived across the street in what we called the peninsula, a triangle-shaped piece of real estate that included the Grady-Lombardi duplex, once a barn, and Juni Quagaroli’s gas and auto repair shop, brought over a spritzer bottle containing a purifying fragrance – frankincense, I surmised, once used by the Wise Men to purge the original crèche of sheep and cow odor during the First Noel. My mother liberally aspersed the car interior, the kitchen chair where Alfeo had reposed munching his Budino di Ricotta, and finally her curtains, cesspools of musty dump odor.

Such was my introduction to politics, about which my mother had often said, “Never discuss religion or politics at the supper table,” where, of course, both were discussed, particularly on festal occasions such as Thanksgiving and Christmas, when the entire extended family could gather to violate my mother’s proscriptions.

My father insisted on probing his children, and he would not take “I dunno” for an answer to any of his questions.

Dad: So then, what were you all about today? Jim, anything special?

Jim: The usual [It was a weekend].

Dad: Don?

Don: No, Dad. Just stuff.

Dad: Donna?

Donna: Part of the day I spent with Maureen Carniglia. She has a pretty extensive doll house now. It wasn’t always a doll house. It’s a converted building that was once, I think, a garden shed used by her grandfather. He kept rhubarb in there, and some veggies. Maureen’s father is very good at carpentry, and so he made it over for her. Because he likes her, you know. He likes her a lot. You could tell. Anyway we were fixing it up, making curtains…

She went on this way for a few minutes. After a while, it became obvious to everyone – especially Jim, who was making groaning faces with his eyes – that Donna was preparing to goose Dad for a like favor, though on a smaller scale. Maureen, like Susan Beltrandi, was a big, go-for-broke thinker. Donna was more pragmatic. When she finished, Dad said he was pleased that at least one of his children had some exciting and fresh news to report.

What a pity Dad had never question Jim on the occasion of the great hair bonfire. It would have been a splendid interrogation, as I sometimes imagined.

Dad: (to Jim) So, how did Levio Curti’s hair catch on fire?

We all would have been astounded, but for my mother, who nearly always had the advantage of inside information.  Donna’s eyes might have popped ever so slightly, and on her face would be written, as if on a billboard, THIS SHOULD BE GOOD.

Waves of fearful anticipation would have swept over me. How did my father know these things, almost immediately after they had happened? Were any of us safe from his omniscience? Was there no privacy in this chattering town? Was the town itself a public confessional in which sins imparted to priests sworn to a holy secrecy were instantly broadcasted to every nosey neighbor on the street? In the present case, Jesuitical dissimulation was impossible. The trial had been heard; the verdict was in; the judge was staring at the, as yet, unrepentant co-conspirator, patiently awaiting an answer. Would Jim be able to handle this interrogation diplomatically, safely extracting himself from the drama?

Jim likely would have rambled hurriedly through the story. He and cousin Bill Mandirola and Leo and Livio Curti were examining some of the old machinery, now discarded, that laid about the grounds just outside the lumber yard in the woods in back of our house. The rusted machinery had long since been retired from service. Leo or his brother wondered whether any of it was still useful. Bill and Jim watched them from afar expostulating with each other. You cannot imagine how surprised they were when Livio, the less accomplished of the two brothers, uncapped a gas tank on what appeared to be an old harrowing machine and, unable to penetrate the blackness of the tank, fetched in his pocket for a match. The first match revealed nothing, the second nothing, the third nothing. But he struck luck with the fourth. Throwing it into the tank, the old machine responded by burping up a fireball that ignited Livio’s once abundant hair. Leo grabbed his brother, hustled him to the brook and plunged his head underwater – once, twice, three times. Here, Jim and Bill intervened, pulling the enraged Leo off his dripping, half drowned, scorched brother who, lacking gills, had been having difficulty breathing underwater. Leo’s hair was sizzled and much shorter; his eyebrows had all but disappeared.  Perhaps they would be able to pass off the self-immolation as a bad home administered haircut and so save themselves a wupping from their father. Their father usually beat them outside, so as to avoid damage to his furniture.

And Donna might have remarked, with a slight wink, "Just the usual, Dad."

My father, of course, was not omniscient or omnipresent. But the neighborhood was -- full of scores of eyes, ears and wagging tongues. My mother was of two minds about the wagging tongues, some of them more reliable than others. She was fiercely protective of her children on the one hand; on the other, she knew gossip was poisonous, even as she, and much of the neighborhood, feasted on it.

This feasting was done over coffee and cigarettes in my mother's kitchen. When later my mother went to work in a mill on the canal bank -- The Montgomery Co. Est. 1871 Decorative And Electric Tinsel --  both the audience and the cast of characters grew larger. The gossip that floated around the milling machines at Montgomery's was of a rare quality. My brother and sister regarded  the mill as a sinister font of gossip, some of it much more reliable than the items one found in newspapers. My mother took her gossip with tons of salt. The danger was that there were people in the town who could not distinguish between gospel truth and kitchen tripe.