Paul Barbaro, my grandfather

I’m fascinated with old photographs, especially with people as subject matter. I gravitate toward them, especially in antique stores, and I find myself captivated by their faces. I wonder who these people were? What were they like?  That is, what was their story? May I tell you a story about a very important person that once shared the planet with me, but now occupys a place in my heart and soul- my grandfather Paul.

Paul and Carolina's Wedding Photograph

Paul Barbaro was a handsome man. Only standing a mere 5’3”, I never thought of him as being a tiny man. His stocky build suggested, that in his day, he could hold his own. He walked with a stiff leg- a WWI machine gun injury. His mangled left leg revealed a horrific scar that made me cringe the few times I saw it.

"He was in the Italian army in WWI...They were our allies against Germany then. He was facing the German lines, stooped over with his hands on his knees when a German grenade exploded behind him. A shrapnel fragment entered his leg from behind taking out his kneecap and also injuring the hand (I don' t know if you ever noticed the scars on his fingers). While he was waiting to be treated at a field hospital it was bombed and every one had to be moved to a different location. At this new location the attending Doctor reversed the decision of the previous Doctor who had recommended amputation. He was able to fuse the joint in a permanently bent position. That's why he had such a bad limp. Dad told me that the Doc asked him what he did before the war and when Dad said he was a farmer the Doc said it would be easier to dig dirt (tsappa ) with a bent leg than a straight one. Did you know that Italy paid him a partial disability pension for that?" Gaspere Barbaro

Through Argentina and passage through Mexico, he made a questionable entry to the United States. He soon married lovely woman and they bore three children. When the children were still young Paul suddenly became a widower. My aunt Anne (on my paternal side) cared for the boys, Gaspere and Mike, while Jenny, the youngest was placed in an orphanage until Paul could properly provide them a home. Paul worked as a janitor for Ford Motor Company- “Ford’s” as we called it.

My paternal grandma, who happened to be Paul’s neighbor, arranged for him to meet my eventual maternal grandmother, “Carolina Bonici. She was a widow. “Noni”, as I called her, lived in Manhattan and would need to join Paul in Detroit, leaving her family behind. Now, her children were living on their own by this time, however, my mother called on her sister and brother-in-law for living accommodations.

The arrangement was clear- the children would reunite and would live with Paul and Carolina.

Paul, Noni, me and Jenny

Paul was my step-grandfather. He wanted me to call him “Paul”. Perhaps this was out of respect to my deceased grandfathers. I like to think so, as he treated me lovingly as he would his other grandchild. To me he was my grandfather- my only grandfather and I knew I was someone special to him. I can see him in his white shirt, dark work pants belted over his large belly, white socks and black work shoes. He smoked Lucky Strike cigarettes- gulped the drag into his lungs and spit the bits of cigarette paper off his lips. His gait was painful to watch. He walked by swinging his stiffened left leg forward to keep his stride. I never heard him complain about his injury or explain how it happened, other than it was a machine gun that got him in the war. It happened, and he dealt with it. He was a hero to me.

I do have early memories of the family gathered around the radio listening to Jack Benny, but when television came on the scene the small black and white Zenith television had its prominent place in their living room. Paul enjoyed his T.V. programs. I got the biggest kick of him laughing at the antics of Barney Fife. We would also watch Big Time Wrestling together- Dick the Bruiser, The Sheik and Bobo Brazil were the guys to beat.

He loved making wine and attending to his garden. His garden took half of his backyard and was suitable for growing some corn, green beans, peppers, and of course, tomatoes. I assisted him annually by digging up the winter-hardened soil and turning it and then racking the chunks of what looked like clay to me into smaller particles. Oh, how good those tomatoes tasted! A salad of tomato wedges with salt, pepper and olive oil (maybe basil leaves) was memorable. If Noni chopped hardboiled eggs into the salad it made my day.

Paul in his garden

Everything tasted better in those days. The peaches, Italian plums from his tree, cherries were ripe and delicious. On a couple occasions, Paul brought home live chickens and snails for a special feast. I thought they were intended to be our pets. My Aunt Jenny, who was more like a sister to me, helped me lined the snails up for the big race. The thought of eating these things never crossed my mind, and it grossed me out to learn that I just ate Chickadee, our pet chicken.

Late September meant making homemade wine for the Barbaro family. Paul enjoyed his alcoholic drink he called wine. Well, let’s just say he used grapes to produce the pale and somewhat musty drink that had hint of vinegar with an alcoholic kick. He purchased grapes from Detroit’s Eastern Market or he may have gone over to Windsor, Canada, just a tunnel ride away. He chose mostly red grapes and Muscatel for the punch to make his Rosé. He had all the equipment to crush, ferment and bottle his wine for the year. He crushed both the grapes and their stems. The juice fermented in 50 gallon oak whiskey barrels. I recall one of the barrels filled with water and stored it outside in the summer months. By November, a month or so, he bottled the wine in whatever glass jar he could find, and began to drink his brew- so much for aging.

Watching Paul eat was an experience. I was a scrawny kid with not much of an appetite, and to watch Paul eat with such ferocity just captivated me. His dentures were not a good fit which meant chewing the pasta unnecessary. Typically he had two huge servings of pasta before the meatballs, pork and/or sausage from the sauce were served with a greens salad with oil and vinegar. Sometimes Noni would serve a cold tomato and green bean salad, but typically an iceberg lettuce salad was the standard entrée. When he was through with his meal he stiffly raised both his hands, gave the dish a gentile push to the center of the table and made an affirmation of satisfaction by filling a jelly jar with his homemade wine; one gulp would empty the jar; he whooshed the liquid around his dentures; swallowed and smacked his lips along with whispered “awe”. Jenny and I would look at each other and smile. It was time for a Lucky Strike cigarette to complete the meal.

Just after the feast

A Summer Road Trip to New York

One summer Paul, Noni and Jenny joined my mother, father and I on a road trip to New York. We all piled into dad’s Cadillac- three in the front and three in the back. This would be a twelve to fifteen hour drive on the New York Turnpike. My dad did all the driving. That made perfect sense, as he was a truck driver by trade. Give him some Wrigley’s Doublemint gum or let him chew on the end of an unlit cigar, and he could drive forever. Noni brought along food for the road including her Torta (potato, leek, onion, cheese and modified pie crusted dish). Eating it would of course make a mess of the interior. Paul was dressed in a suit and tie and Noni would be in a summer dress (probably one she made from a pattern- vintage Gipsy wear I called it). We didn’t make too many stops unless we needed gasoline or to eat. My dad preferred the restaurant chain called “EAT.” Truckers recognized those eateries where one would get bigger portions of food.

After we all completed our lunch, Noni and Paul decided to order a wedge of apple pie for dessert. Paul, dressed to the nines, gulped his food down with wild abandonment as if he was participating in a pie-eating contest, while Noni, in disheveled dress, daintily portioned her bites with grace and etiquette. She had a noticeable shaking of her head, when she was in deep thought. It seemed to be an incontrollable tic and gave her a certain vulnerability, which only endeared her to us all the more.

Mother noted the paradox, and we had a good laugh and even caused them to chuckle as well. Later in the car, what would begin as a giggle resulted in watery-eyed laughter.

Sunday was a day of church and family visiting until I got to the age when I felt that my whole day was wasted on family traditions. After dinner I would split. My parents were tolerant and never pressured me. And when Jenny got married, and my family moved to the suburbs, Noni and Paul kindly drive to our place for dinner. Paul made sure I accepted his folded five-buck donation to the Denny fund. This gesture was customary I suppose. The gift was not so much about the money- it was his way to express his love. Of course I declined, he insisted, I declined and he insisted and won me over.

It was just a matter of time

My mother received a call from Noni one October evening urgently summoning us to rush over to Paul’s and Noni’s house to see what was wrong with Paul. According to Noni. he seemed disoriented and his speech was slurred. I accompanied my mother. By the time we got there he was feeling better, and reassured us that he would be okay. Paul had a history of heart problems that included three previous heart attacks. Whatever had happen to him was gone. We were wrong to leave. By the time we got back to our home Noni called us again. This time mother insisted that Noni call an ambulance. Paul had a stroke- a bad one. Not that there is a good stoke, but this one left Paul in a bad way. He could no longer speak with any clarity nor move his left arm. He was now helpless and trapped in his own body.

Noni and Paul moved in with us on Linda Street in Warren, about five miles from where they lived in Detroit. They would not return to their home on Milton Street again. Noni and my mother took care of Paul. How dedicated they were, and attended to all of Paul’s needs. He had to be escorted everywhere. His meals were fed to him. I saw him frustrated to tears at times with his condition- he knew what had happened and that he would not recover. At times I could see Paul looking at me while we watched television together. I swear there was love in his eyes.

We did manage to have some fun together. I got a kick out of shaving Paul’s beard. It was extremely coarse, and I feared this was cruel and unjust punishment. He contorted his chin and mouth to assist me in the shave. When I completed the shave, wiped his face and put on some aftershave lotion, he expressed his satisfaction with the raising of his hands and securely resting his hands back on the table. It was his way of saying the job was done- just like he would do when he completed a meal.

His last Christmas

I was home on furlough for the holidays in 1971- just completed boot camp and was ready to head to Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indianapolis, Indiana for my additional training. Paul was suffering from bronchitis, but he told my mother it was more than that. Somehow he knew his days were limited. This condition would not improve and had to be taken to the hospital. My father got the car ready. Paul, as he was escorted out the door, waved to me in a way that seemed unusual. I sensed the distinction although I thought he would have just a brief stay in the hospital and would return home. No, he was waving a final goodbye. The next day he died.

I loved Paul deeply. He was a shinning example of a modest man who was content with his life. He was always delighted to see me, and treated me as his own. At times he had reason to scold me- I was a sassy kid- but he didn’t. He let the women attend to the discipline. We played Checkers together and Briscola (Italian card game) and it was our time together. Our conversations were short, saddened that I am unable to hear his voice in my mind. I guess it has been too many years. His spirit is in my heart. I love you Paul.

I am singing songs of my youth

I really enjoyed the songs by the Skyliners. This one is especially one of my favorites. I thought I would take a shot at singing it.



I sang this song hundreds of times. The basement was a great place to sing as the echo provided some rich sounds. Hope you like my rendition.



Couldn't resist singing one of Elvis' greatest hits.

God is in the Roses

Milton Street



7130 Milton Street, Detroit, Michigan circa 1957

I don’t know what compelled me to take a trip down memory lane a few years ago? What did I expected to see of the old neighborhood? My mother and brother accompanied me on this journey. We drove south on Van Dyke to our final destination, Milton Street, between 6 Mile Road and Lynch Road. This is where I grew up. With each mile road the stories of days long gone were refreshed in my mind. I saw the bar that my softball team frequented, St. Clemens Church where I sang for weddings, the hospital where my step-grandfather died, Packard Street where my family lived for a short while, the corner of 8 Mile and Van Dyke where I caught the bus for St. Anthony’s High School every morning, Lypkie Park, Mt. Olivet Cemetery where my grandmother and step-grandfather are buried, Holy Name Church where I attended church and 7th and 8th grade, and then there was Lynch Public School. This was my grade school. This was my neighborhood.


Holy Name Catholic Church- 1950's

Holy Name Church. I attended the school for two years. The Catholic education had a tremendous impact on me, as I learned how to learn and even had desires of becoming a priest. Well, for a short while, that is. I came to know Jesus and the saints and my faith was embedded in my heart as a young boy. My teachers were nuns. One told me that I had insight and an ability to explain my point of view using metaphors. It must have been funny to her, as from that point on I tried to incorporate a new metaphor as often as I could. Sister "lippy-dog", as some called her, was somewhat of a tyrant. She hit kids with a yardstick when they they misbehaved.

Okay, I never admitted this to anyone. I had a crush on one of the young nuns. She looked like Audrey Hepburn. She taught me how to diagram sentences and how to love from afar.


Lynch School today

The innocence of my youth came to the forefront of my mind as we turned into Palmetto Street and entered the old neighborhood. There was the Lynch School playground where gym class assembled. The dash to the fence elevated of my status of being one of the fastest runners at the school. I excelled at the 50-yard dash and the softball throw.

My father actually attended that school many years earlier. In fact, we both had the same physical education teacher. His formal education ended at the seventh grade, just a year after his Lynch days. He was from a family of nine siblings and as soon as he was able to work- that’s what a boy from the lower class did. He worked. All contributed to the welfare of the entire family. My father was a scavenger. He made money anyway he could.

I was spared the hard times of my parents generation. Both worked- my father as a truck driver and my mother as a secretary for Plymouth Motor Company, a division of Chrysler Corporation. Succeeding academically was instilled in me. My mother stressed good grades, or, at least "do your best" she would say. Fear was my motivating factor. To be honest, I mostly thought about after school activities- playing pickup baseball, football or handball at the local playground.


The race

Unattainable Fantasies

Each academic year I had an imaginary girlfriend, albeit a youthful infatuation. Paul Anka's song "Puppy Love" said it all. The adults would say that we were kids- what did we know about love? Patricia Samone was my first love. She and her twin brother Patrick were in my first grade class. Every chance I had, I would look to the back of the room and give her a smile. They looked so much alike, sometimes I didn't know who received my attention. I also recall having a major crush on Sharon Omar. I don’t think we ever had a conversation, but that didn’t stop me from wishing the school day would provide me the opportunity to get a glimpse of her. That would be enough to make my day. My feelings were deep as a young lad could conceive, as I volunteered to stay behind a grade, not graduate elementary school, so I would be in the same class with her. Thank God that never happened. I never would see her again. She would attend public middle school and I chose Catholic school.

Palmetto Street


Noni, my maternal grandmother posing for the picture.  

I didn’t realize that the boarded up grade school would be an omen for the devastating reality of urban blight that we would witness that cold and cloudy day. It became more apparent as we drove down the block that what was once a charming five square block neighborhood was for all intents and purposes gone; It disappeared. What was left were mostly empty lots and a few abandoned homes. I wondered if my grandmother’s house was still standing? She and my step-grandfather, “Paul” as he wanted to be called, lived in a cute single level home just a block from Lynch school. Some of my first memories as a child were on that street, and in that house. I recall my step-aunt, Jenny, and I stopping our play momentarily to talk to the two twin girls who lived a few doors down. They were so excited to tell us of their plans to go swimming at Belle Isle Beach. We learned a couple of days later that they both drowned later that very day. We didn’t know them well, but this experience was a harsh introduction to tragedy. How could they be here one moment and gone the next? That didn't make sense to a five year old. I was saddened and fearful at the same time.


The twins in the upper left side-back row. Aunt Jenny and me in the front row-Jenny is kneeling.
The house on Palmetto Street is gone. There are no remains.

Milton Street

My grandparents moved to Milton Street. This was one block south of Palmetto Street. My father grew up on Milton Street. Noni and Paul moved into a cute 800 square foot, two bedroom, home that was just two houses from the corner store. I was assigned on occasion to buy milk, eggs and bread. A buck would take care of that. I didn't mind the chore as the store had tons of penny candies for sale. I was able to buy a few treats with the change.


Paul and Noni in front of their home- my parents' Chevy

An Ominous Sign
On Milton Street there were a few occupied homes, but most homes were gone. It was as if they just vanished leaving no trace of existence- no remains of a foundation. I couldn't believe it. I recalled the days when those well maintained homes, so compacted together spoke about an innocent time. My aunt and uncle's home, also on Milton, was gone and so was my father’s home that was a few doors down. We proceeded down the street with anticipation. As we came closer to Noni and Paul’s home, we noticed a man dressed in black slowly walking away from our car down the middle of the street. He was to himself and paid no attention to us- just kept looking down. I later realized how prophetic this would be. At first I thought it odd that he had absolutely no concern for oncoming traffic. What traffic? Why would he walk on the sidewalk- what would be the point?


The remains

"This might be the house" I shouted out. But, it looked different. I don't remember there being large bushes in the front, and the siding was different from the imitation brick that I recall. I see three windows in the attic. I thought there was one? The front porch looks so much smaller. I painted that porch a metal gray a few times and remember it being so much larger. The front door of the house is missing, and we could see into it's shell. "So dark. I would love to look inside," I said. The cloudy day provided very little natural light inside the house. I thought of getting out of the car and peeking in, but just then two wild dogs dashed out through the front door opening. I let our car creep forward slowly, studying the house closely, and stopped only to take photos. Then it struck me, "This must be Noni’s house!" It was indeed my grandparent’s home! The east side of the house substantiated the fact. The missing siding revealed a fake brick underneath. The drastically sagging back porch was still there. There's the kitchen and the dining room windows. But, the garage was gone.

On Reflection...

We became very quiet as we just starred at the remains of our old home. I felt the emptiness. It saddened me that what was once a little home full of life was now dead. What happened to this neighborhood? Oh, it was not like everyone on the block had a close friendship. But, it seemed to me on reflection that everyone respected each other and expressed that by keeping up their homes and property. Now, there is no school- no corner store- no malt shop- no kids playing. It is a ghost town.

I still reflect on many stories that this house held inside it's walls. I think of that lonely man walking down the street all dressed in black. It was as if he represented death- Scrooge’s ghost of the future. Walking away from us as he did that morning said- why look for the living among the dead? This old house on Milton Street served it's purpose. It is now a shelter for wild dogs, and it was time for me to let it go- as painful as it was that day. Perhaps that home represented a more simple and innocent time of my life. As Roseanne Cash's lyrics say, "God is in the Roses."

A Memorable Christmas

Christmas holds so many fond memories of my childhood. Family functions were the focal point. Some years my mother and father took my brother and me to New York to visit with her sister Louise’s family. My father, a truck driver, felt that the trip should begin around 4 am. It was a long fifteen hour drive on eastbound through Ohio and Pennsylvania. The snow capped mountains provided a glorious vista as we drove straight through. My mother’s family lived in Newburgh, Ny, but a visit to New city was a highlight. Oh, the lights, the many holiday shoppers, the decorated store front windows, music, the grit was contrasted by a warm and welcoming atmosphere.

At my noni's house for the holidays, circa 1950's

The years we didn’t travel it was customary for us to gather and celebrate Christmas with my father’s side of the family. The celebration began Christmas Eve right after mom and dad’s work. My father’s side of the family was large in number. Nine siblings, spouses, children filled aunt Pina and Jack’s modest home. Christmas day we also celebrated grandma’s (Ma as she was affectionately called) birthday. Natala was her name. It means Christmas in Italian. Her nickname was Vita. My Noni (my grandmother on my mother’s side) was once a neighbor of Ma’s on Milton street in Detroit, called her Vita, as did most of her friends and acquaintances. She was an adopted child, and the actual date of her birth was uncertain. However, it was wonderful to honor her on that special day. It made Christmas even more joyous.

Me sitting with my aunt Denay ,uncle Sam and cousin Sam, circa 1950's

The Guastella family not only met Christmas Eve, but Christmas day brought us all back to complete the Italian holiday tradition. We all would gather in the basement (many Italians constructed kitchens in their basements- the kitchen on the main level was for everyday use) as this would be where dinner was prepared and served. We greeted each other with hugs and kisses. I was instructed to pay my respects to all my aunts and uncles and to give a special embrace to Grandma (Ma). Aunt Pina, our hostess, usually baked a Ham. The ladies laughed, giggled, teased one another. and sometimes danced with each other as they prepared the feast.! Italian music played in the background (The Gaylords) as well as popular christmas songs. The whole atmosphere was joyous, and it was at this time that I really felt Italian. I took it all in as if it was all a movie being played before me.

My father and Grandma (Ma), circa 1940's

The ladies were assigned to prepare other dishes. Pounds of pasta and homemade tomato sauce (I know, redundant to even mention), meatballs, sausage (home made by uncle Jerry), ham, baked chicken, potatoes, and salads were the main dishes to pass. Loaves of homemade Italian bread were placed on the tables. Many of them would begin the evening with a highball. Wine and beer and a wide assortment of Faygo pop would be for the kids. I must admit, it was the gelatin dishes that caught this young boy’s attention. It was fascinating to see so many concoctions of Jell-O, and these seemed even to a youngster like me, to be an oddity- an American influence. The quivering molds were mixtures in complementary colors combining thinly sliced carrots sticks, or grapes, or fruit cocktail, and one masterpiece of layers of flavored Jell-O separated by a thin layer of whipped marshmallows or sour cream. The desserts were numerous, but of course, the cakes, canollis, and vast assortments of Italian cookies were set aside for the late evening coffee.

For us kids, the whole house was open for play. I always looked forward to seeing my cousins. I hear I got a little rough one year when I popped my cousin Kathy in the nose. I don’t remember that at all and this is so out of character- I was an angel. At a point in the evening, after the pleasantries and casual conversation the men would squeeze themselves around the upstairs kitchen table to play poker- 25/50 cent bets- high stakes. I don’t recall much laughter at the table- they appeared to take the game seriously. Individual motives aside, the desire to win was of course to pocket some change, but I think it was to have bragging rights. This room was not for kids, even so, I was fascinated with the whole atmosphere of smoke, booze and the suspense of each turned card. I wanted to learn the game. My father sat on the sidelines and watched, as he wasn’t much of a gambler. He didn’t drink or smoke either. This was not his game. He, to satisfy his wife and guests, played Canasta and Pinochle on occasion. My mother would usually give him hell for his limited skill at the game. My dad preferred to joke around and talk about getting a good deal on a used car.

My uncles Joe (would break into opera at any given moment)
and uncle Jerry who made fantastic Italian sausage, circa 1060's

Most of my cousins would receive their gifts that evening, Christmas Eve. Some of my cousins would attend midnight mass and then return to the party as it went well into the morning. This also meant that they could eat breakfast the next morning, but for the rest of us we abstained until we received Holy Communion. The Mass reminded us of what the true meaning of Christmas- the birth of our Savior. The church was packed and sometimes standing room only. The smell of smoke, booze and garlic permeated the pews. Mass was performed in Latin. Christmas hymns were performed and given the inebriated state of the parishioners it all sounded like Latin.

Holy Name Church, circa 1960's

It was my family’s tradition to wait for Christmas morning to open our gifts. I didn’t receive many toys for Christmas. Not that we were poor, we just didn’t put much emphasis on gifts. Can’t remember if my parents exchanged gifts. One year I convinced my father to let me open gifts on the eve, and what a disappointment it was for me. That year Santa gave me a cork gun and a football. The gun did come in handy for shooting the cowboys and Indians I set up on the couch and in the metal fort Apache. I also remember receiving a watch (which was so cool) and a bible of my very own (not that I would read it). Any clothes I got were low on my list.

Nothing could top the electric football game I received one Christmas. The game came with two teams (red and yellow plastic players). I ordered more players so I could form individual teams. I researched the players and their numbers and painted the teams as authentically as I could. I designed one-hour games (four- fifteen minute quarters) and established rules of order so as to make the games as fair and realistic as possible. I formed a league and recorded player stats- including the rushing, passing yards as well as tackles. To simulate the weather conditions I dusted the game board with baking powder to represent snow. Rainy conditions? Come on, I wasn’t an idiot- it was an “Electric” Football game.

Electric football players

While I didn’t receive many toys for Christmas, the ones I did receive gave me many hours and sometimes years of entertainment.

Watching Dickens “Christmas Carol” was and still is a must see. The many television specials helped to make the season so special. For Christmas was of mystery, wonderment, tradition, and was clearly designed for the children. As I reflect on those times, I realize how foundational they were to my youth, and how I truly miss the loved ones who are no longer here. As a friend said, “they are still here with us- they are in our spirits.”

My Summers in New York

Some people believe that reflecting on the past is a waste of time, that recollections are indeed in the past, and that to have regrets is ridiculous because what is done is done. I have also heard, "There is nothing you can do about what happened in the past, so why dwell on something that you can't change? Get on with your life..." Is this good advice? "You must live in the moment and not dwell on the past", I often hear from the realist. However, I am convinced that these snapshots of the past, especially those of pivotal consequence require attention.

My father and me many years ago

The bible states that we should test everything and new age philosophers assert that awareness is one of the keys to understanding oneself. Don Miguel Ruiz, a Toltec healer, points out that if you are not aware that your mind is full of wounds and emotional poison, you cannot begin to clean and heal the wounds and you will continue to suffer. The apostle Paul states that believers should pray unceasingly and should test everything. Testing the truth of who you once were, the Old Man, contrasts a believer’s new life in Christ. Both points go hand-in-hand. We should test our recollections for the truth that is revealed.

Those past experiences are all part of our make up of who we are, or once were. I find it invaluable during my five-mile morning walk to dig deep into the canyons of my memories, stored for so long, to find the details of my past resurface. This awareness unravels the fabric of my uniqueness. We all have a story to tell, and if not to others, most importantly to ourselves.

So I go on...

I hated being in the car when my father drove. I think road rage should be name after my father. People have roads named after them, and I wonder why this is so? It is not as if anyone is impressed. I'm sure Martin Luther King never drove down all the streets named after him. And, Rosa Parks... I don't think she drove a car. We should have named a bus after her and not a road. Well, my dad invented road rage. He always had trouble with other motorists. "How was the drive here today?' I would always ask. "Well the nuts were out in full force", he replied. I would ask him, "Do you think these nut-cases notify each other that you are on the road in order to to harass just you?" He would give me a smile. My humor seemed to calm him down at times.

It didn't matter who the motorist was. It could be a Hell's Angel, and if he cut my dad off, he would hear about it at the next light. It could be the slightest infraction that would ignite my father into rage. Sometimes he would get out of his car and demand the person at fault roll down his/her window and accept my father's disdain.

So, when I learned that dad would drive my mother and me to New York, I knew there would be trouble.

My father insisted we begin our trip around four in the morning. There is not much traffic that early in the morning, and we could make good time for the fifteen-hour drive. It was all highway driving. What could go wrong so early in the morning with hardly anyone on the road? Suddenly my father erupted into anger. “What is it Tony” shouted my mom in a panic? Dad sped up to get into the next lane and along side to the other motorist. He rolled down the window, shouted obscenities, and invited the driver to pull over. I trembled in the back seat wondering if my dad would get into a fight and fearful he would get hurt. The driver kept going and that infuriated my dad even more. Thank God my mother calmed him down. It may have been my crying that brought my father back to his senses.

I saw my dad fight one time when I was quite young. He was a thin and lanky man, but could handle himself pretty well. He was not afraid of anyone. His nephew Vito peddled ice cream in our neighborhood, and when another ice cream vendor tried to nudge my cousin out, the two Italians felt it necessary to rough the guy up a bit and persuade him to find his own route. The guy was outnumbered and the punches were fast and furious. The intruder hightailed it out of there as quickly as he could. Instead of cheering my dad on, I was scared, embarrassed and shocked to see that amount of anger come from my dad who was so tender to me.

Once my dad calmed down, the rest of the trip was actually enjoyable. I sat in the back seat of our ’55 blue and white Chevy, read comics and looked forward to stopping at the next Howard Johnson rest stops along the Pennsylvania Turnpike for lunch and snacks for the road.

My mother and father really didn’t talk very much while dad drove. Dad put an unlit cigar in his mouth and could drive forever. He was a skilled truck driver by profession. He taught me that it was protocol to flash our high beams in order to signal the trucks of his intention to pass. The trucker would then high beam us to signal when it was safe to return to the right lane and a blinking of our car’s lights signaled our appreciation. I don’t see this highway courtesy going on much today.

Greenwood Lake

Our destination was Greenwood Lake, New York, a village in Orange County, New York that straddles the New York State and New Jersey border. My aunt Louise and uncle Carl rented a bungalow for the summer months in this quaint summer resort. The bungalow, a euphemism for shack, was one of several rentals owned by Scotty, as he liked to be called, near his man-made beach, named Scotty’s Beach. Uncle Carl would work in the city all week and would spend his weekends at Greenwood Lake. So did uncle Dominic and aunt Jean. I knew uncle Carl had arrived when I saw the pack of Winston cigarettes on the kitchen table early Saturday morning.

By the time we arrived for our five-week stay, my father was antsy to leave. He was good for only a couple of days, and even though he did have to return to Michigan to work, it was not like him to relax for more than an hour without getting anxious. I would not see him for weeks. His job took him all over the country. In five weeks he would return to pick up us, and that meant load up the car and head back home.

Richie, my cousin, had already befriended the lifeguard at Scotty’s Beach. The small yet convenient sandy beach was right across the street from the bungalow. Richie had special privileges such as early entry to the private beach, the job of cleaning up the grounds of empty bottles, broken glass and other debris, and the best part of it all was tagging along side the lifeguard, a tall and good looking guy who fancied the girls and in our eyes was a person of distinction. He treated us in a special way that made us feel special. He was a special buddy until that day…

My Aunt Louise's (top/center) bungalow

That summer, Richie and I were inseparable. I was his shadow. While I was quiet and shy, he could make conversation with anyone. He had an inquisitive mind and loved to joke around. Always looking to have a good time, he took me on adventures that tested our parent’s patience. Whether it was hiking up the steep mountain behind our bungalow or going off too far on our own, he was in a sense my alter ego. He did things I didn’t dare to do.

I couldn’t swim. The sandy bottom beach dropped gradually but continued to a depth of well over ten feet. The photograph of my mother and I returning from an exhilarating swim was staged. The water was black at this point, suitable for diving and certainly a place I avoided. My lifeguard buddy was standing in waist-deep water talking to a young lady. I came up to them to joke hangout, he lifted me high in the air and tossed me into the deep water. Down I went and in a panic I attempted to swim my way to the surface. With arms flailing in all directions, I continued to sink. Hoping to hit bottom with my extended toes, I pushed off the bottom and returned to the surface coughing up water and gasping for air. Down I went again. At least I had a sense of where I was and where I needed to be. Desperately I tried to move closer to shore and this time my feet hit the bottom and my head was above water. I made it! The lifeguard was still conversing and advancing his charm, but noticed me gasping for air a short distance away, “Are you okay?” I nodded my head in affirmation, so as to not cause alarm. The idiot almost killed me. Friends like this I did not need, and from that day forward our friendship was over.

My mother and me

Richie’s cousins, Leta, Arlene and Johnny Boy lived down the street and on the other side of the long gravel parking lot for Scotty’s beach that separated our homes. His aunt, Elvera, was a beautiful woman with a glorious smile. Her pleasant voice greeted us for afternoon coffee and cake. She and uncle Carl’s brother, John, rented an entire two-story house for the summer, which was across the street from the Blue Bird Bar. On weekends the couples would frequent the bar for dancing and a few Tom Collins drinks, a craze at the time. My aunt Jenny and I danced for the crowd one time to a standing ovation. Well, actually, the men got off their bar stools to toss money our way.

Aunt Louise was the catalyst for fun and entertainment. I was her “Denny” and we remained close until her death several years ago. My aunt made everyone laugh. Usually, it would be in the form of a story about her mother and my grandmother. Her personality commanded attention. Not that she wasn’t a good listener, she was. My aunt Jean was a terrific storyteller as well, and it was fun watching them interject clarification from their point of view as the story unraveled. I could make aunt Louise laugh by pretending to be clumsy. I purposely hit my head on her chandelier as I came fumbling down the stairs, and repeated the slapstick every year after. When she learned that I was battling cancer, she called me every Saturday to keep my spirits up. I did not know it at the time, but she was also suffering from cancer. She never told me. She died knowing I was on my way to a cure.

Elvis in "Loving You"

During the week our mothers would take us for a long walk to the village for ice cream, to the carnival and sometimes to a movie. We saw Elvis Presley in Loving You at the village movie theatre. I could not get over how handsome he was. I liked Elvis, and who didn’t, but seeing him on screen did it for me. I first saw him perform on Ed Sullivan where the censors insisted on covering the bottom of the screen so as to not show his provocative moves. For days I walked around with a curled upper lip and squint my eyes in an attempt to look like Elvis while humming his song, Teddy Bear.

Those were absolutely glorious times.

The Exceptions!

I began singing when I was in grade school. Randy Mankowski, my best buddy at school, and I were playground safety boys in charge of monitoring the playground before school and during lunch recess. On cold days we were assigned to open the school entrance doors for the students. The vestibule served as a great echo chamber for belting out the latest songs on the charts. In our fifth hour was Auditorium. We watched movies, rehearsed for the school plays (I played one of the shepherds for the birth of Christ drama- see if you could pull that off today?), read poetry, and had the opportunity to perform for the class. Randy coaxed me to sing with him one of the songs we had recently learned. The song as I remember was titled “Walking Along.” It happened so many years ago, I wondered if there even was a song with that title or maybe it was my imagination all the while. Well, many years later my wife surprised me by purchasing a CD by the Diamonds, of the late 1950’s, from Amazon.com. I was working on a painting in my studio and all of a sudden I hear that song playing from upstairs. My wife wanted to surprise me- so cool daddy-o! Wouldn’t you know it? I was correct all along! The song exists!

It wasn’t until high school that I sang in public again. Milan Cronovich invited me over his house to hang out. With his guitar, he began to play and sing. I sang along with him. He wondered if I would be interested in singing with him at the school’s annual talent show. Two other buddies, Jim Edmunds and Bill Bisnack joined the group. We decided to perform one of the Beatles’ recordings, “All my lovin,” A guy from Warren High School, our rivals, named Billy Levise was our stiffest competition. He had an actual band and sang like a rock star. You know him as Mitch Rider. Yeah, the “Jenny, Jenny, Jenny won’t you come home with me” guy. God, was he good! But, that night we had the home school advantage, and if my ears heard correctly… I think we received the loudest applause.

I was now in a singing group. Well, actually, a pantomime group. We actually sang along with the record. We knew eventually we had to learn to sing in order to perform again. For our next performance we sang the Everley Brothers’ “All I have to do is Dream,” but this time Milan played the guitar, sang harmony, while Jim and I sang co-lead. We were frats and not greasers. So, folk songs were our thing.

Mario joins the group

Milan introduced me to a friend of his that he thought had a good voice. I was blown away by this guy’s mellow baritone voice. His name was Mario Iatonna. He would become one of my closest friends. To make room for Mario it meant that Jimmy had to leave- he was getting married and that would spoil our image. You know, image is everything. Mario’s voice was what was needed. We now had a real lead singer. I needed to learn harmony or I would be out. I knew my looks could get me just so far. Milan also introduced us to the “girls” as we called them. They were a four-part harmony acapella group. Wow! They were not only beautiful they could really sing. Their voices blended so well. They once performed at our high school and the crowd loved them- mostly Motown tunes. I had a crush on all of them. Motown was working with them, and they had an opportunity to sing at the Motown studio with Edwin Star and meet some big names in the industry. Norma Jean and her sister Nancy were the lead singers. Her powerful alto voice carried the song while Ruth and Tina provided background vocals. Nancy sang lead for “Lonely Boy” which was one of my favorites. Her version, in perfect pitch, conveyed a sweetness that made it sound like it was directed to just me. The girls would sing anywhere and at any time. Their sound inspired me. I knew our group wasn't even in the same league. I think the girls liked my falsetto. I could do an amazing Frankie Valli.

We discovered early on that it was hard to rehearse (euphemism for hanging out) as we were all involved with so many other distractions. There was no official breakup, because like so many street-corner groups of that day, what would be the point?

Mario, Me and Jim

Mario and I did continue to sing, and we teamed up with Jim Castiglione. The three of us became best friends; we liked hanging out. Our high school graduation trip to Florida really bonded us as a group. Jim and I convinced Mario to try some chewing tobacco- the craze at the time. However, we told him that in order to really get used to it in his mouth, he needed to swallow the first chew. He about died. The 20+ hour drive was divided into shifts; I got midnight. Till this day I wonder how we ended up on a dead end road in the top of a Tennessee mountain? We enjoyed ourselves in Florida. We came back home burnt to a crisp. A seagull crapped on Jim’s forehead. We walked the strip with our sunburned bodies, and profiled for the ladies. We rented motorbikes and tooled around Fort Lauderdale. I managed to get us lost again on our way home, ending up in Indiana for some reason.

For the shy Jim, singing in public was more than he could endure. But I felt he could overcome this, and with Jim’s high register we now had a true tenor. We needed him. Our voices blended pretty well together. We liked hanging out at Kelly’s Drive-in hamburger joint. The parking lot was where we performed those great hits: “In the Still of the Night”, “Lonely Girl”, “Long Gone Lover”, “Dream” by the Everly Brothers“, ”Greenfields”, “Under the Boardwalk”, “What’s Your Name”, “I Believe”, “Save the Last Dance for Me”, “Goodnight Sweetheart”, and our signature song- “See You In September” by the Happenings.

Jim telephoned Mario and I to tell us he had something urgent to discuss, and that we should come over to his house immediately. “What do you say we cut a record?” Jim asked. For fifty bucks each we could cut a record dub. With that record we could then approach record labels. That sounded exciting. Jim heard the ad spot on the radio. “Be A Star” studio was located above a party store at the corner of Dexter and Davison in Detroit. Jim called and set an appointment. He discovered a spray that was terrific for the throat. It seemed to round out your sound. Great! I sprayed a lot of that green stuff in my mouth, and by the time I arrived at the studio I barely had a voice. However, we sang for Mr. Green- a cool African-American guy who took a liking to us immediately. He said we needed an original song and instrumentation, and that the studio could provide this at no charge too!! The next week we had a song. It was a song that Mister Green wrote. I brought along a reel-to-reel tape recorder (more trouble than it was worth- but the technology was not there yet) to record our session so we could practice our harmony during the week. Once a week we drove to the studio to continue with Mr. Green’s instruction. Well… it took us six months to get it down. We were not trained singers.

Recording in a studio was an amazing and scary experience. Take after take, after take, after take… we finally completed the vocals. It was mixed and sent to be mastered and cut on a vinyl coated metal 45 rpm record. We took on the name: “The Exceptions.” We appreciated all the work that Mr. Green devoted toward this project, and bought him a silver bracelet with “The Exceptions” engraved on it. The Exceptions rocked the music world with harmonies and a style compared to the Letterman.

Jim Castiglione * Mario Iatonna * Denny Guastella

Mr. Green thought we had something special. He introduced us to another producer who gave us another tune to work on…”Let me tell you bout a guy…”. We never did get the arrangement. Green wanted to sign us to a contract and manage our careers. Being too young we would need to take the contract to probate court, so we took the document to a lawyer for his advice. “Don’t sign this- too restrictive” He said. We were very discouraged. Mario then told us of his plans to enter the Marines; Jim said it was better we didn't because he had no intention of singing in public and I… well, it took me years to accept the letdown. The war in Vietnam was escalating and a lottery was used for the draft. Jim called me with the news that my number was 13. Even though I was in college, I would be called for service. My cousin Johnny pulled strings and got me in the Army Reserves. Our singing days were over.

A couple of years later, Mario and I wanted to give it another try. Ruth from the “Girls” group wanted to form a singing group again too. She asked her once lead singer, Norma Jean, to consider joining us and she agreed. We were back in business baby! Again, the difficulty for us was in the fact that we did not have any original songs. So, we formed acapella arrangements of songs like: the Temptations “Just My Imagination”, the Carpenters’ “We’ve Only Just Begun”, “Celebrate” by the Three Dog Night, “So much in love” by the Tymes, and other songs of the period. One afternoon we met at Norma Jean’s house. Her husband was outside with a buddy working on his car. After an hour or so, the husband and his buddy stormed into the house demanding that Mario and I leave. What a jealous idiot. Thanks! That ended that. (Oh, by the way- she divorced the jerk).

Ruth, Mario and I sang a couple of weddings. One engagement we invited my girlfriend to sing with us. Rosie and I were pretty serious with our relationship at the time, and I thought it would be pretty neat to have her join our group. I thought she sang off pitch, but what the hell- she was beautiful and I was nuts about her. Funny thing about it is that Rosie has had an opera career for twenty plus years, singing with Pavoratti, Bocelli, and other big names in Opera and the rest of us… well...

Oh, the story doesn’t have to end. No. No. I keep pestering Mario and Jim to, for posterity's sake, record some of our old songs. And, eventually, if we live long enough, we will have an entire CD to give to our families. We’ll see?

Check out our song!