Terrorizing Mom
Only the following struck my fancy in today’s news, headline from foxnews.com: “Bride wears her grandmother’s wedding dress 60 years later: ‘It fit like a glove’.”
Here’s an excerpt from a non-fiction piece that will appear in Curious Sicilian. Its title is Terrorizing Mom (non-fiction). It’s a few minutes read:
Given recklessness and frequent lack of common sense, it’s amazing almost everyone survives youth. We actually had rock fights. As kids we rationalized that “Dirt Bombs” were harmless, although most had stones inside them. We hopped on the back of buses and jumped off while they were in motion. Eventually the MTA had them made without the ledge that made it easy for us. At night we sneaked into buildings under construction. We played in the streets all day, rode our bikes against traffic. On foot we crossed the six lanes of the Belt Parkway, drivers honking at us angrily. Although traffic was far less dense back then, it was dumb. And these larks were picayune compared to what some youths did.
I was basically a good kid, rarely getting into fistfights. The only constant disappointment I gave my family was my academic deficiency in Catholic elementary school. I improved considerably in public high school.
My mom was loving, her only fault a tendency toward smothering. Fortunately she was not consistent in that regard. Looking back, I’m surprised she let me climb the monkey bars at Bensonhurst Park, which in the 1950’s had no mats beneath them. I know that had to have unnerved her, but she complained only mildly. When I brought my high school football helmet home to be spray-painted, she was appalled at its weight. She was right. It not only provided vital protection, it was a weapon. My teammates and I, in love with the game, ignored its perils. Our captain missed the last game of our senior season, having been speared in the back by a player from Midwood. Fortunately he went on to play college ball.
I digress. This piece will focus on the stress I caused my mother in two instances. One night as she was in the bathroom I decided to play a practical joke. I had a tiny baseball bat, about a foot long. My love of the game had begun, which means I was seven or eight. I was small enough to sit undetected in a corner right outside il bagno (bonyo), as my parents called it. I’d once referred to it as “bacauzzo,” which drew a reprimand. Although my mom would rather have not left Sicily, she was happy to have moved on from outhouses. I’m not sure if that word is Sicilian dialect or one of those interesting hybrid bastardizations that evolve when languages meet.
When the light snapped off it was completely dark. As my mom came out I stepped behind her, pressed the knob of the bat into her back and said, in English: “Stick ’em up.” She jumped and cried out in fear, “scanto.” I immediately realized the stupidity of the ploy and felt so bad. Rather than deliver the cuff I deserved, my mom counseled me gently on the error of my ways. She was nearly 50. I might have caused a heart attack.
For the second straight session of the floating book shop, I spent at least half the time in the car, keeping warm. My thanks to The Quiet Man, who purchased a CD compilation of The Spinners and an illustrated version of Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty designed for kids; and to Cabbie, who bought The Icarus Agenda by Robert Ludlum, Charm School by Nelson DeMille and Live to Tell by Wendi Corsi Staub; and to Ira, who relieved me of two large pictorials, one on Big Foot, and Guinness World Records 2018: Meet our Real-Life Superheroes.
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