Writer’s Corner

My 12 year old lab is getting a younger brother, a Doberman puppy. I have always believed in having two dogs for company, they understand each other. My old guy Amici will teach the new puppy Bullet all the habits of each family member.

Hi! My name is Amici! I’m a dog. I’m a Labrador Retriever, although I detest retrieving. I was born in New Orleans, a tough town, and then shipped off to Florida. I’m really a black mutt with a curved funny tail; I was also the runt of the litter, and no one wanted me. I also have a fleshy tumor on my neck. There were many strikes against me. First, I’m black; the second, I’m the runt, I don’t lick or kiss, but I’m friendly like my name. My parents found and adopted me just before I got the needle. I was so scared I stayed in the back of my cage shivering, just waiting for love. My future parents didn’t notice me in the back of the cage, but Andy their son, found me just when all hope was lost! Andy loves all animals. Boy, am I lucky.

They brought me to their house to meet another dog, Budaj. He was a beautiful boy dog, just like me! He was white and a pedigree, and he loved me. He taught me quickly about mom, dad, and Andy. Budaj did not like men! Everyone was afraid of dad, so I learned from Budaj to dislike men. I was taught mom was the only one for us. Although I learned that dad and Andy were great guys, Budaj lived for mom. Dad has a big booming voice that shakes the house because he sings. Mom can curse like a drunken sailor during hockey games, and all is fine; dad just whispers, “drat or darn,” and me and Buds, we run in fear. I’m not sure why, dad has never yelled at me or hit me. He taught me “please,” “thank you,” excuse me,” and I responded. Budaj just doesn’t like him; he hates Andy even more. I don’t know why. Budaj says to never, ever go down the hall to Andy’s room; it’s evil. I’m beginning to believe Budes has issues.

Andy is soft-spoken and a lover of all animals. I’ve seen him capture water bugs and release them outside, and dad, well, you can only imagine what he does; it’s not pleasant.

I’m am very lucky to have a big yard with a pool. I never swim; I hate the water. That’s right, a lab won’t retrieve or swim, and I really hate car rides, all that wind blowing. I enjoy chasing squirrels around the yard. We have bunny rabbits, but dad says we don’t chase them, so I don’t. I’m a good boy. I have many pet names I’m called, and I always answer; you never know, there might be a meatball waiting for me. They call me Amici, Mici, Coco, Peco, Sweebums, Meatball; I actually have seasonal names, Pumpkin, etc.

I’m being raised as Italian, Polish, and Ukraine; boy, they can cook! Meatballs are my favorite. When dad begins to make meatballs, I can hear the wrapping coming off the meat, and I am there to help dad any way I can! Pierogis, Kielbasa, Stuffed Shells, Chicken, and Bacon are my favorites. I have so much love from my family, and the best part is that they are medically trained, not dad though; he just cooks. My Aunt Janelle is a veterinarian! Dr. Aunt Janelle says my tumor is no big deal. Love, food, and healthcare, what more could you want! I have three beds to sleep in, and I sleep in all of them, on the rugs and on the tiles when it’s hot outside.

I cried so much the night that Budaj died. He was so young and my best buddy. It took some time to get over him, I remember everything he taught me, but I love dad and Andy. Since Budaj passed, I have been barking. Budaj didn’t bark much; he woofed when Andy was near. We sold the big house with the big yard, and we are looking for a new home. I bark at everyone walking by in our present home, especially UPS; I hate those brown uniforms. My yard is small, but I go on many walks. I’m loved and well cared for. However, when dad corrects me, I feel sad, but no problem. If I don’t like what he said, I walk into another room and rest, there’s always a bed handy.

My day is full. I mostly sleep and pretend I’m guarding something. I watch western movies with dad. He exercises as he watches television, but I’m just waiting for my next meal. Wherever I’m resting, I keep a keen ear to the ground if someone steals the refrigerator or tries to sneak snacks.

My parents were told I was three months old when I was adopted. They lied so they did not have to give me a worm test. They named me Noel to pretend I was born during the Christmas season. Well, I had worms, and I was seven months old. Poor dad had to keep Budaj’s crap and mine separated for two months until I was better. Boy, if that’s not real love. I’ll be nine years old sometime in July; we aren’t sure because they lied at the kennel; no one wanted me. No one wanted a black runt of a dog with a crooked tail and worms. I give unconditional love; I’m a dog; we all do! My mom and dad, and Andy choose me unconditionally to love me. Now I know what love really is about. I hope all pets could be adopted like I was, unconditionally.

I celebrate my birthday July 4th, and boy, oh boy, so many people celebrate my birthday with firecrackers, which annoy me. It’s good to be an All-American Dog!

years old sometime in July; we aren’t sure because they lied at the kennel; no one wanted me. No one wanted a black runt of a dog with a crooked tail and worms. I give unconditional love; I’m a dog; we all do! My mom and dad, and Andy choose me unconditionally to love me. Now I know what love really is about. I hope all pets could be adopted like I was, unconditionally.

I celebrate my birthday July 4th, and boy, oh boy, so many people celebrate my birthday with firecrackers, which annoy me. It’s good to be an All-American Dog!

The Old Man and the Chair

Every month or so I visit my ailing uncle in a nursing home on Long Island. He is the last living sibling of my mother. Alfonso is 91 years old, his memory is intact, but his body is failing. Just ask the nurses about Zio, he a regular Don Juan. His greatest joy when I visit is to wheel him out on the patio for fresh air, we reminisce about our family which are long gone, he asks of my children, but can’t remember their names, all is good with Zio Alfonso, I was named after him, my name is Al.

Every time we take the fresh air I notice an old man sitting off by himself in a make shaft rocking chair. He sits under this canapé, well not exactly, it is an old canvas tarp riddled with holes, and stares directly at the sky. The wind blows and the canapé flaps, I would find this mostly annoying having the wind in my face. The old man sits an stares for hours with a look of serenity on his face. His face is weathered like that of a man who worked outdoors, his hands were large and strong, they are calloused. His neck is broad and leather wore from direct sun. He appears to be about 90, when I ask my uncle about him, my uncle turns and says in his broken English, “pay no attention to him, he is an old fool, just sits and stares, and one comes to visit him.” My uncle lacked social skills and always had an opinion on everything. However, I paid the old man no mind as suggested.

Month after month I visit my uncle and see the old man, finally I had to ask the old man why he sits and stares. One day after visiting my uncle, who was nearing the end of his life, I got the nerve to ask him. I asked, “ why do you sit there old man?” He answered, “ this is my life now as I am an old man with no family, I sit and remember the past.” “Do you have any children, I queried?” “No,” replied the old man, “never had any, I was away from home most of my life and never settled down,” I thought how awful for the old man, alone and old. The old man said,” I am most content sitting and staring at the sky, I lost most of my eye sight some years ago from diabetes.”

I was intrigued, “ what was your occupation?” “I was a sailor,” he answered. “My home is the sea.” He went on and added, “ I joined the Navy at 16, fought in WWII, been sailing ever since.” Wow, I thought to myself, this guy is a living history book. “I long for the sea, the salt air, the wind that caressing my face, the burning of the sun on my neck, and the singing of whales.” “When was the last time you sailed?” The old man let go with a hardy laugh, some what similar to an old pirate. “ Argh, ha, ha, ha, its been maybe thirty years since I’ve sailed a schooner.” Now I’m thinking, a schooner is a small two masted boat. “Now, I just sit and feel the wind and listen to the flapping of the canapé, reminds me of the sails.” I said good bye and promised him when I returned to visit my uncle I would stop by and say hello.

The next month’s visit was saddened by the passing of my beloved Zio Alfonso. He had lived a long wonderful life, I soon realized that he was the last of the Italian immigrants arriving at Ellis Island over eighty years ago. I sat on the patio where I would wheel my uncle, I sat and stared, looking through the old man in the chair. When suddenly, someone yelled, “ hey, kid, I’m sorry about your uncle, come sit with me a while.” The old man in the chair sensed I was near.

“Why, thank you sir, he was the last of the elders.”

My Zio had left an inheritance for me, nothing big, I was his only close relative. Ten thousand dollars and a note that read, “ do something good for someone, or do someone something good.” He spoke in Yogi Berra-isms.

Never making sense at first, but eventually there were words of wisdom. I sat with the old man for an hour where I would sit with my Zio, on the back patio of the nursing home. The old man and I sat for hours never saying a word. When he suddenly said, “ would you please come see me time to time?” How could I possibly say no, he was lonely and I was still mourning my Zio. I reposted, “Certainly, maybe not every month but I will come visit with you, is there anything you need?” The old man though for a moment and said, “just a visit now and then.”

A month went by and I didn’t visit, I was feeling guilty, so the next Saturday I drove to the nursing home it was at the end of Long Island, Montauk. “Do something good for someone,” my Zio’s words resonated in my head. I had to make one stop before I visited the old man. When I arrived he was happy to see me and said, “ thanks for coming, I feel my end is near, it hasn’t been a good weak for me.” I spoke to the nurse, he was depressed and lonely. I asked the nurse if he could travel, she responded, “ only short distances with an aide.” Would he be able to take a quick ride over to the Montauk pier?” The nurse said as long as she went along.

The three of us hopped into one of the nursing homes’s van with the nurse driving.” Where are we going?”she questioned me. “Just to the pier as I winked my eye.” The old man was thrilled to be out and about. We pulled up the pier and we walked to the end, the old man knew he was close to the ocean as he inhaled deeply and sighed. I had rented a schooner for the day,” do something good for someone.” Yogi again in my head. I wheeled him to the bow and sat him in a fishing chair. As we slowly pulled away from the pier I could see the joy on his face. He finally had the wind in his sails, the sun on his neck and the seagulls were serenading him with the flapping of the sails. He quietly cried tears of joy.

When the sailing trip was done he thanked me for the wonderful memory and I promised to visit next month. The next month’s visit was my last, the old man passed away. The nursing staff said they had never seen him so happy during the last month. Before his cremation was scheduled I called the State Department to let them know of his passing. They said the Navy will depose of the his body. Three days later the United States Navy showed up with an entire fleet of sailors. He had been one of the last survivors of the USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor.

The old man in the chair was given a full naval funeral with a burial at sea in Pearl Harbor, where he now rests with his shipmates.

If you sat through that rendition of the National Anthem during the home run derby last night. You may be eligible for compensation. First Trump’s ear now ours.

Once Joe Biden realizes he quit, he is going to be pissed off!

I am trying to get my head around and grasp this AI; it’s not working. While at my cardiologist recently, we had a discussion on AI. His son is a cellist and has played professionally for years.

He stated, “There are good things about AI.” He went on to say his son played cello two years ago in a recording studio in Kentucky. He played the first part of a symphony he wrote, had it recorded with AI, and AI finished the symphony. My doctor said it was musically perfect—no mistakes from any instrument. The only thing missing was passion; passion in music cannot be duplicated. The essence of music is to feel its energy radiate through your body. If it doesn’t, something is missing.

I’ve been experiencing a similar reaction to my short stories. My critics read the post, not the story, then break down each phrase and each word. Here is an example: my book. “If The Creek Don’t Rise There Will Be A Parade.” I know what the title means; AI doesn’t need to explain it to me. Pretty condescending. However no one reads the book. “Wow Wine Wednesdays,” a short post on a certain wine I like. AI explains “Wednesdays,” ‘the middle of the week break.’ No one mentioned the wine. This AI is erasing all the passion involved in writing. If AI critiqued “Old Man and the Sea,” it would say, “Old man, a male of old age,” and “seas,” a large body of water smaller than an ocean. Sure it makes me want to read the book.

AI, as far as I’m concerned, always misses the point. Although you can’t argue with the facts of AI, they will always be correct. My definition of AI. AI is a big windbag that states truths, never having an opinion on any discussion. It’s like that smart ass kid you grew up with who knew all the facts about baseball but couldn’t hit a ball or catch a ball. He may know the facts, but he will never know the feeling of running down a fly ball in the outfield on a warm summer afternoon while your teammates are cheering for you to catch the ball. AI has no feelings; it can’t register passion. In truth, you can’t explain something you never really experienced.

AI will never give me goose bumps, or that warm feeling when hearing the violin, how the strings be so soothing it will erase any depression. It will never give me the tingling sensation that’s engulfs my body when a soprano hits their high C in an aria.

Let’s break down Artifical Intelligence like AI would.

Artifical: an adjective which modifies a noun: made or produced by a human being rather than occurring naturally. In other words FAKE.

Intelligence: a noun the subject of the sentence: the ability to acquire knowledge and skill

To make logical chooses, to be able to solve problems, apply critical thinking and think in the abstract. In other words being able to THINK.

AI is really a phooey, its fake and it can’t think. Ergo an oxymoron.

Oxymoron: Greek, “Oxus” means sharp and “Moros means” foolish.

My name is Wilson, and I’m an old leather baseball glove purchased in 1966 by my owner’s father for his tenth birthday. The joy I brought to that young boy was unimaginable. The gift was presented soon after the Baltimore Orioles beat the Los Angeles Dodgers in the 1966 World Series. Nothing made the boys’ dad more proud when the Orioles beat ‘Da Bums.” I was a tad stiff when I started out, but the constant pounding of a baseball into my pocket loosened me up. My boy would oil me regularly and keep me under his pillow when he slept.

The very next day after I arrived, I was taken to the sandlot to show off to all his baseball buddies. I was truly the center of the universe for the boy. Every day after school, my boy would run home and gather me up with bats and balls and head to the sandlot. I am made from cowhide, and my name, Wilson, is stitched on my wrist. My lacing is hand-sewn with all the appropriate knots. My outer shell is durable and can withstand all types of weather, while my inside is soft and cushioned. I can still feel the perspiration of my boy; his fingers were molded to the exact shape of my insides.

I thought for years my name was “I got it.” When ever a ball was hit to my boy, he would start to run in the outfield, and after a good chase, he would yell, “I got it!” So I called myself. “I got it, Wilson.” Each summer was always anticipated with great pleasure. I played game after game all season long, and even when baseball season was over, I was still playing against the garage. Always ready to play catch with my boy, his dad would join us and teach my boy all the rules of baseball.

We hung out all through high school, and I was always in his Baltimore Oriole duffle bag. We were both back out on the field after school every day, if not playing a game, just playing catch. Oh, how I miss playing catch. That was 1978, when he graduated high school and went off to college, but I didn’t make the trip, and here I sit.

I would be brought out occasionally when he got older, and he played softball with his pals when he came home. Softball is not the same; the ball is too big and heavy. I much prefer a real baseball. As the years passed, I was used less and less. I no longer slept with my boy, and at times I felt I was simply not of use to him. I was regulated to the garage, where I sit on the top shelf behind the Christmas decorations, far out of site. I hope some day I can be used again. I am ready to go in coach. Play me; don’t make me sit and gather dust. As time passes, now, after three years, I wonder my fate. I am old and stiff, probably riddled with arthritis. I wish my boy would oil me again; ah, it felt so good! Alas, my fate, oh, wait, someone is coming. I hear the garage door open. They’re walking towards me; they’re moving the boxes in front of me. Can it be freedom again? No, no, don’t walk away! It was the Christmas decoration they needed. One more holiday spent without my boy. It will soon be 1982, and he should be finished with college. Maybe when he comes home we can play catch agin if this old piece of rawhide will hold together with its tattered, leather lacing.

At last, great joy! My boy is home, and we can play catch! It has been years since he held me. Why isn’t he coming into the garage? Doesn’t he miss me? Oh boy, it’s Wilson. Remember me? Remember, “I got it.” Wait, here he comes. Finally, he is moving the boxes away. He’s coming for me. Please oil me; he’s walking away! He needed more Christmas lights for the tree. He did glance at me, didn’t he? I’ll wait; he will come for me.

Boy, am I getting dusty back here? My boy has been home for a year, and we haven’t played catch. He has forgotten me. I am so lonely; I wish I had a baseball to hold on to. I recall the first day he got me. Where is that magic? You showed me off to your friends; you carried me everywhere. You oiled me and kept me flexible. Now I am dried up and cracking, and that hurts. Whenever I cry, the cracks get worse. I must be used, or I will wither away.

I haven’t seen my boy in three years since he came home from college, not even a softball game with his buddies. I am so lost. Where do I belong? I remember kids talking about a hall of fame where special gloves, bats, and balls go when they are famous. I’m not famous; I never left Maryland. Someday I will be on the field shagging fly balls, feeling the summer sun on me. I miss the sweat from my boy. Here he comes again. I am not getting my hopes up high; I have been disappointed too many times in the past. Slowly, he moves the dozens of boxes of Christmas decorations. I am far in the back, and every year I get pushed further back. I hear him getting closer. “There you are, my old pal Wilson; I’ve been looking for you!” Looking for me, I have waited over ten years for you; this is where you left me. “ Gotta get you oiled and flexible again.” I’m being oiled!!! Horray! Finally, we can play catch. He is putting me in the car; where are we going? “Hey Wilson I have a surprise for you—someone new to play with.” I’m given a second chance to run around the outfield and scoop up ground balls at third base. Boy, oh, boy, baseball! Hurry up, I’m twenty-eight years old; that must be a hundred in glove years.

We entered what appeared to be his new home, much better than my last place. He walks over to a crib with a baby boy dozing. “Son,I want you to meet Wilson.” Slowly, the baby wakes up, and a smile is brought to his face. Oh, how cute. What’s that? You’re putting me in the crib to get to know the baby! This can’t be. He’s putting me in his mouth; he’s chewing my laces! Make him stop, boy, please! Suddenly, the baby throws me out of the crib. What’s that? You didn’t like the way I tast. I’m a genuine, 100% rawhide from a cow; a kid must be a vegan.“ Here, son, sleep with Wilson as I once did. Before you know it, you and I will be playing catch with Wilson. Soon after that, Wilson will be yours.” I have a new home, the boy’s boy! I will play catch, run down fly balls, and stop those nasty one-hoppers in the infield, and most importantly, I get to hear, “I got it.”

Joe and Jill went up the Hill, for nearly 50 years

When Joe fell down he gave his crown

To Jill before he drowned

Jill wore the crown without a frown

Joe and Kamala were in tears

Jill stayed on the Hill until it was time

To send sleepy Joe to his early bedtime

Kamala waited and waited for Joe to wake

Jill shook Joe but it was too late

So the two planned another date

Jill and Kamala went up the Hill

And lived for twenty more years

They ruled without any fears

Until one day when when it was still

Donald Trump had his fill

And they all come tumbling down

Yo, how ya doing? This is a typical greeting in New York. It really isn’t a question, because no one gives a shit about “how ya doing.” New Yorkese is a language onto itself, “dees and deems.” Once you learn this language, it stays with you forever. Caw-fee is coffee in New York, but a regular caw-fee comes is with cream and sugar. There are so many nuances and when you meet a fellow New Yorker, the lingo and pronunciation return instantly.

I have been saying “Yo” all my life, “Yo Vinny, Yo Tony.” It in essence means “hey,” not hello.

I moved out west, and everyone knew where I was from. It was like having a big sign on your shirt saying, “Yo, I’m from New York.” For twenty-four years, my accent got watered down. One trip back, just one trip, and I spoke like I was auditioning for “Godfather, you can’t lose it!

I was on a social media site recently called “New Yorkers that have moved to Florida.” One of your typical bullshit sites, I seldom post anything, I just read. One time I had to answer the post when the comment was made, “If you say “y’all,’ in Florida, you are not from New York.” That I took offense to, I was offended.

First of all, out of all the New Yorkers living in Florida, I have not one, not a single one, born in New York. If you mail a letter and address it New York, New York, it goes to Manhattan, not Brooklyn, Queens of Upstate New York. I was born on 21st Street and 1st Avenue at Manhattan General Hospital. To a native Manhattanite, Central Park is upstate. When I hear, “I’m from New York,” and I ask where, “Albany,” not New York, New York,.

Yo, how y’all doing? A combo of north and south. Not only do I use y’all, I use it in writing. I have family in New Orleans and Mississippi. The ones born there taught the non-natives what to use in their speech. Not only do I say y’all, I can also explain when to use “all y’all.” Y’all are used to speaking to a small group of people; y’all know what I’m saying.” When speaking to a large crowd, it’s all y’all. “All of you.”

Yo, I hope, “All y’all got it!

I never knew any of my grandparents, but I was fortunate enough to know my great-uncle, who was my grandfather’s brother. My grandfather, Alfonso, arrived with his brother Francesco in New York around 1900. The brothers were born in Cava de’ Tirrini, a city in the Campagna region of southern Italy. The brothers didn’t take to American life; one example would be never really learning English.

My grandfather Alfonso died soon after the Depression, and his brother Francesco became my surrogate grandpa. Zio “Cheech,” as we called him along with Grandpa. He lived in Corona, New York, lived to be 86, and died in 1964, when I was ten. My memories are fading with age. However, I do vividly recall his basement in Corona. The walls were decked with the Sunday comics from The Daily News, “Terry and the Pirates, and “Gasoline Alley.” The old guy never understood the text of the comics; he loved the colors, and they were everywhere.

He had a modest garden of tomatoes, herbs, peaches and grape vines. He also made his own wine. One memory I will always remember was his smell; he smoked DiNapli cigars, short smokes we called “Guinea Stinkers,” and he wore the same old, grey sweater.

My parents would visit every Sunday for dinner in Corona. As soon as we arrived, he took me down to the cellar. I was the youngest and clearly his favorite. He showed me the latest edition of Sunday comics, and he always smiled. Then he’d sit me down and pour me some home-made wine. I was eight back then. He would slice a piece of peach and put it in our wine glasses. The wine was so strong in alcohol that it had to be cut with the sweetness of the peach. The “Godfather” scene at the end depicts Cheech in a tee, peach, and gray sweater.

He would serve wine in Flintstone jelly jars. I had a serious crush on Wilma until I was twelve.

What I would give for one more visit down his cellar, drinking wine and smelling those nasty cigars.

Growing up in Greenwich Village during the 1950s and 1960s allowed me to be exposed to the melting pot of historical writers. Thomas Paine, William Sydney Porter. [O’Henry] Mark Twain and James Baldwin, just to name a few. They all lived in The Village and embraced the Bohemin life style. For many years aspiring writers have flocked there. However, there are also locally born writers plying their craft. Charles Messina, Alfred Caneccchia, Dom Perruccio and myself. I can say I have know Charles Messina since he was born on Thompson Street. Charles has written many screen plays and plays, his latest musical play soon to be on Broadway, “The Wanderer.” Based on the life of Dion DiMucci, Dion and The Belmonts. Al Caneechia has written many books, “Greenwich Village Vignettes,” the Village seen through his eyes. “When Greenwich Village Was Ours,” which I contributed a short story. My buddy Dom Perruccio, he and Charles wrote, “Stomping Ground, Growing Up On The Streets of Greenwich Village,” His latest work is a beautifully illustrated book, “The Adventures of Miss Canoli The Scamp,” a wonderful tribute to his dog.

We will never be as famous as the afore mentioned writers, their creativity has cemented a place in Greenwich Village for current writers and writers of the future. Growing up in Greenwich Village during the 1950s and 1960s allowed me to be exposed to the melting pot of historical writers. Thomas Paine, William Sydney Porter. [O’Henry] Mark Twain and James Baldwin, just to name a few. They all lived in The Village and embraced the Bohemin life style. For many years aspiring writers have flocked there. However, there are also locally born writers plying their craft. Charles Messina, Alfred Caneccchia, Dom Perruccio and myself. I can say I have know Charles Messina since he was born on Thompson Street. Charles has written many screen plays and plays, his latest musical play soon to be on Broadway, “The Wanderer.” Based on the life of Dion DiMucci, Dion and The Belmonts. Al Caneechia has written many books, “Greenwich Village Vignettes,” the Village seen through his eyes. “When Greenwich Village Was Ours,” which I contributed a short story. My buddy Dom Perruccio, he and Charles wrote, “Stomping Ground, Growing Up On The Streets of Greenwich Village,” His latest work is a beautifully illustrated book, “The Adventures of Miss Canoli The Scamp,” a wonderful tribute to his dog.

We will never be as famous as the afore mentioned writers, their creativity has cemented a place in Greenwich Village for current writers and writers of the future. Growing up in Greenwich Village during the 1950s and 1960s allowed me to be exposed to the melting pot of historical writers. Thomas Paine, William Sydney Porter. [O’Henry] Mark Twain and James Baldwin, just to name a few. They all lived in The Village and embraced the Bohemin life style. For many years aspiring writers have flocked there. However, there are also locally born writers plying their craft. Charles Messina, Alfred Caneccchia, Dom Perruccio and myself. I can say I have know Charles Messina since he was born on Thompson Street. Charles has written many screen plays and plays, his latest musical play soon to be on Broadway, “The Wanderer.” Based on the life of Dion DiMucci, Dion and The Belmonts. Al Caneechia has written many books, “Greenwich Village Vignettes,” the Village seen through his eyes. “When Greenwich Village Was Ours,” which I contributed a short story. My buddy Dom Perruccio, he and Charles wrote, “Stomping Ground, Growing Up On The Streets of Greenwich Village,” His latest work is a beautifully illustrated book, “The Adventures of Miss Canoli The Scamp,” a wonderful tribute to his dog.

We will never be as famous as the afore mentioned writers, their creativity has cemented a place in Greenwich Village for current writers and writers of the future.

My latest novella about racial tension in Gulfport, Mississippi in 1950s.

Stepping Into an Honored Life

I am an old, wheel-worn pair of shoes that sit in a box in the back of a closet. I am just a reminder of days past. My owner takes me out of the box and slides his feet into me every so often. We aren’t going anywhere; he stares down at me like an old friend.

I worked manual labor for ten years, mostly concrete work. I am caked with cement and water. My leather is well worn; talk about an old comfortable pair of shoes. A good part of me built my owner’s house, my laces have been replaced dozens of times. I originally started out dark brown, but now I am more tan from the sun.

I have poured foundations, climbed high on scaffolds, and worked in the cold of winter until I began to crack. I never complained in the great heat of the summer when the temperature was over 100 degrees. I fought the rain during construction; although water-logged, I still worked. I gave comfort and support to my owner.

He is a good family man who cares for everyone. I can recall walking in 5K races for charity – who else would he wear except me!

When I was first purchased, I was young and inexperienced. I needed time to get broken in. In the beginning, I heard I was painful but mellowed as time passed. Over the months, we both adjusted to one another. My owner’s toes conformed to my length, his arches molded my shape, and his soles sat deep within me. I know all the bones in his feet. At times, I felt the entire weight of the world on me, yet I never wavered and stood tall. I never faltered, tripped, or fell. I am a living part of this man.

When my owner injured his ankle, I was there to help change my shape due to his limp, so he was able to continue working. His ankle was so swollen he could barely tie my laces, but we still continued to work.

I am often pulled out of the closet to perform the dirty job of working with cement or paving the driveway. This is not what I thought retirement was about. At times I am used for “dress up,” a game with his grandchildren, an honor, I suppose.

For some reason, I have been moved from my nice and cozy closet to the steps entering the house from the garage. My days may be numbered, or I may be put back to work.

When the grandchildren come to visit, they run to greet me. They have heard the stories of construction. Part of this new project will be a man-cave for the owner, adorned with his trophies and awards. I’m not sure what part I am playing in this new venture.

The new construction has started! I sit idly by, waiting for instructions. I am not being used, but I’m ready for work! Put me in coach; I’ve still got some life left in me. My owner bought a new pair of construction boots, and I am deeply saddened. They are black and shiny. The work continues with pouring a foundation, and I eagerly want to work, but no one needs me.

The work is done, the man-cave is great! A bookshelf is built into one wall that will display all the items near and dear to my owner. Some weeks pass, and a large cauldron is brought into the garage and placed alongside me.

I have no clue what it is here for. They pour some metal into the large pot and begin to heat the pot. The fumes are sickening, and I am worried I will be destroyed! I am placed inside; I can’t believe that this is my demise. After minutes in the pot, I began to sweat; the heat is unbearable. Finally, I emerge as a pair of bronzed shoes; I am not dead. The owner then places me on his bookshelf next to the bronzed baby shoes of his grandchildren. I have become immortal. The owner places a beautiful plaque next to me that reads:

“To my loyal friend. You stood by me as I built this life and family. It would never have been possible without you.”

I had the pleasure of being one of the contributing writers.

If you are going to live in the mountains, you must learn a few things to survive. I lived in Lake Tahoe in the Sierras for nine years, one of the most beautiful places in the world. It’s a continuous battle with nature. Moving to an area where wildlife rules, one must adapt to their surroundings. The bears and coyotes have been there forever, and we are the trespassers. Snow can appear ten months out of the year. The only month it didn’t really snow at Lake Tahoe was in July. I camped at Eagle Lake in July at almost a 10,000 foot elevation. I woke one morning to 6 inches of snow which melted quickly. I was the snow-plow king of my neighborhood. There weren’t many neighbors living out in the country, in fact, my street was the last for the city to plow. If you live out that far, you must depend on yourself to survive, hence, a four-wheel drive Jeep with massive studded snow tires.

Firewood was a big deal; I hated buying wood. So I decided to drop pine trees for my neighbors; I was allowed to chop any tree 6 inches or less in diameter. After dropping the trees, I would bundle them up and store the dry rounds for the next year. I would need at least two cords a year. One year I stacked the wood too close to the house only to discover the mice preferred wood piles in the winter; I ended catching eighteen mice that year.

Coyotes, by far, are the smartest of all creatures! When I would come across a coyote in the forest, I would stand my ground and yell. The coyote would back up a few feet only to turn around and glare at me to see if I were serious. I never had a problem with them, though.

One day, at my kids bus stop, I saw a white wolf, an amazingly beautiful creature. Black bears were everywhere! When I first moved there, I spotted a bear cub in a tree, which means mamma bear is close by. I am certain the same cub would visit my dog and me; I could tell by the bears’ chest blazing as a way to identify bears. I’d be splitting wood, and the bear would come by the wrought iron fence and peer in. My dog would be nose to nose with the bear. If they ever learned to use their thumbs, we would most certainly be in trouble. They can open a car door or jar of peanut butter. They thought humans kept their food in ice coolers, so they would break into your car for the coolers. One night, my New York City sister visited with her friend and stayed at the cabin across the street. When I walked her home late that night, a bear walked right past us; we felt and sensed his whoosh! You can smell a bear if they’re that close.

If you are hiking and encounter a bear or a coyote, do not run because they will think you are prey. Stand your ground, try to make yourself bigger, wave your arms, act crazy, and they will go their own way. They do not want confrontation. Bears climb trees, and they will only try to enter your tent if you have food inside. Most campgrounds have bear bins which are metal with latches for food storage. They have learned to adapt to us humans and how to pilfer our foodstuffs. We have to try to adapt to them because they were here first.

When I lived in Sonoma County, I was an amateur winemaker. I decided to travel down to Apple Valley, about 60 miles south, to purchase some grapes. I trucked them back to Tahoe to begin the process. The grapes were crushed, and fermentation was starting. The bears arrived and tore through my wooded fence to enjoy the grapes that very first night. I heard the crashing of the fence and bounded outside just in the nick of time to save my wine. I moved the grapes to a friend’s house the next day. Who knew, grape jelly, bears?

Garbage is a great temptation for bears; you just can’t leave your garbage can out all the time. If you do, they will party every night. What you need is a 600-pound bear bin that is set in cement with rebar. I purchased one for $800 but before I able to cement and rebar, the bears arrived and pushed it over. They knew that food came in these bins. The next day cement and rebar were installed, and before the cement settled, the bears came by again and pushed it over. They knew which were the garbage nights, and they would continue push over the bin. I tried motion lights, anything I could think of to deter the bears. Finally, I decided to think like a bear. Every night when the sun went down, I would urinated around the perimeter of the bear bin. Viola! It worked; no more bears in my garbage. They respected my scent and moved on. I adopted to their lifestyle. Just don’t let the neighbors catch you!!

The Curse of the Sopranos

Most everyone has seen the Soprano’s, one of the greatest television shows ever. I was a late comer to the Sopranos when it started in 1999. I was working nights and didn’t have HBO. My sister in New York would call me and tell me about this new mafia comedy set in New Jersey. Of course I knew Jersey mobsters growing up, they differed from New York mobsters. Now, rasicm comes in all shapes and sizes. I was writing for a local newspaper and I was the food and wine editor. Some other writers, who studied journalism were on the staff. They never paid me any mind until the Sopranos, each Monday morning when the discussions should have been about current events, turned to discussions about the TV show, which I had never seen. Always asking me what do this mean, or what does that mean. One question which took me a while to figure out was, what does, “Maname?” I would answer I don’t know what you mean. Then one day I figured it out, “Madonna Mia.” Mother Mary or my mother was the answer.

My sister would still call and ask if I saw the show. I still never saw it. Yes, I am a New York Italian. Not all of us were in the mafia. If you want to piss off and Italian, put ice in your wine, and ask him about the mafia. We all knew who they were growing up. Suddenly, I was looked at as a once member. I tried to dispel this theory, but to now avail.

My sister would call and say have you seen the show and finally I did. It’s a friggin comedy! And the funny part all the ‘boys’ were comics in real life. I remember drinking with Ralph Gigante and he made me pee my pants. I recall when I was treated unfairly in a neighborhood business deal Ralpie spoke on my behalf. He said watch this, we walked into the shop of the unfair person took one look at Ralpie, “The Beast.” and cowarded on the floor pleading, “don’t tell Vinny, please!” The intimidation was a comedy act, like the Sopranos.

I was really perceived as a New Jersey mobster, I would say, “I’m from New York ,” it didn’t make a difference. Fast forward to 2008, I return to New York armed with incomparable wine knowledge. No New York restaurant would hire me, I was too New York and represented the mob. This was difficult to overcome. I was home and I didn’t fit in. Fast forward once again to 2022. My financial advisor shows up at my home one afternoon with real bad news. The first thing he says is, “don’t hit me, but I lose 20 percent of your investment, “please don’t hit!” What the fuck! I think, he’s watching too many Soprano shows. Yes, I am intimidating, I’m big with broken fingers from boxing, and I’m Italian! Now I get it! Okay lets fast forward one more time to 2023. My wife and I at the deli counter ordering cold cuts, that’s what we call them,not sandwich meat, cold cuts. I ask the deli man for a half pond of capicola. My wife asks what’s that, and I answer ‘gabbagoul.” Looking shocked she says, “that’s what Tony Soprano eats!”

The problem with racism is that the book IS judged my its color. Some parts may be true. One time my daughter was having a problem with a guy she worked with in California. Me living in Florida told her, “you know I’ll be on the next flight out, just to talk to him.” And I add, “tell him where I was born and show him a picture and ask him, “do you what to meet my dad?”

The guy never bothered her again. My own daughter was scared of my appearance, but she knew better, she knew me.

Please don’t fear me, and please don’t piss me off.

Some of my works, all available on amazon

People always ask, “how do I come up with topics to write about?” I’m a creative writer,, so I’m a dreamer. My four children write better than I, there are technical writers, couldn’t come up with a creative thought. One daughter is a veterinarian, the other daughter is a teacher, one son is a Michelin chef, and one son is a savant. To creative you have to be a little odd and think of things others don’t. I can suffer from writer’s block for weeks and turn around and write 3000 words in a morning. They way to cure this is to sit in front of a blank piece of paper, dream and write, just start writing, everything else will fall into place.