WHAT IF ?!

I was 11 or 12 years old when we shot our neighbor in the ass. Some explanation is needed here.

My father was not a hunter, but we did have a shotgun and a bolt action 22 on the farm. The 22 was used primarily to shoot rats in the chicken coops when we were cleaning out the chicken shit. It was a summer day and my cousin was visiting for a few days. We decided it would be fun to do some target shooting with the 22 and stuck some tin can lids on the door of the outhouse for our targets. The outhouse, unused for years, sat adjacent to one of the barn sheds which was sided with corrugated tin. I honestly don’t remember if we asked permission to do this, but it is extremely unlikely that my mother or father would have given us permission if we did ask. Neither Walter or I were aware of the power and range of the 22. Because of the way the buildings were located we were shooting at an angle that allowed the 22 longs to go through the outhouse, 2 tin walls of the shed, and through a field and our vineyards, to reach the small cluster of homes situated about 150 - 200 yards away.

I don’t know how many rounds we shot before we heard someone yelling at us from one of the houses. After that everything is lost, or repressed in my memory. Apparently one of our shots hit a pregnant neighbor as she was hanging clothes to dry. To everyone’s immense good fortune the bullet literally grazed her buttocks. The local doctor came to the house and declared she was fine, though understandably frightened and angry, anger that paled beside that of my parents. Afterwards, all I can remember is Walter and I standing by the window in my bedroom, scared beyond anything I had known, not knowing what we had done and what was ahead for us. To this day, I still get an emptiness in the pit of my stomach when I think about this, and how so many lives could have been devastated by just a few inches difference in that bullets trajectory. I can only begin to imagine what my mother and father were feeling and thinking. Fortunately this occurred around 1950, before litigation became a social sport.

GET OUT OF HERE...AND DON’T COME BACK

I don’t know if those exact words were ever spoken, but the message was loud and clear to Augie and me.

We had to be 17 years old because I was driving the family ‘51 chevy. Neither of us was much bigger than we were some 6 or 7 years earlier when we had our “fight”. But we were both good looking, at least we thought so, and we were great dancers, we thought that too, so we decided to drive to a local hop in Hammonton, a town with a rough reputation, about 10 miles from Landisville. As usual the details are hazy, but I do remember that we connected with 2 girls and were enjoying ourselves when we got word that we were not welcome there, and it would be wise for us to think about leaving...soon! Considering ourselves lovers and not fighters, we accepted the “offer”, and mustering all the cool we could, headed for the door with our new girl friends, Augie and friend about 5-6 feet in front of me. Gathered about the exit were a number of very Italian looking guys (neither Augie or I resembled our genetic ancestry), all of them 6 ft. and 250 lbs., or so they seemed. The one thing about that evening that I recall with perfect clarity occurred as I walked out...I heard someone say, “why don’t we get that little bastard”!

Now, I don’t know why, but all of my life what ever name I’ve been called has always been preceded by the word “little”. My best friend, Richie Genoni, on those rare occassions when I beat him in a game of OUT in basketball would always call me a little shit, or a little bastard, never you shit or you bastard. Anyway, for what ever reason, they did not “get me” that night, but they did follow us in their car for several miles before they got tired. We then took the girls home, and maybe even parked for a while. One thing is certain, we did not go back to Hammonton.

I often wonder what became of Augie, the last I heard he married Eleanor Berti.

THE FIGHT

I consider myself a gentle person. I don’t like violence, fighting, and any sort of abusiveness. I avoid acting in any way, or saying anything, that would make another person feel bad, even if it were deserved. This is my nature. (when I was 8 or 9 years old I punched my neighbor and his cousin in their respective noses, but that was before I realized my nature...and I was provoked.) So, it is with some puzzlement that I recall the only childhood fight I ever had. I was to do battle with Augie Merrighi. We were the same age and approximately the same size, so it would be an even match. It was not a spontaneous affair...we met at an appointed time in our front yard, accompanied by Eddy Siciliano and his cousin Albert. My best guess is that I was 10 or 11 years old, but possibly younger. Augie and I looked at each other, and then asked if we wanted to fist fight or wrestle. The decision was quick and mutual, we would wrestle...That way there would be much less chance of pain and bloody noses.
I remember getting tangled up in each other and rolling on the ground. But that’s It!
I don’t remember how it ended, and even more frustrating, I don’t know why we were fighting!
Augie and remained friends for a long time, and 5 or 6 years later shared the distinct honor of being run out of Hammonton after leaving a dance with 2 girls we just met. That’s another story.

POWER PLANT

Several years ago I constructed several “power plants”. One sold and one has been hanging around the studio. Last year I did a third one, and a few weeks ago I shipped it to the gallery in Philadelphia that shows my work. Inspired by their interest in the piece I pulled out the old remaining one and began reworking it, trying to overcome the excessive darkness.


Power Plant #1 Sold


Power Plant #3 24x48 at Sande Webster Gallery in Philadelphia


Power Plant #3 reworked...18x36
(Unfortunately I don't have a before pic to show you.)

I HATE ROOSTERS

I hate roosters...I’ll admit they have an almost regal bearing about them, as they strut about the yard or the coop...but I still hate them. Roosters are mean, vicious, and worst than that, they are cowards. Every year we would place several roosters in with the hens in the breeding coop, and the eggs from there would be sent to the hatchery. I learned very quickly about those devious, miserable cowards the first time I went in to collect the eggs. They would stand back and stare at me, unmoving, as long as I was facing them and staring back. But as soon as I turned my back they would attack...comming at me feet first with those large spurs, intent on doing some real damage. I would turn quickly and kick at them as violently as I could without droping the basket of eggs I was carrying. I never told my father about that...I don’t think he would have approved. I had another way of geting revenge...Whenever I found an egg without a shell (the egg is held intact by the thin membraned that is found just beneath the shell in a normal egg.) I would take careful aim at the closest of those awful creatures and let it go. If I was really pissed I would throw a good egg. I never told my father that either.

I'm not sure of the connection, but the ram we had to "service" the sheep behaved in the same way, turn your back and he would charge with his head down, honing in on your butt, turn around and he would stop.

REMEMBERING OUR FARM

I grew up on a small farm in southern New Jersey. Originally my grandfather raised the usual local crops, tomatoes, potatoes, and lettuce. He also planted a vineyard and was licensed to make and sell wine - the label read, Father and Sons Claret. They sold the wine in Wilmington, Delaware and Philadelphia. When my father took over the farm in the early 1940’s he switched to poultry farming, giving me the opportunity to grow up on farm with 10,000 egg laying chickens. The vineyard remained for most of my childhood and my father, like all self respecting Italian men made his own wine, about 200 gallons a year. We also had sheep, pigs, a cow (which I milked every day), and my father’s amazing garden.

Because of a series of crippling heart attacks my father had to give up farming prematurely and my children never had the benefit of experiencing life on our farm. Conscious of regretting how little I knew of my parent’s early years, I initiated a “memory search” of the first 18 years of my life and began a series of short narratives to pass on to my children and grandchildren. I thought I would share some of these with my readers while I have no new art to show.

CHICKEN SHIT

I grew up with chicken shit! I walked in it. I smelled it and breathed it. I swept it. I shoveled it. I spread it. The shit of ten thousand chickens was with us always...a part of our lives. I left the farm when I went away to college at age 18. It was not until almost 15 years later that I realized just how deeply it was ingrained in my mind. I was making a house call outside of the city of Wilmington and the patients daughter greeted me as I got out of the car. I stood up and immediately asked who had chickens and where were they. She looked at me with astonishment and said they were at a small farm about a half a mile away.

WHERE IN THE HELL ARE THEY?!

Ok, my patience is running out (no pun intended...I’ll explain later). The studio is reorganized with new open working space, I have a painting sitting on the easel awaiting my attention, and I find myself sitting here looking out the windows or reading some mindless mystery, anything but painting. I can’t get excited over any of the many ideas flowing through my head. I tried forcing things with a couple of small watercolor sketches, but that didn’t lead to anything but 2 small wc sketches. The muses are staying away longer than usual, and I can’t help thinking, they are trying to send me a message. So I’ve given up efforts to do anything but sit and listen to what they have to say in the quiet stillness of my studio. We can hear more in the silence of our soul than in the noise of others or the noise we make ourselves.

Regarding my patience, and my Patience...she is Sweden! For the next week it will be just me and the nine whippets. Now if it were only me, there would not be nine dogs in my home. But when you love someone, you love who and what they are, and the woman I love is about animals, specifically dogs, and more specifically, Whippets. Therefore I am about whippets, nine of them to be exact, and they do test my patience.

I do 3 walks every morning, one short one with the old dogs and 2 long ones with the rest. Thanks to our friend Karen who accompanies me on the 2 longer walks, what could be a chore has become a chance to spend time with a friend.

After the walks comes the poop scooping in our fenced in yard, but that is another story.


I believe I've posted this photo before, but It such a great shot...by the amazing photographer and friend, Laurie Erickson...I just had to show it again.

L to R, back row...Swede William, Giacomimo, Delia, Lucianno, and Sam I Am.
front row...Fat Charlie and Mamma Pajama. Not shown, Lindy Loo.