OUR LADY OF MT. CARMEL ANNUAL CHURCH FESTIVAL

I am resurrecting an old piece of mine, because this happens to be the weekend of this festival.  I envy my relatives who still live in the area, and can attend at will.  Save some cheese puffs for me, guys!  And thanks to Chris for helping me with a few of the details.

OUR LADY OF MT. CARMEL ANNUAL CHURCH FESTIVAL

I’m scorching hot. My clothes cling to me in the smothering humidity. Add to that the people-laden, sticky black tar church parking lot without a shade tree in sight. Ugh.


Yet, the air is saturated with inviting aromas: potent garlic; sweet onion; roasted peppers; spicy Italian sausage; yeast bread rolls; sweet dough twists with cinnamon sugar; cotton candy … and cheese puffs. My cousin Tom and I make a beeline for the deep-fried sweet dough filled with ooey gooey cheese. Yummmmm!

We race toward the Ferris wheel, dodging through the crammed masses and attractions. My nostrils are suddenly assaulted with the fishy stench of smelt. Eew. This booth boasts a line of cuffed pants; brimmed hats; men’s black shoes; and long-sleeved shirts soaked with sweat, each revealing the standard white muscle T beneath. These older Italian men puff cigars (again, eew!) and pass the time in line playing the loud, fast-paced game of Morra.

“Quatro!” (four!)

“Sette!” (seven!)

“Otto di fuoco!” (eights on fire!)

Roars of laughter rise with the cigar smoke above the cacophony of festival sounds.

From a game booth, a hoarse female voice hails, “Roll down, roll down! Six tries for a dollar!”

Various carnival rides summon as well: Creeeek … screeeeeech … tic, tic … whoooosh!

A button accordion pumps out a Polka, accompanied by the “oom pah” of a tuba. We pause to watch smiling couples bob as they step, quick-step, step, hold their way around a make-shift dance floor.

We spot Nonna at the Bingo Tent with an array of cards spread before her, fervently trying to win an “Infant of Prague.” This uniquely Catholic carnival prize is a plaster figure of the jewel-crowned infant Jesus, clothed magnificently in a robe of rich red, royal blue, or gold. Game booths and tents flaunt eye-catching displays of the satiny fabrics, glistening jewels, and outstretched arms of the holy infant. I feel the contrast of Nonna's satiny cheeks and stiffly sprayed hair as she pulls us close, and presses a quarter into each of our palms.

Continuing to the Ferris wheel, a small stand topped with a six-foot twirling glass of yellow lemonade beckons. Soon soothing icy lemon slush slides down the back of my throat.

I nurse my treat while in line for our ride. Cold sweat drips off the cup into my sandals, and squishes between my toes. A silvery car grinds its way to the bottom of the giant spoked wheel. We hop on, my bare legs sticking to the hot metal seat. Tom slams the safety bar shut, and we rock precariously forward and back.

The car jerks and jolts as we inch up a notch so the one below us can load, and so on -

one

car

at

a

time.

Stuck at the peak, we get a birds-eye view. The setting sun creates peach, mauve, and midnight blue hues. Glistening stringed lights of sapphire, emerald, ruby, and gold crisscross the grounds. Suddenly, my hair flies up and my stomach drops, then settles back in as it grows accustomed to the whirling sensation. For just a moment, I close my eyes and relish the breeze.

Marie Elena

TOM

We each pay our dime,
And enter the theater.
We are greeted with
   Air conditioning,
   The luscious scent
      Of unaffordable popcorn,
   And deafening previews
      Of coming attractions.

We also find we are the only ones

There.

We do what any going-into-third-grade-r would do.

We sit in the balcony.

Then the front row, center.

Then you move to the back, and I stay put

And we wave and yell echoed hellos

And laugh

And laugh

And laugh.

We laugh at Laurel and Hardy,
But we mostly laugh
At the sheer fun of being.

Cousins are cousins.
Or strangers.
Or friends.
But you are the brother
I never had.

NOT FADE AWAY

Cool it with the Charles noise,
I'm just one of Ella and Larry's three boys.
Call me Buddy, everyone does,
I don't know why; they tell me "Just because"

     I found my voice by the age of five,
     recorded songs from before I was alive.
     Music lived in me; it filled me, obsessed me,
     I'd even say that "demon" possessed me.

Along the way they screwed up my name,
yet in their mistake, I found my fame.
Finding my piece of pie in the American Dream,
when I gulped and hiccupped onto the scene.

     Rock and Roll was in its early stage,
     but I knew it would be the rage,
     I assembled a band, that was the ticket,
     and with me to lead, we were the Crickets.

Oh Boy, what a time! A thrill of my life,
It's so easy to get into this life.
The drums were the heartbeat, and I knew what to do,
If you love Rock and Roll, I'm gonna love you too.

     It's great to rave on with these words of love,
     Below it was blue days, black nights up above.
     But, something touched this brown eyed handsome man.
     If you saw her smile, maybe baby, you'd understand.

I found true love ways, in Maria Elena's smile,
she gave me my heart, it gave me my style.
Love at first sight, I asked "think it over",
she said "Yes". I was rolling in clover.

     I went on the road, she stayed home expecting,
     her sad Spanish eyes were surely reflecting
     the raining in her heart, she appeared to be coping,
     while she sat by the phone crying, waiting, hoping.

Clearlake was rocking, the music insane,
a late winter storm as we boarded the plane.
"I hope your plane crashes", Waylon Jennings would say,
In my bright Holly smile I said, "That'll be the day!"

     "And the three men I admire the most,
     the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost,
     well, they caught the last train for the coast,
     the day the music died." ~ Don McLean (American Pie)


Walt

NEAR THE ERIE TRACK (The House With None of Us In It)

I do not venture there anymore.
The old homestead near the Erie track
stands in an unrecognizable state.
The tales I’ve been told of our old house are tragic.

The house is empty, a haunted house bears more life.
The sharp contrast cuts like a serrated knife,
shredded, tattered edges and shards of memory
laid to waste and leaving a bitter taste in our mouths.

Generations stacked three high would cry
a collective tear if they went near the Erie track.
In fact, many more would shed when the fact enters their heads
that there’s nobody in the house worth a mention.

I cringe with a strain; a tension winding my spring
until I release and cease to be rational.
A right and traditional home; a suitable sanctuary,
it is scary how quickly it has fallen. It is hard

to imagine a manicured yard and bountiful garden left barren,
I wouldn’t care if the years of my making weren’t taking
their toll on my memory. There is nary a day that goes by
that I do not try to recall her as our domain. All that’s left is pain.

Indeed, she offered us all that a house should, it was good
that warmth and shelter were felt in her embrace.
We played no part in her disgrace; this place is no longer
ours to concern over. We’ve grown stronger in our absence.

I do not venture there anymore. That place,
that house with none of us in it. I do not look back.
　
　
Response to:

"The House With Nobody In It" by Joyce Kilmer


Walt

SO WE DECIDED TO GO DOWN TO TRY AND GET AUTOGRAPHS

Even from high in the bleachers

he looked mammoth.

Broad shoulders and legs
strong, churning, crushing.
Eight years old
and I was hanging close to my Dad's knee.
I knew the name. Cookie Gilchrist.
Before I knew all my prayers. Cookie Gilchrist.

Cookie ran for the Buffalo Bills
on this cold afternoon November of 64.
I sat riveted, watching my idol
steamroll over opposing linemen,
linebackers and the odd zebra or two.
Dad laughed as it was
"Cookie this", and "Cookie that"
He knew a boy needed his heroes.

The Bills could have won without him,
but Gilchrist made it special.
"Thanks Dad" I remember saying,
"He's my hero"
Dad smiled a smile
that continues to warm me to this day.
We grabbed our gear and headed out.

"This way, Sonny" he instructed.
And I followed in obedience.
Ramp, after tunnel, after stair
to a ramp. We found ourselves
in the lowest point in the "Rockpile".
A swarm of screaming kids blocked the way.
Standing above the throng...
Cookie Gilchrist.

Dad leaned in and whispered to me
and I nodded in compliance.
In my loud eight year old voice
I called, "Mr. Gilchrist?"
He stopped. And glancing our way, he smiled.
Cookie pressed past the crowd
to the place where my father and I stood.

This mountain of a man
reached for my program.
He smiled even more broadly
and he plied his signature
onto the glossy crisp page.
In awe I stammered,
"Thank you very much, Mr. Gilchrist!

One last smile graced his face.
"No son, thank you!"
I came to understand
his gratitude as the years passed.
For in a simple gesture,
my father taught me a great lesson.
I learned respect.

I had the opportunity to thank my father
before he had died.
"No Sonny, thank you!" he said.
With that the lesson was completed.
A boy has to have his hero.



Carlton "Cookie" Gilchrist died today from a recurrence of Cancer. He was 75.


Walt

CROSSROADS (A sonnet for my cousin, with love)

Psalm 139:16. … all the days ordained for me were written in your book

before one of them came to be.

James E. Powers, Jr. 

September 23, 1952 - November 19, 2010

He stands between the living and the dead,
as ailing lungs no longer understand
the expectations of a heart in dread,
not willing to let go of all it planned.

Though comatose, his mind exerts its will,
Not giving up, nor knowing how to cope;
As loved ones, keeping vigilant, instill
An ember of illuminating hope.

Sad we cannot return to days of old,
Of playing ‘til the streetlights called us home;
Now, heart-in-throat, we watch events unfold;
Our desperate pens add chapters to his tome.

Yet, God imparts His own life-giving breath,
to give eternal life that transcends death.

Marie Elena
 
"...  just around the corner from the light of day"  The Boss

You lost the battle to breathe earth's air this morning, but gained eternal, celestial air.  You are loved, and always will be.  See you on the other side, Punk.

HAIKU

Belmont Avenue
Nestled among family
Longing to return

Childhood memories.
Joyful. Innocent. Carefree.
Longing to return.

Marie Elena

HAIKU

Somewhere inside me
a child peers out a window
pining for puddles

WOOD PLACE

Once tree lined,

until Dutch Elm Disease

took her toll. A quiet knoll

that came to life when the kids came out to play.

We'd play all day,
along this out of the way
thoroughfare, it was there that
we came to life; brothers, sisters and I.

A double lot 

was our footprint, no postage stamp

of God's little acre; the Maker gave us

all that we could handle and all we wanted.

The generational home,
where we were born, where Mom was raised,
where my newly naturalized grandfather settled
to raise his growing brood. He also grew food

on the lot he purchased 

along the rail lines. That was the place

that piqued my interest in trains. On time,

always to the schedule the iron rumbled.

Cousins always near,
the only fear we embraced,
came from the characters we devised.
The knights of Wood Place spent our nights

sleeping in the backyard,

roaming the 'hood after dark,

never in a malicious manner, more

of a watchful and protective way.

From the end
of our driveway to the second
telephone pole was our domain, street football
on a neatly painted asphalt gridiron; the envy

of the kids in the neighboring

streets. We were emulated; never duplicated,

celebrated for our camaraderie and brotherhood, 

in our neighborhood on Wood Place.

Dad held fort
until the end and after we and our friends
had found our own stations; our own Wood Places.
I remember the faces in my dreams.

Now Wood Place is a memory.

You can't go back again. It isn't

the same; wasn't meant to be. It was

a starting point, that mint green castle. No hassle

came without backup.
I do not venture near there.
I wish for my memories to be unburdened
by the sadness of her rapid decline, a sign that

we left Wood Place

at the exact right time. In my heart and mind

I run the streets at night, kicking cans and keeping

my hiding spots secret. All in sanctuary, on Wood Place.

Walt

WOODLAWN BEACH

On Erie's shore
just south of Buffalo;
in the shadow of Bethlehem Steel,
Woodlawn Beach languishes.
Sand strewn with drift wood,
seaweed interwoven between
seashells and toes; rocky layers
stubbing and protruding, eluding
them was a battle.
Passing years brought stench,
abandoned Steel Plant stand
and ominous reminder of the decay.
Dead fish and gulls where children played,
now they stay off shore. No more
escaping or scraping memories out of
her unkempt shell. Just as well.
Woodlawn Beach is closed again.
This Year. Every year.


Walt

THE MORIN POINT YEARS

A lifetime ago

When my kids were kids

Summer meant Erie

“Overnights” with cousins

Hours fishing on the dock

Sipping trumpet vine

Boating with Grandpop

Awaiting words, “Want to steer?”

Bracing for waves

Haunted Erie Lighthouse

Spotting Turtle Island once more

Wading Toledo Beach

Faygo quenches thirst

Seagulls play Follow-the-Leader

Sleepyheads nap reluctantly

Lakeside fire pit

Outside in pajamas, laughter abounds

Sticky blackened marshmallows

Rainy-day fun

Kitchen-table Euchre with Grandma

Blanket tent cities

The music room

Grandpop’s headphones gobbling their heads

Jazz on vinyl

Time with Grandpop

Stretched out on the floor

Catching “Tarzan” reruns

Fond memories abound

Summer days on Morin Point

With devoted Grandparents

Marie Elena

TAKING TURNS (A Shadorma)

That was us.
Not that long ago,
That was us.
Now that’s them –
Sitting at the kids’ table;
Loving the closeness.

Now that’s them –
Naively playing.
Not a care.
Smiles, laughter.
Growing up all together.
A lifetime ahead.

Marie Elena

DECORATION DAY

One-O-Five Summit:
Celebrations of years gone,
And now loved ones gone.

And loved ones now gone
Have laid to rest with their souls
Traditions of old.

Old traditions of
Bocce Ball and barbeque,
Morra and laughter.

More of the laughter,
As we watched evening fireworks,
Donned in our pj’s.

Donned in our pj’s,
Gladly “spending the night” at
One-O-Five Summit.

Marie Elena

***********************
Grandpa, I can still smell the roast on the rotisserie spit. Grandma and Grandpa, thank you for the "Decoration Day" memories of yesteryear.  God rest your souls. 

HAIKU

And how does one sing
When it is Christmas Eve, and
You've just lost your wife?

Marie Elena
 
(In honor of Uncle Erwin, an artist and opera singer, who sang "Oh Holy Night" for Christmas Eve mass, after the passing of Aunt Marguerite on December 23, 1970.  Though I was only eleven, the memory of his voice remains fresh.  May they both rest in peace.)

NO MATTER WHERE YOU GO, THERE YOU ARE

I can't believe it's you.
You look regal; majestic.
Amongst your peers,
and yet, you stand out in that crowd.

Quiet, unassuming and blooming
into the strong and determined woman
we quietly prayed you'd be.
Finally finding your way,

on the course to a dream.
We should have known.
Your sister worships you
for she knows, she'd be

less well off without your influence.
The games you played despite
your seven year age difference,
put you on the course

to take your spot on that stage.
You played school, the two of you.
She, the eager student.
You, the patient teacher.

You taught her an alphabet.
You showed her math skills.
She acquired reading skills at three,
thanks to your loving tutelage.

She learned what you taught,
as she continues to do today. I've never
seen her so proud as when you walked
across that platform to take

what was well earned and deserving.
You graduate today.
Now you are certified to do
what you've done all your life.

Teach. You've even taught me
a thing or two. Because of you,
I've learned that beauty and brains
are a lethal combination but

hold great power in the proper hands.
I've learned that my methods weren't as
maddening as I feared, giving you
a firm bit of ground on which

to make your stand. And I get
the sense that I'm not letting you go
out into the world unprepared to deal
with life, I'm giving you to the world

to give others the pleasure of your smile,
the warmth of your personality,
the courage of your convictions,
and the same advantage your sister had

in learning how to survive this life.
For no matter where you go, there you are!



*** Last night, I sat in awe of my daughter Melissa, the little girl/turned confident young woman who graduated with honors from the University of Buffalo with her Masters degree in Childhood Education. I've seen the power of what she could do, long before she decided to do what she was meant to: teach. I am the proud father. (If you couldn't already tell!)

Walt

THE HUNDRED ACRE WOOD

Behold, the Hundred Acre Wood

Where all is well, and all is good

Where no one is misunderstood

Where all work for the common good

Where friends help friends, just as they should.

Marie Elena

IT WAS ONLY A TOY

a recovery.
saved from an incineration
at the local dump.
mud clotted and tarnished;
plastic woodgrain end mangled.
but there was something there.
he saw it. he always saw it.
it would be different when
he was done molding it to
a new glory. it was only a toy.

a reconstruction.
a wire wheel found its soul;
an oiled rag found its shimmer.
mud, unplugged and liberated,
fated for better things.
a learning experience.
master and apprentice; hands-on.
it would be different when
they were done fighting for
its new glory. it was only a toy.

a manipulation.
hand-crafted and brought to a new light,
a fight for what was good and right.
a father and son searching for
a common foothold; standing abreast together.
one expressed in words; one spoke in woods
both with an eye to an uncertain future.
he looked to the father for the guidance to cope;
the elder looked through a smoky brown bottle to deal.
no glory, it was only a toy.

a presentation.
shiny; newly blued gun barrel, detailed and gleaming.
shiny; freshly carved gun stock, his father's vision,
a craftsman in artistry; an artist in craftsmanship.
mounted on a placard of equal polish and shine.
and it was all his. they worked it together,
each with a unique vision for a common cause,
amidst applause and a few more draws on the foamy malt,
they shared in its pristine newness; a bond - father and son.
fated in glory, it was only a toy.

a disintegration.
perspective breeds contempt, pubescent and independent,
the son and father, sharing a name and a craftsmanship,
and little else. offspring, impressionable and fragile, a lump of clay
eager to be molded. parent, increasingly cold and inebriate,
escapist artist with a hand at wood, but not clay.
the father becomes the hunter, the son the protector
of all they had shared. slowly being extracted from
his warm and living hands. the bond; the truth and reality.
the alcoholic without glory and a boy with a toy.

a destruction.
shiny; newly blued gun barrel, detailed and gleaming.
shiny; freshly carved gun stock, his father's vision,
a craftsman's artistry; two artist's craftsmanship.
mounted on a placard of equal polish and shine.
the solution to an argument; a physical affront to the abuse
of a mother caught in the cross hairs. a drunken stare
and a lashing out to cause as much pain; as much mutual
destruction. a common bond; a joint effort;
one time glory. it was only a toy.

a devastation.
a project bringing/tearing apart all that was attained
through camaraderie; for an ideal. a father, taking the barrel
between his calloused and smoke scented hands;
swinging for the fences, sending shards of white metal shrapnel
skittering; sending slivers of burnished mahogany into flight.
throwing the shattered remains at my feet. a declaration;
"you are my son. you walk in my steps unfaltering."
an upheaval. rebellion. a denial of all preached as gospel.
devoid of glory. it was only a toy.

a resentment.
long harboring animus for one so loved and revered.
bonded in a conservative ideal, from opposite sides
of a shared misery. a choice; a road less journeyed.
the son strays to find his way; his voice, his choice
to walk his path. the father grasping at what had always
passed from father to son, somehow undone in this rendition,
and his suspicion lies in the opposition they have assumed.
the old mule and the young pachyderm seeking an open mind,
lost glory. it was only a toy.

a revelation.
scars remain on a heart that had found peace and forgiveness
in the passing of one so loved and revered. the fear of
taking a contrary stand against the old guard long buried
along with whatever hatchet remained. the vision of shattered
dreams and ventures, made somewhat whole. in heart and soul,
father and son again achieve oneness. two men joined in name,
sharing similar styles, from diverse sides of the aisle.
the thoughts stir up a laugh and a smile, all in mutual forgiveness;
a new glory. it was only a toy.

Walt

TABLE SAW

Behemoth of his power tools,
the table saw did indeed see
years of action. Many cuts made;
many piece trimmed.

It belonged to him, my Dad.
Skilled carpenter; an artist with lumber.
When the saw ran, the screech and hum
was unmistakable. The sawdust hung,

suspended in air; a slightly burnt smell
of wood and electrical ozone filled
each breath. The sound of the table saw
meant Dad was home, hard at work.

When he passed away, the saw fell silent.
The whole house did really. It was apparent
there was no longer life here at "home".
There was no saw dust; there was no hum.

Walking through the empty house, it no longer
felt like home. Nothing would changes that.
Or so I thought, anyway. Cleaning out his
workshop offered many unfinished projects he had

left so, due to his illness. The entire shop
was as he had left it the last time he worked in it.
A pile of wood sat in the rack, a canvas without
its Picasso. Mantle shelves, I thought.

I brought down the boards to the table top,
measuring lengths and marking cut lines.
Goggles covered my eyes, and the guard was in place
over the spinning blade. I flipped the switch.

The motor moaned to a start. When the saw ran,
the screech and hum was unmistakable.
The sawdust hung, suspended in air;
a slightly burnt smell of wood and electrical ozone

returned. The sound of the table saw
meant I was back home, at least once more.
The shelves now hang in my living room, reminders
of my Father and the hum of this table saw which I inherited.


Walt

THE KITCHEN LIGHT NEVER GOES OUT

So, I've been thinking in the kitchen;

about the kitchen. And the magnitude

of one room in a whole houseful of rooms,

becomes more and more apparent.

Kitchen was the hearth in which

we warmed ourselves, inside

and out. The kitchen was home.

Kitchen was where we came

when we needed familiarity;

when we needed assurance;

when we needed to be loved.

Think kitchen, and it conjures strong 

sentiment about family. Life

was less confusing when the kitchen

offered her comfort. Mom was the kitchen.

Dad too. And all the brothers and sisters

with which we may have been blessed,

joined us in the kitchen. For me,

even though that kitchen can no longer

be accessed by me, there is a small ember,

a glow that resides amongst the baseboards.

That spark is me. I left it there. No matter

where I may find myself, that kitchen

will still have a piece of me in it.It is only fair. 

That kitchen continues to live in me.

What a glorious inspiration!
It never dies. 

Walt 

MUSH!

Cooked cornmeal,
Grandma’s spaghetti sauce,
Grated Romano and Parmesan,
Dumped in a heap on a breadboard,
At the “kids’ table.”
Eight kids in the round.
No plates.
Spoons in hand.
Grace.
Dig in!

Marie Elena