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.

HAIKU

God offers heart peace
To the world-weary sinner.
A soothing soul balm.

Marie Elena

Thank you, Jim Donadio, for pointing me to this “heart peace” this morning.  Jim started a new faith-based blog, and it is blessing me greatly.  I love you, Cuz!  http://victoryinhisgrace.blogspot.com/2011/01/identity-crisis-ii.html .

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.

A FATHER'S LOVE

In a battle for his life,

Leukemia disassembles his cells,

One by one.

So,

When did counting breaths take precedence

Over counting cells?

When his son’s diseased lungs

Began sucking life

Instead of oxygen.

Marie Elena

HAIKU

Crash! One at a time
each shoe falls, leaving footprints
when I carried you.


Walt 

HAIKU

Belmont Avenue
Nestled among family
Longing to return

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

Marie Elena

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

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. 

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

MEMORIES AND RECOLLECTIONS

I remember Uncle Joe, my father’s oldest brother.
A drummer in his own right; locally famous
with a penchant for kicking back the brew and food.
His heart a ticking time bomb; he couldn’t match it’s beat.
At a birthday party in our kitchen
he collapsed with a major coronary, going to drum for the angels.

I remember my Grandfather (my mother was his angel)
with his Polish dialect, telling stories of his brother.
In the old country, his sibling would not leave his kitchen,
wanting to devise a scheme that would make him famous.
But, my Grandfather had his brother beat,
this “New World” offered a better life and better food.

I remember the taste of my Grandmother’s food,
through the recipes she had handed down. Her angel
food cake was delicious, which no one could beat,
and living near her brother
she always made double, he thought her cakes were famous
(at least they were around her kitchen.)

I remember watching my mother in the kitchen.
She learned what her mother had taught, her food
mirrored all she did. Mom had no delusion of being famous,
she had her hands full raising her six angels.
Between her and my Uncle Harry, her brother,
there were twelve of us at the “kid’s table”. You had to beat

the others for the good seats. But, sitting down to eat
in that corner of my mother’s kitchen,
I remember always being sandwiched between my cousin and her brother
and becoming the middleman in the constant food
fight they would wage, though they pretended to be angels.
I knew better. But around our family, their battles were famous.

I remember writing at a young age, wanting to be famous
and be read by millions. But, I formed this strange habit. I liked to eat,
and I didn’t think my skills would have kept me from joining the angels
through starvation. So, I scribbled my song lyrics and poems at our kitchen
table, and kept myself close to mom’s inspirational cooking. But, food
for thought, I also shared the table with seven others.

So, now my siblings kid their famously studious brother
that his bountiful words are food for the soul. But, you couldn’t beat
that kitchen for the story or two that we all tell. We each have our own angle.

Walt

A GATHERING OF HEARTS

A celebration.
A wake of sorts.
On the death of a Father,
a gathering of hearts
to herald the lives of parents
who had epitomized love
in that ancestral home.
A large sitting room;
a large dining room.
But, a cramped kitchen
was chosen to host that fete.
A conjoining of siblings
long removed from that hallowed ground
to rediscover the essence of them
in the presence of their spirit.
Do you hear it? Faint whispers,
contented sighs. Finally.
Brought together again for a cause.
A joyous pause regaled in lore,
lost in raucous laughter
after a long and painful struggle.
An atmosphere she would have loved.
A festive reunion he would have led.
One last communion: a Last Supper
given in tribute to the Mother who
bore and fed them, and a Father
who wore more hats than they knew.
Tried on for size, but never filling
his shoes. They could live with that.
In the presence of their spirit,
in the place that was home.

Walt                                                                                                              Photo by Walt Wojtanik

'SNO HOSTAGE

Aunt Peg picked me up early from school, along with my cousins.
            A blizzard, promising to hold us hostage there otherwise.
                          My street, rendered impassable, held me hostage still –
                                      with my cousin and best friend, Susie.
                                                           Snowmen, sleds, hot cocoa, and warm fires
                                                                                                reigned for several days,
                                                                                                                      as the snow fell,

                                                                                                                                and my heart soared.

Marie Elena