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.

DECORATION DAY

My sincerest appreciation for those who gave their lives for our country, and their families:

Democrat to Republican

Evangelical to Atheist

Conservative to Liberal

Officer to Private

Reform to Libertarian

Americans, ALL

Tea Party to Progressive

Independent to Green

Objectivist to Prohibition

National Heroes, ALL

   
Marie Elena

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

WE WERE CONNECTED

Growing into adulthood, I like to think I have set myself up to be a role model for my daughters and the young minds with which I would come in contact. I hoped to be an example of what striving for a dream meant to my own life; and demonstrate the value of commitment that had become a lesson well learned. This emotion has its root in my childhood.

We grew up, four brothers with varied temperaments and interests. A span of six years from youngest to oldest, our battles were legendary around the block - a rock 'em, sock 'em tandem fighting for dominance. But that discrepancy would all but vanish in the celebration of frozen ice on a backyard pond. Lackawanna, New York, a suburb of Buffalo, was home. It may as well have been Victoriaville, Quebec. Hockey had quickly become king in Western New York. A short jaunt over a Peace Bridge was a weekly pleasure, a treasure of our puckish youth and this ice time a rag-tag group of hockey wannabes could secure at un-Godly hours at the Fort Erie Arena. In 1970, the old "Pepsi" Logo of the American Hockey League Buffalo Bisons was replaced by the charging bison above crossed swords of the new upstarts of the National Hockey League, Buffalo Sabres.

The Sabres became the glue that bound us. The team leveled our familial playing field; gave us a common ground that rose above our unique personalities. The loyalty bred through that association remains lasting. The proof in this muddled pudding came in the acquisition of three very talented players.

Gilbert Perreault (Pare-o) was THE original Sabre. The most coveted player coming out of Junior hockey that year, he was the equivalent to a Sidney Crosby of today. The majority of his first year was spend as the main attraction for an entertaining, albeit struggling expansion franchise.

Richard Martin, a teammate of his with the Montreal Junior Canadiens, joined Perreault the next year. Where as Perreault was grace and finnesse, Martin was pure power. A natural goal scorer with a knack for finding the opening from all over the ice, their chemistry flourished with the Sabres.

In short time, the Buffalo team had acquired a journeyman forward from the Pittsburgh Penguins in exchange for Eddie Shack, who at the time was my favorite player. The young winger, Rene Robert (Ro-Bear) stepped on the Buffalo Memorial Auditorium ice and quickly endured himself to the Sabres fans (myself included). In his experimentation, Joe Crozier, who had replaced the legendary Punch Imlach as coach of the fledgling team, combined the three on the same forward line, which would become one of the most prolific combinations in the leauge. They were dubbed the "French Connection" after the player's French Canadian heritage and the popular movie of the same name.

The three youngest of the Wojtanik boys, brothers Tim and Ken and myself, would attach their aspirations on the rise and fall of their favorite players. Tim was the miniature version of Martin who became his idol. He possessed a hard shot and an acuity for scoring goals. An injury kept him from a tryout with the Binghamton Broome Dusters minor hockey league team and pursuing his dream of playing professionally.

Ken was a graceful skater and a very heady player. He had a touch with the puck as well, but was more of a playmaker. He took his cue from Perreault and followed his career with interest.

I was a big fan of the game, but my skills were less developed than my siblings.
Let's say I could hold my own. As aforementioned, Robert had found his way into vision.

With those allegiances, we became the French Connection. We were Perreault, Martin and Robert, on a lesser scale. But that bond brought a unity to a family of our fractured fraternity that remains to this day. We are brothers first and foremost, and "teammates" for life.

Why do I rant? Richard Martin died yesterday in a one-vehicle crash, apparently caused by a heart attack he had suffered prior to losing control of his car. The news touched me deeply. I thought back to his playing days in Buffalo, and his unknown influence on a band of hockey playing brothers. It saddens me that a part of our youth, our very fabric, had been taken from us. I think of my brother Tim, who idolized Rick Martin to the extent of wearing his number 7 throughout his playing days. I worry for his health. With a family history for heart maladies and his more rambunctious lifestyle, I'd hate to see him suffer a similar fate.

A man died Sunday. In all, Richard Martin was a husband, father, friend, teammate, and hero to thousands of Buffalo Sabres fans. And in his passing, once more a group of brothers became connected. Rest Peacefully, Fallen Hero.
Walt

MADMAN ACROSS THE WATER

Just a crazy old guy,
collecting poems as if they were cats.
Stumbling, sometimes mumbling to himself.
"Moon, June, bafoon...", this lyrical loon
searches for the right word. The way
he plays with nomenclature, they're all right.
Off to his outpost, with a host of other
rhyming things, he sings words to a song
he had once written, smitten with a lovely.
Above him a placard bearing quotations,
and random notations; nuggets to ponder.
Yonder is a file box, stocked with pages:
rants and rages, laments and upstages.
A poetic pariah, lost in a world
in which every street leads to the
center of his worded thunder.
It's no wonder others of his ilk
seek distance, with some resistance
to be sure. Purely speaking, they are seeking
his persistence and reticence. He pens in perfect
solitude, an attitude he's acquired
to be all he's desired; full throttle ahead.
Damn the torpedoes. Across the lake
he takes his stand. Just a crazy old guy.

Walt

BETWEEN IRAQ AND A HARD PLACE

Misery in the company of strangers,
brothers in arms and for a cause.
Silence interrupted, a brief pause
and the raucous resumes. Plumes of smoke
and the resonance of ordinance,
repetitive and resounding; pounding
the pavement and every ramshackled
residence in sight. The plight is the same.
Loved ones yearning, discerning the emptiness
from the heartache. Another quake
and shrapnel flies. Shutting his eyes
he clutches a hand to his chest, pressing
her photograph closer to his pulsing heart.
Another Valentine's Day in absentia.

Walt

MUSIC HATH CHARMS

Melodic memories, triggered by random turns

of phrase, a new page in your book of dreams.

It surely seems that a mind can be shaken or stirred

into a whirr of activity. You possess a proclivity for

drawing upon the past long enough gone

to notate upon the staff of your life;

it is a song composed with ethos and verve.

Steeling your nerve, thrown caution becomes windblown

and all are shown the power of your voice.

A flash-back to a day when music was an ally

to rely upon, a trigger for thoughts nurtured

in the womb of your fertile mind. Gestation,

born of elation for all your songs relate;

it is never too late to write your score.

The more you remember, more tender the melody.

Walt