Shut up and follow me! I'll explain the bra thing later.

List of Stories, Sketches and Articles

2011-01-06T10:52:00.000-08:00

Please follow the links below to access assorted original stories, articles, sketches and the like. We welcome all comments, thoughts, and opinions.

Custer’s Bugler: The Life of John Martin (Giovanni Martino)

Universal-Publishers, Inc. (ISBN 161233084-3)
Publication scheduled for early Spring 2012

Moments before riding into his final battle - and history - General George Custer sent one final message asking for support. A note was quickly penned and entrusted to a bugler for delivery. Grabbing the dispatch, John Martin whirled his horse around and rode off to find help. History often remembers him as the “last white man to see Custer alive.” The story of John Martin and his place in history neither begins nor ends at the Battle of the Little Big Horn.

An original biography detailing the life of John Martin (Giovanni Martino): http://custersbugler.blogspot.com/

The Jordan Mines Journal: An original biographical project detailing the life and times of Austin Hines, Jr., from his early years in a Shenandoah Valley 'holler' named Jonestown through his life as an Arlington County greaser, and more.

Sample chapters and many personal photos can be found at this link: http://jordanmines.blogspot.com/

Corado "Babe" Ciarlo: Nobility Beyond The Battlefield

The Work of Sketcharazzo (Comic book phase)

My Time With Big Roy and El Sid

Frank Borghi And The World Cup Miracle of 1950

Planes, Trains, Rental Cars And At Least One Deranged Killer

Dominic"Don" Gentile: Aces of Aces

The End Of Independent Politics

Bruno Sammartino: Italian Strongman

Return Of The Sketcharazzo!

Mother Frances Xavier Cabrini: Patron Saint of Immigrants

Ella Tambuso Grasso: Political Pioneer

Favorite Websites - Reviews

A moment or two with old friends, Calvin and Hobbes

Rex, the Wonder Blog's Comic Book Phase (CBP) Series

2010-10-18T09:49:00.000-07:00

CBP Series: Man #1

CBP Series: Professor Magic's angst

CBP Series: Professor Magic's brother Mandrake's angst

Rex, The Wonder Blog meets Sketcharazzo

2010-10-17T14:49:00.000-07:00

Joe Torre (2001)

Joe Torre hates the Sketcharazzo (2001)

Oklahoma vs. USC

The Busboys album cover...a sketchy version

The swing

Curraisser Incomplete

Kid thinking Yikes!

Player eluding shadow

Two hours in 1976

Jordan Mines Journal - new site

2010-10-17T14:35:00.000-07:00

The Jordan Mines Journal presents the ever-expanding tale of Austin Hines, Jr., intrepid philosopher and gentleman farmer (according to his own bio). The first part of the Jordan Mines Journal traces his life from the first years in a 'holler' named Jonestown deep in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia to his rambunctious teenage years as an Arlington 'greaser.' From Potts Creek and Jordan Mines to Arlandria and Del Ray, his adventures, missteps and philosophical meanderings are recounted for your entertainment. Also included are many photographs of which quite a few are originals appearing online for the first time.

The second section (focusing on Austin's life after high school and more) is currently in production, and will appear online within a few months.

Please visit Jordan Mines Journal and leave your comments.

Custer's Bugler: The Life of John Martin (Giovanni Martino)

2010-07-22T06:46:00.000-07:00

Custer’s Bugler: The Life of John Martin (Giovanni Martino)

Universal-Publishers, Inc. (ISBN 161233084-3)

Publication scheduled for early Spring 2012

For more information: Custer’s Bugler

In the early afternoon of June 25, 1876, General George Custer and five companies of the U.S. Seventh Cavalry Regiment prepared to attack a massive Indian encampment on the banks of the Little Big Horn River. As they descended a ravine, Custer ordered a trusted adjutant, Lieutenant William W. Cooke, to send for reinforcements and additional ammunition. As the men readied their weapons under the hot Montana sun, Cooke penned the famous last dispatch - “Be Quick. Bring pacs.” - and handed it to a nearby bugler. Attached to Custer’s column that morning to serve as an orderly, ‘Bugler’ John Martin took the note and rode back up ravine to find the remaining Seventh Cavalry companies. He would be remembered as the “last white man to see Custer alive.”

In the history books, the story of John Martin begins and ends with the Little Big Horn. After years of research conducted in the United States and Italy by professional and amateur historians and journalists, the true and remarkable story of John Martin comes to life in Custer’s Bugler: The Life of John Martin (Giovanni Martino).

Tracing his early years in Sala Consilina, Custer’s Bugler reveals details of his abandonment - including the significant discovery of Martin’s real name, Giovanni Crisostimo Martino - and his time marching as a drummer boy with Italian patriot Giuseppe Garibaldi’s Volunteers as they fought for liberation and unification. By 1873, a young Martino embarked for America where he eventually joined the U.S. Army and was assigned to the famous Seventh Cavalry Regiment, led by the courageous and impetuous Lt. Colonel George Custer. At Jefferson Barracks (Missouri), Giovanni Martino - his name now changed to John Martin - trained for duty as a cavalry trooper, as well as the additional responsibilities of a company and regimental trumpeter. The latter included learning to play the 17” brass bugle and memorizing nearly one hundred calls for use in camp and in the field.

Following the disaster at the Little Big Horn in June 1876, Martin remained in the Army for another thirty years in various outposts, including duty in several coastal artillery corps units, before retiring from active service in 1904. A short stint as a family man in Baltimore failed and by early 1906, Martin had relocated to Brooklyn, New York, where his status as a minor celebrity grew and ensured him acclaim while supplementing his income. For the next few years, subway riders at the 103rd Street Station were greeted by ‘ticket-chopper’ Martin each morning. Newspaper articles noted that Martin continued to practice bugle calls, always using the same bugle issued during his initial enlistment in 1874. Martin remained a favorite of parade organizers, theater managers and schoolchildren until his death in 1922.

John Martin (Giovanni Martino) lived an historical odyssey, from his earliest days in rural southern Italy to life on the Plains as a Cavalry trooper before his final act in the rapidly modernizing world of New York City. Custer’s Bugler: The Life of John Martin (Giovanni Martino) details his story, exposing the many myths while uncovering a few truths.

Frank Borghi and the World Cup Miracle of 1950

2010-05-19T10:54:00.000-07:00

Frank Borghi and the World Cup Miracle of 1950

On a sweltering late afternoon in Brazil nearly sixty years ago, a rag tag squad of Americans stunned the international soccer world by defeating the heavily favored team from England 1-0 in the opening rounds of the 1950 FIFA World Cup. The win was so shocking that English newspapers assumed the score was a typing error and edited their publications to reflect an English victory of 10-1. Helping to secure the win was a group of five young players from the Italian section of St. Louis, known as The Hill.

As with the other members of the U.S. team, the St. Louis quintet of Frank Borghi, Gino Pariani, Charley Colombo, Harry Keough and Frank Wallace had little or no professional experience. They were not novices, however, with many playing for the powerful Simpkins-Ford amateur club which won the U.S. Open Cup in 1948 and 1950. Their World Cup training was limited to only 10 days prior to traveling to Brazil, with their uniforms arriving just before departure. So unimpressed were the oddsmakers that most would not even accept wagers on the 500 to 1 American team.

The United States World Cup team from 1950. Frank Borghi is in the top row, third from the left.

One of the more interesting players on the squad was the goalkeeper, Frank Borghi. Born in St. Louis to Italian parents in 1925, he served as a field medic during World War II. It was in the battlefields of Europe where heroism first discovered Frank. By the war’s end, Borghi had earned two Purple Hearts and two Bronze Stars, mostly through his courage in saving wounded men. One such GI was Baseball Hall of Fame announcer, the late Jack Buck, who was treated by Borghi after being hit near the Bridge of Remagen (Germany) in March, 1945.

Initially drawn to baseball, Borghi was talented enough to spend two seasons in the minor leagues. Wishing to keep fit in the winter, he decided to try soccer, then a winter sport, and tried out for the powerful Simpkins-Ford team. Borghi, however, simply could not kick a ball. Utilizing his large hands and hand-eye coordination, he moved to goalkeeper and quickly excelled at the position, enough to merit a call-up to the national team in 1949.

The Italian influence on the U.S. team was not limited to Frank Borghi. His teammate and Dagget Street neighbor, Virginio (Gino) Pariani, also was born to Italian immigrants. Pariani was so talented that by the age of 15, he was playing in the country’s top amateur division, eventually earning league MVP honors. "Gino was probably more appreciated by his teammates than the fans," World Cup teammate and fellow Hall of Famer Walter Bahr said. "Always reliable, always gave a good game -- you could depend upon him to do his job well." Both Borghi and Pariani would eventually earn induction into the United States National Soccer Hall Of Fame.

Surprisingly, the team qualified for the 1950 World Cup, and found themselves facing Spain, Chile, and England in group play. Borghi feared the English most of all, calling them the “fathers of soccer.” His primary concern was not a win, but to “keep [the score] down to four or five goals.” The English squad was formidable and widely considered the world’s best, with a post-war record of 23 wins with only 4 losses and 3 draws. The same oddsmakers that refused bets on the long shot Americans rated the English as 3-1 favorites to win the Cup. Group play began with the English edging Chile 2-0 in Rio de Janeiro as the Americans were bested by Spain 3-1 after an early lead provided by Gino Pariani’s goal. The squads would face each other a few days later on June 29 at Magalhaes Pinto (Minerisao) Stadium in Belo Horizante, Brazil. A crowd of just over 10,000 arrived, unaware that they were about to witness World Cup history.

The English team arriving at the World Cup

Referee Generoso Dattilo welcomed the team captains and tossed the coin. England kicked off and quickly attacked with Stanely Mortensen, regarded as the best player of his era, sending a cross to Roy Bentley. His crisp shot was barely pushed aside by Borghi. The first 12 minutes of the match saw England taking six shots on goal, with one saved by Borghi and two more hitting the posts. The Americans struggled against the experienced English defense and offensive forays were met by swift counterattacks. Yet the U.S. defense continued to fight, often winning the ball on close plays.

Eight minutes before halftime and with the score knotted at 0-0, American Walter Bahr received the ball on a throw-in from Eddie McIlvenny. Quickly turning inside to avoid a tackle, he took a shot at the far left of the goal from about 30 yards. As English keeper Bert Williams moved to make the save, a diving Joe Gaetjens headed the ball into the opposite corner of the net. Shockingly, the upstart American team held a 1-0 lead over England. Immediately, Borghi fretted over the expected English onslaught, thinking to himself, “Oh my god, the roof is going to cave in.” The spectators exploded in cheers as halftime approached with the U.S. ahead.

Joe Gaetens scoring the only goal as Bert Williams of England watches.

Encouraged by their play, the second half opened with another scoring opportunity for the American team, but failed to capitalize. As the clock ticked down, the game became more physical, including a few rugby-style tackles by the U.S. that lead to two free kicks for the English. Both were saved by an inspired Borghi. An increasingly desperate English squad pressed forward to no avail. They had taken 20 shots on goal while the Americans had only three. As the final whistle blew, the Americans celebrated while the dejected English team stood about, jaws agape, wondering what had just occurred. Years later, Borghi would recall the cordiality of the English team upon seeing the Americans at the Rio de Janeiro airport after the match.

The athletic after-effects wouldn’t last for the Americans, however, as they lost their last group play game to Chile. Perhaps still stunned by their epic failure, the English squad also lost their final game, and both teams failed to qualify for the elimination round. The World Cup was ultimately won by Uruguay on July 16, 1950.

A newspaper clipping of the game.

Soccer continued to remain popular in various parts of the country. Jack Huckel, Director of the Museum and Archives at the National Soccer Hall of Fame, noted that the sport thrived not only in St. Louis, but also in the northeast, Chicago, Los Angeles and San Francisco. Often, interest in the game paralleled the influx of immigrants. Regions with large populations of immigrants were hotbeds of leagues. Mr. Huckel also notes that “these leagues were primarily populated with ethnically-associated teams” which resulted with their competitions “not well covered by the traditional media.” The increase of immigrants certainly affected the ethnic composition of the 1950 team, but the effects were felt years earlier. In 1934, the American squad was led by future Hall of Famer, Aldo Donelli. Needing to beat a tough Mexican team in the final qualifier, Donelli put on a show scoring all four goals in a 4-2 American win. The joy of advancing to the elimination round was short-lived, however, as they faced a very strong Italian team. Donelli would tally the only goal as the Americans were trounced 7-1.

Frank Borghi would continue as the National Team’s goalkeeper through the 1954 World Cup qualification rounds, eventually earning nine caps. He retains greater pride in his accomplishments with the Simkins-Ford semi-pro team that won the U.S. Open Cup in 1948 and 1950, and his election into the National Soccer Hall of Fame. Many others disagree, however, and consider Frank’s greatest moment was his shut-out against England in Belo Horizonte. It remains - arguably - the greatest highlight of American soccer to this day.

Austin of Arlandria: New Photo!

2010-03-03T11:10:00.000-08:00

It took some time but Austin finally ponied up an old photo. The usual suspects are pictured, from left to right: the infamous Jim Campbell, Austin, and Jim Decker. This was likely taken in the late 50s/early 60s. I love the suits and ties!

Please comment on the photo. We're working on downloading more and will post them soon.

My Time with Big Roy and El Sid

2009-12-01T09:25:00.001-08:00

Roy peeked up from his newspaper to acknowledge me. That quick look, I would learn, was a lot of attention from Roy. He was generally aloof and taciturn by nature, and his demeanor reminded me of an old ballplayer or politician. Roy was the planet about which we all revolved.

Sidney was the anti-Roy. Usually happy and quick to joke, Sidney popped right up when I was introduced. "Pleasure to meet your company, young man," he chirped. Sidney enjoyed popularity while Roy simply endured it. And so on that frigid February morning I began my five year association with Roy and Sidney.

Many years ago, at the urging of a friend and my parents, I took a job as a messenger in a mid-size D.C. law firm. We didn't ride bikes, though, and our primary duties involved filing legal documents at the various local courthouses and government agencies. Occasionally, we would assist other departments, but the job primarily consisted of sitting around a table in a small windowless room. Only 20 years old, I was the youngest of the three by at least forty years.

On my first day, I was walked around the office by the firm's administrator to meet everyone. Finally, we arrived at the messenger's room and I was introduced to Roy and Sid. After the preliminary greetings, Roy and Sid resumed their usual morning activity of eating breakfast and reading the newspaper. I dropped down into a chair and my law firm career officially commenced.

The leader of our little group was Roy. Big and imposing, Roy had an authoritative air about him, accentuated by balding salt-and-pepper hair and white moustache. A former longtime D.C. cop, he stood 6'3" and weighed around 260 pounds. Generally, Roy smiled little and slept often. Every now and then he would light up during a discussion usually pertaining to local government or the Washington Redskins. ‘Ol' Roy,’ as Sidney called him, dressed well and preferred sweater vests, ties and sports coats.

Roy's counterpart - and primary foil - was Sidney. Much shorter than Roy at 5'5", he sported a little paunch, balding speckled hair and white moustache, too. Sid toiled as a postal carrier for many years, and I suppose it was reflected in his labored gait. Like Roy, Sid dressed well with a particular interest in sweater vests. Sid spoke to everyone, especially the young ladies, and flirting was second nature to him. Outgoing and generous, Sidney tended to forget things. On one occasion, he brought a filing home in order to be at the courthouse early the next day. The next day arrived and so did Sidney: The court filing was missing in action, somehow misplaced by Sidney the previous evening. He looked high and low at home, but could not find the documents: Replacement documents were quickly assembled and filed.

The messenger's office served two purposes: A storage area for the firm's extensive collection of city plats; and, a place for the three of us to while away our time. Plats are maps of the city, drawn to scale, illustrating the divisions of land parcels. They include nearly everything, from blocks to streets and alleys. Our firm's primary work involved urban land use filings, and the plats - constantly updated by the city - were in steady use. Today, much of this work is performed via computer, but 30 years ago, lawyers and paralegals pored over the ridiculously oversized plat books. The room retained a musty odor, but I'm not certain whether it came from the plats or the guys. The plats and their accompanying shelves lined the interior walls of the room; we sat around a small wooden conference table, waiting for calls.

While Roy orchestrated our work, Sid happily served as his faithful assistant. The firm benefitted greatly from Roy's well-established connections. Court filings brought down after the 4:00 p.m. deadline somehow managed to be filed. Reaching some local pol's office was much easier if Roy made the initial call. He either knew someone directly, or knew someone who knew someone. In any event, Roy was worth a lot to the firm. Sidney, on the other hand, knew how to get anywhere in the city. As a postman, he had worked in all parts of D.C. and even shared some interesting stories about delivering mail in the Pentagon.

Within a few months, I assigned each a private nickname. Roy became, naturally, Big Roy while Sidney would be referred to forevermore as El Sid. Each day attorneys and secretaries would walk in, court documents in hand, seeking Roy's attention: "Roy, can you take care of this filing?" and "Roy, we've got to get this down there...two hours ago!" Regardless of their anxiety, Roy's response was always the same: He leaned back in his chair, head slightly tilted while he pensively stroked his chin, his eyes examining the questioner. Finally, after an uncomfortably long silence, Roy would reply. "Alright, drop it in the box. We'll take care of it." Sometimes, El Sid would break the silence which irritated Roy to no end. Sid was breaking the unwritten rule that Roy - and only Roy would speak for our group. Sid was often about finding the middle ground, while Roy's world was absolute, clearly defined. Ultimately, it was clear that we would work under Roy's regime and philosophy: Do enough, but never too much.

Roy did not care for Sidney's proactive replies. He and Sid enjoyed - or endured - an ambivalent relationship. They were friends - DC natives, dignified black men, retirees supplementing their income - but that's where the similarities ended. Sidney was single, liked to frequent a few clubs, enjoyed the ladies company, and was most likely - in my view - to have partied with Duke Ellington or Cab Calloway. Roy was married, and as a former cop, more conservative in his views. Offsetting this pair was me: young, relatively naive, and white. Roy and Sid were fine men, though, and never held my youth nor skin color against me.

Typically, our days would be quite routine. Upon arrival, we would take our seats to eat and read the papers. Roy and Sid would discuss some politics or sports for a while. Often, it seemed, Roy ended conversations with Sidney with the same phrase: "Aww , shut up, Sid." No one exasperated Roy more than Sidney, and it was understandable. As helpful as Sidney tried to be, he had a habit of saying too much. And this, of course, was counter to Big Roy's philosophy. Sidney, to his credit, never seemed slighted by Roy's comments. El Sid just wanted to have fun.

When a filing request came in, the boys would decide if they wanted to get out - which wasn't often - before (usually) calling on me, which allowed the boys to sleep off their breakfast. Although the firm provided us with a weekly allowance to cover our transportation, a majority of the filings were within two miles: I happily walked and saved some transportation money for myself. The work was serious and not too demanding, other than perhaps overcoming boredom on slow days. Sid's stories went a long way in staving off that boredom.

One, in particular, remains etched in my memory. El Sid turned to me one day and said, "Boy, you got to stay away from that gin." The unprompted comment forced to me ask why, and Sidney related his tale. "Long time ago, when I was married, I was out at the club one Saturday evening. Well, lemme tell you, we had us a real good time. I ran out of whiskey so I started drinking gin. And it made me tight, real tight. So, I stumbled on home and fell asleep. The next morning, my wife starts yelling and tells me to look in the closet. Seems like I woke up in the middle of the night and peed on my shoes. You hear me? I peed all over my shoes! Like I said, stay away from the gin." I recall Roy looking up once or twice during the discussion, rolling his eyes and grunting his disgust.

Roy also had his little quirks, like sleeping. Narcoleptic-type sleep. He could be in the middle of a conversation and once he started to yawn, you were well-advised to finish quickly. Perhaps the yawns and sleeping jags were his way of keeping people at bay, of creating room for himself. Regardless, Roy did not tolerate boring drawn-out discussions and that was that. Roy didn't care to move around too much, either, which was likely related to his advanced age and former profession. He offered only a few stories of his time on the force. I recall one in which Roy showed unusual animation when relating it. While walking the beat in Georgetown, he was called to a townhouse. Breaking through the door, he discovered that the homeowner - a doctor or psychologist - had shot himself to death upstairs. Roy spent the next ten minutes describing the blood and brains covering the walls. Then he went to lunch while Sid and I cycled through many shades of pale.

Smoking was allowed in offices back then. And El Sid liked to smoke. Others would often come in, just to sit and smoke, and our little area was sometimes quite smoke-filled. Sidney had a habit of missing the ashtray. Perhaps it was bad planning, but the Drop Off box was located next to the ashtray. On this occasion, Sidney accidentally set fire to a court filing. A few weeks later, he dropped a still-burning cigarette into the waste paper basket which set it afire. As smoke began filling the room, Roy and I scrambled to put it out, with Roy muttering, "Goddamn it, Sidney." The firm wasn't too happy, but to their credit, after chastising Sid, the event was forgotten.

Within two years, the firm decided that my talents were more useful in their accounting department. A new messenger was hired to replace me, and the cycle began once more for Big Roy and El Sid. Eventually, they retired from the firm and I left a year later. I think often of Roy and Sidney, and have many fond memories of our time together. They were fine men who worked hard their entire lives. I learned many things from those two, about life, race, work, and people. My guess is that they’ve both passed on, but while they may no longer be here, they’ll always live on in my memory. I only wish I could thank them.

A few years ago, I spoke with someone who worked at the firm. She told me that one day - perhaps four or five years after I left - the firm received a phone call from a general contractor. It seems that he was hired to renovate some space - a place that operated as a bar and club - and, while pulling out old file drawers, he found the long lost filing against the wall. El Sid had struck again! I can imagine their conversation:

"Hey Ol’ Roy! They found that filing down at my club. Can you believe it? Man-o-man, I didn't think anyone would find it."

To which Big Roy - now roused from his nap - would inevitably mutter, "Goddamn it, Sidney. Will you now shut up?"

Favorite Websites Revisited

2009-10-28T07:57:00.001-07:00

I follow a few sites and have found that most folks are quite interested once they're exposed to them. Please check out the sites listed below. They're fun, educational, or both. After all, it's all about the fun. I think Nixon said that. Ted Nixon, that is, a former neighbor...who actually turned out to be a crook, but now I digress.

Brooklyn Tales: http://macaroniplus.blogspot.com/
Food and fun with Linda Romanelli Leahy. This site features many short well-written tales and tons of certifiably delicious recipes. Linda is a delight: Her site has wonderful content and is excellent in terms of layour and readibility.

ListVerse: http://listverse.com/
Jamie Frater's great site presents a new and interesting list each day. Frater's commentary is clever and to the point, and never overindulgent. Some recent topics: 10 More Amazing Facts About Dreams; 10 Forgotten Facts About Historical Events; Top Ten Tips for Not Screwing Up On the Road.

Neatorama: http://www.neatorama.com/
The name kind of says it all. Neatorama pulls together always interesting facts and information from a variety of similar sites. The layout is excellent and new info is posted a few time daily. Everything is covered and you are certain to learn something new every time you visit.

Free Will Astrology: http://www.freewillastrology.com/
Rob Breszny's take on horoscopes is novel and smart. I especially enjoy his positive manner, and this site is definitely different from nearly all other astrology pages. He's written a few books, most notably "Pronoia". Definitely worth a visit.

DailyOm: http://www.dailyom.com/
If you're feeling down or unsure of yourself, please take a gander at DailyOm.

Arlandria Days - Part 3

2009-08-27T11:05:00.000-07:00

Arlandria Days
Part 3 - Yachts and the Waffle Shop

In 1977, Austin purchased plans to build a 36-foot (motorized) sailboat. Sailing, it seems, was in his blood, perhaps since his boyhood days of poling down Four Mile Run in an overturned cement mixer. By this time, however, he had outgrown the urge to slug rats.

His landlord at 212 East Delray Avenue allowed Austin to use the backyard as his boat building site. “It was a big lot and secluded,” Austin relates, “if you can be secluded in Del Ray.” The landlord, Betty, was an older woman who enjoyed talking to Austin. He was driving a cab for Alexandria Yellow Cab and had many entertaining tales to share. Betty would bring out a beer or water to Austin as he worked on his taxi; he would launch into one saga after another as she listened intently. As Austin notes, “I think she was a lonely old woman.”

Being a cab driver had certain advantages, and Austin used his time to earn certification as a commercial boat Captain, as well as Associate Degrees in sociology and philosophy. After attending Columbia Tech during his off-hours, he acquired certification as an Air Conditioning mechanic. Austin describes himself during this period as a “young semi-prosperous dude with cash money.”

He bought all the commercial equipment necessary to construct his “yacht”: Floor drill press, table saw, planer-joiner, other tools, and a large supply of the wood. With the construction slowly nearing completion, Betty the landlord passed away suddenly. For reasons not completely clear, although we can assume the new landlord was involved, he decided not to complete his project. He adds, “At the rate I work, it would have taken 2 1/2 years to finish.” The equipment was sold sometime later and the wood eventually hauled away.

Not Austin's boat, just a nice photo of one.

On one of Austin’s days off in the late 70s, and taking a break from his boat-building, he ventured into the Waffle Shop, a local greasy spoon diner. Located at Mount Vernon Avenue and Russell Road in Arlandria, the diner has been around longer than most can even remember. The Waffle Shop opened in downtown DC, probably in the 1940s. They served the breakfast and lunch crowd from the nearby office buildings, as well as the growing Federal government employees. Another diner opened in Arlandria, followed by more in other parts of the DC metropolitan area.

We all know the WaffleShop even without visiting it: One or two long serpentine linoleum-covered counters stretching from one end to the other, surrounded by stools affixed to the floor, and no tables; it was, of course, open 24 hours. Small signs are posted everywhere, often tinged with a layer of grease. Often, they were staffed by ex-convicts needing a job, but the real danger lay in some of the customers in varying states of inebriation. One customer, very late on Friday night, kissed his waitress. He asked what time she got off work, to which she replied, "About an hour after you pass out."

The infamous Waffle Shop (today). Note the misspelling on the awning.

While waiting for his food at the counter that day, a drunk entered and sat on the stool next to Austin. The stench of urine and “rot-gut whiskey” was overpowering; Austin battled waves of nausea as the “miserable lout bobbed and weaved on the chair.” He adds, “I thought I would give him some help and elbowed the bastard in the middle of his chest. No one saw it as it happened so fast. He went toppling out of the stool to the floor where he lay for an extended period.” Long enough, it seems, for Austin to finish eating and exiting. Austin finishes the tale, “I would like to tell you that this was an unusual happening, but it wasn't.” The Waffle Shop and Austin remain, but one wonders what happened to that poor drunk.

End of Part 3

Some fun with Calvin & Hobbes

2009-06-22T14:16:00.000-07:00

Many of us may remember a great little comic strip called "Calvin and Hobbes." I always found it to be funny and clever; there also seemed to be a moral message in their somewhere, too. For many years, I kept a few clippings around and in sad times, they - if nothing else - made me smile. Calvin, it often seemed to me, spoke of many emotions that I struggled with, and perhaps through him, I learned a little about voicing opinions more easily. Simply put, this strip always made me happy. I hope you enjoy!

(click on strip to open in a new window)

Blog Review: Brooklyn Tales of an Italian-American Baby Boomer

2009-06-22T06:55:00.000-07:00

Recently, I had the opportunity to visit a blog site that left a good taste in my mouth. Linda Romanelli Leahy's Brooklyn Tales of an Italian-American Baby Boomer (http://www.macaroniplus.blogspot.com/) will please many readers, and not just the 40-60 year old Italian-Americans. Linda's writing style is very straightforward and relaxed. She offers up a wide array of subjects, and includes many wonderful recipes and even some instructional videos. Linda's summary defines the site as a memoir and with this in mind, please read her piece: Memorial Day - Uncle Anthony (http://macaroniplus.blogspot.com/2009/05/memorial-day-uncle-anthony.html).

So, if you have a moment, please visit Linda's site and leave her a comment. Thank you.

The Story of Corado "Babe" Ciarlo: Nobility Beyond the Battlefield

2009-06-01T12:22:00.001-07:00

The following piece has been published in various Italian-American magazines and newspapers. Babe's story was brought to my attention through Ken Burns's documentary, "The War". Much of the initial research is from Burns and Maggie Reichers. I thank them both for letting us not forget that wars are fought by the kid next door...and that many times, that kid is a real hero.

Corado "Babe" Ciarlo: Nobility Beyond the Battlefield

The bravest battle that ever was fought;

Shall I tell you where and when?

On the maps of the world you will find it not;

It was fought by the mothers of men.
Excerpt from The Bravest Battle by Joaquin Miller

The apple of his mother’s eye, Corado “Babe” Ciarlo, was only 20 years old when he was killed in battle. In his pockets, they found 2 rosaries, $1.61, sixteen photographs of family members and one letter. While the other items held a special significance for Babe, the letter - undoubtedly from his family - serves to exemplify his courage and nobility.

As he fought in the grueling Italian campaign of 1944, Babe maintained a steady flow of upbeat letters to his family. These letters sustained his widowed mother, Martina, as she worried for her son’s safety. He understood how terrified his mother would be if he wrote of his actual wartime experiences. To protect her, Babe focused on banal and innocent topics like swimming in the sea, the lovely weather or delightful Army food.

After immigrating to the United States from Italy, Tomaso and Martina Ciarlo settled in Waterbury, Connecticut. Tomaso ran a thriving grocery store and butcher’s shop until his untimely death in 1937 left Martina alone to raise the five children: Dominick, Victorina, Corado, Olga, and Tom. By 1941, Babe had graduated from Leavenworth High School. Like many young men of this era, Babe wanted to join the military but was persuaded to forgo enlistment by his mother. Instead, he began working at the Waterbury Steel Ball factory.

As World War II raged on in 1942, Babe was called up for service. His brothers, Dominick and Tom, qualified for exemptions as the youngest and oldest sons. Babe was eligible and although he greatly desired to join the Navy, Martina managed to talk him out of it once more. After his six month deferment expired, however, Babe eschewed a second deferment and was drafted into the Army in the spring of 1943. As with the many thousands of Waterbury residents who served during World War II, Babe received a prayer book and a carton of cigarettes, courtesy of the local Shriners, before boarding the train for Basic Training.

Assigned as a corporal to the 3rd Infantry Division of General Mark Clark’s 5th Army, Babe deployed initially to North Africa. An assault landing on Sicily in July 1943 led to the capture of Palermo and Messina, effectively ending the Sicilian campaign. Two months later, the division landed at Salerno, and was followed by hard fighting crossing the Volturno and near the infamous monastery at Cassino.

By early 1944, the Fifth Army swarmed ashore near the prewar Italian resort towns of Anzio and Nettuno. Although initial resistance was light, the German defenders immediately began consolidating troops in order to eliminate what Adolf Hitler called the "Anzio abscess." Some of the most savage fighting of World War II would occur over the next five months as the Allies fought their way inland and began a bloody push for Rome. Losses mounted quickly with Babe’s 3rd Division suffering over 3,000 casualties in only 56 days of combat while advancing less than 50 miles.

Babe’s letters home, however, paint a different picture. His rosy portrayal belies the devastation and death around him, instead choosing to tell his mother of the beautiful weather, fattening food and sending money home to buy gifts for Easter. Babe succeeded in hiding the horrors. Years later, his brother Thomas would note, “You see probably on the newsreel or you read about it in the paper about different battles, but you don't actually put Babe in that position. At one point…my mother had my aunt write a letter in Italian…to Babe. 'When you get to Rome, we have relatives over there…they'll treat you well.' And at the time, you think, 'Well, he’s going to Rome and he's going to see his relatives.' Can you imagine that? You think about it now and it's so unreal.”

In late March 1944, as the fighting escalated in and around the Anzio beachhead, Babe’s thoughts were of home and family. His March 20th letter focuses on Easter and the need to have a plant placed on his late father’s grave. Two days later, another letter home mentions the spring weather, adding that his family’s concerns for him are unnecessary: “I heard everybody was worried about me for a while, because you haven't heard from me, but you should know better than that. You know nothing will happen to me.”

His April letters continued optimistically noting that with all the eating and sleeping, he would “be like a barrel.” Babe’s primary concerns were of his family, especially his mother. Even references to the war were casual, light and often vague. He wrote on April 30 that he wasn’t in Cisterna “because the Jerries still got it, but we were pretty darn close.” He closes the letter with his intent to “go swimming in the Tyrrhenian Sea — the salt water will do me good,” adding, “there is nothing to worry about, because it is safe here and the ocean is very, very safe.”

In what is likely Babe’s final letter home on May 19, he bravely continues to mask the daily terror of war behind a façade of cheeriness. Rain, often the bane of a mechanized division, was not “bad at all, because it cooled us off.” He closed in his typical manner with a special note, “Mom, how are you getting along, fine I hope and keeping happy always. I'm doing good, and always happy, because I know you're okay.”

The letters stopped coming in June 1944. His family learned on June 26 that Babe had been killed in action near Artena on May 27, approximately 50 kilometers southeast of Rome, near his mother’s relatives. He was eight days shy of his twenty-first birthday and had served in the Army for 1 year, 1 month and 1 week.

Martina Ciarlo refused to accept the devastating news. For many months, she would scan the newspapers for photographs of soldiers hoping to see her son. Babe’s sister, Olga, tried to convince Martina that he would not return alive, but it was to no avail until “…they brought his body back, and we went down to the railroad station and when they took his body off the train and we were all there, we all went to the cemetery, when they handed my mother the flag.”

Wars are fought by people like Babe Ciarlo: Simple, unassuming young men who serve their country, often without memorials and medals. They serve and fight and sometimes die, with only their families left to tell their story. The saga of Babe Ciarlo is both sad and heroic: We are fortunate that his letters survived, and for the efforts of noted documentarian Ken Burns’s “The War” for remembering Babe. But we are saddened, too. Not simply at the loss of life, but in the misery endured by families who have lost sons, fathers, husbands and brothers. General George S. Patton, Jr. once said, “Let me not mourn for the men who have died fighting, but rather let me be glad that such heroes have lived.”

Save Our Lady of Loreto Church!

2009-05-15T07:27:00.000-07:00

A dedicated group in New York City is working hard on saving a beautiful old Church in Brooklyn. Their hard work, however, needs your help. Please visit the page below and sign the petition:
http://www.saveourladyofloreto.com/

Thank you!

Our Lady of Loreto (1908)

Our Lade of Loreto (2008)

Thank you!

A moment of artistic beauty

2009-05-14T08:13:00.000-07:00

Some lovely art, mostly in the Impressionist style. Your comments are welcome. Enjoy!

Rudy Rude, my neighbor

2009-05-13T14:03:00.000-07:00

We moved into a new home three years ago, and while some of the neighbors came by to introduce themselves, the ones living on our right did not. Ever. Since we don't know their names, we've taken to calling them Mr. and Mrs. Rude. Sometimes, it's just Rude.

If we're coming out of the house, they'll turn their backs to avoid greeting us. I think I've waved to them twice in 30+ months. In the end, though, we're okay with it: Neighbors, I have found, are often both helpful and nosy. Fortunately for us, soon after moving in, we were approached by a local landscaper who seems to keep up with the gossip. He told us many, many things...nothing on the Rudes, though.

I'll keep waving to Rude, and one day he may introduce himself. From his car tags, I noted that he was a Texas A&M grad, so I plan to sit on the deck one night and sing the Univ. of Texas fight song ("The Yellow Rose of Texas"). Maybe.

The end of independent politics

2009-05-13T11:51:00.001-07:00

They are the same, except for the color of their suits. Democrats wear brown, while Republicans prefer gray. Their ideologies, while outwardly different, are like their clothing: Different in color, but all too similar in fabric. The suits cover the politicians nakedness and serve to hide their true aim: Power, which derived by funding campaigns and winning elections.

Much like the evaporating middle class, our parties are actively working to eliminate moderates in this country. Even a former stalwart and defender of moderate politics, John McCain, has relented on his reasonable viewpoints to echo the more conservative and reactionary of his GOP colleagues.

Are we not a nation of multiple, often divergent opinions and positions? It stands to reason that with so many differing views, two parties alone do not suffice. But with a third player in the game, the omnipotent Democratic and Republican national committees would lose some - perhaps a great deal - of their market share. Logically, therefore, it is in their mutual interest to dismiss moderates and to polarize the masses into separate and distinct camps.

We are not a nation of Team A or Team B. We are complex, multi-national, and ever dynamic, yet our interests are brushed aside or glossed over for their greater good. Health insurance, Social Security, even the Iraq conflict are major issues discussed in many recent elections nationwide, but resolutions are forever lacking.

While it would be difficult to endorse a John Anderson or Ralph Nader as viable third party candidates, it's not impossible to envision a shift towards political moderation and compromise. One of Bill Clinton's great skills was his ability to compromise on many major issues. The Democrat power base, while pleased with one of their own running the country, would have quickly disengaged themselves from him. Even today, Bill Clinton remains the most popular Democrat, and the DNC has little recourse but to continue to embrace him. The proof is in the pudding: Clinton would provide assuredly better leadership as DNC Chairman than Howard Dean.

Most of us do not buy into the complete and narrow ideology and jingoism of the Democrats and Republicans. Unfortunately, it's not what we want that counts since no one funds a non-existent party. Ultimately, it's about money. Money to win elections, and money to buy brown and gray suits.

Planes, Trains, Rental Cars and at least one deranged murderer

2009-05-13T11:49:00.000-07:00

The title is not misleading. In 1997, my friend and I embarked on a trip to San Diego. While we expected the warm California sunshine, seeing an old friend, and playing some golf, we ended up experiencing more. Much more.

Our plane landed in San Diego in the early evening, and we rode the shuttle to a car rental company. While there, the rental agent who was obviously having a bad night proceeds to berate my friend when we arrived at the counter. Twenty minutes later, with nerves moderately frayed, we hopped in the car and drive for thirty minutes before realizing that our hotel was next door to the car rental place.

After checking in, we proceeded to our room and discovered that the window screens were too small (allowing many bugs to get in). Closing the windows, we turned on the air conditioner: The noise was deafening, and only eclipsed by the train that ran right outside our bathroom window. Alerting the motel management, we requested and received another room. And so ended our first night.

We spent the following day seeing the San Diego Zoo and other attractions. That night, we met our friend and played night golf (the course is lit with stadium lights). Upon returning to our motel, however, we discovered that the entire block had been cordoned off. A police officer instructed us to wait at a nearby gas station with other motel guests: A convicted murderer had escaped prison and was holding his girlfriend hostage there.

While waiting at the gas station, we drank coffee provided by the Red Cross and met other guests and nearby residents. This latter group included topless dancers who worked in a bar next to our hotel. We also met a young couple (more on them later). Hours later, the situation was resolved (without violence) and we were allowed to return to our rooms, and ended up being interviewed by the local news on our ordeal.

Early the next day, we ran into the young couple again and they asked our room number. Assuming nothing unusual, we provided it and left for our day's events, which included a road trip to Tijuana. Now, this little adventure merits another story, but suffice it to say we had a great time and returned to the motel around 6:00 PM.

The young man knocked on our door soon after our return, and just after our pizza and some beer were delivered. We invited him to partake with us, and as we watched a football game, he began to thank us for our hospitality. In fact, he was so grateful that he pulled out three new knives as a gift. They were the kind that stay hidden in your hand until a push button is pressed: Gangster Stilettoes. We tried to act cool about this odd gesture, and told him repeatedly that we had to fly back that night and could not carry weapons on board (we were actually scheduled to fly back the following day).

He did not seem too happy about our refusal and early departure, however, and kept our guard up until he finally left around 9:00...with the knives. My friend immediately called the airline and booked us on a red eye flight back to the East Coast. We packed hurriedly and, as we pulled out of the motel lot, we saw our young deranged friend running after the car. Since the car rental agency was next door, we drove around the block for 30 minutes in the hopes that our odd acquaintance would be gone.

An hour later, we boarded our flight home and as we sat down, both of us sighed a very deep sigh and thanked our Creator. It was a crazy trip and certainly worthy of the title: Planes, Trains, Rental Cars and at least one deranged murderer.

Ella Tambussi Grasso: Political Pioneer

2009-05-13T11:46:00.000-07:00

"I'm having trouble managing the mansion. What I need is a wife."

Ella T. Grasso

Any examination of the history of American women in politics invariably includes the name of Ella T. Grasso. In 1974, as an energy crisis loomed and debates raged on about a war halfway across the world, she would write her name in the history books by becoming the first Governor of a U.S. State. Setting her apart, however, is the fact that Ella Grasso won on her own merits, and was not simply succeeding a deceased husband or acting as his surrogate. For the past 30 years, Ella Grasso has rightly been regarded as a trailblazer and continues to serves as a model to politicians like Geraldine Ferrara and Hillary Clinton.

She was born on May 10, 1919, in Windsor Locks, Connecticut to Italian immigrant parents, James and Maria Oliva Tambussi,who named their daughter, Ella Giovanna Oliva. Her father owned and operated the Windsor Locks Bakery, and her mother was a mill worker. By all accounts, Ella enjoyed a happy childhood, maintaining many interests including membership in the Girl Scouts of America.

Ella attended St. Mary’s School in Windsor, CT and then the nearby Chaffee School. Upon graduation from Chaffee in 1936, she entered Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, Massachusetts. Four years later, she graduated magna cum laude with an Bachelor of Arts degree, majoring in economics and sociology with a double minor in history and political science. Her academic accomplishments were many, and she earned a Phi Beta Kappa key her junior year. Yet schoolwork was not enough to keep Ella busy. During her junior and senior years at Mount Holyoke, she held positions as a part-time assistant and teacher for the Department of Economics and Sociology.

The year 1942 was an important one for Ella on many levels. Mount Holyoke awarded her with a Masters of Arts degree in economics and sociology. But the bigger news was her marriage to Thomas Grasso, a school principal, and they would eventually have two children, Susanne and James.

That same year would initiate Ella’s longtime life of public service as she began new position at the Connecticut State Department of Labor. A year later, she became the Assistant Connecticut State Director of Research for the War Manpower Commission and served until 1946. In 1952, Grasso won election to the Connecticut House of Representatives, and served until 1957. She became first woman to be elected Floor Leader of the House in 1955. By 1958 she was elected Secretary of the State of Connecticut and was re-elected in 1962 and 1966. She was the first woman to chair the Democratic State Platform Committee and served from 1956 to 1968. She served as a member of the Platform Drafting Committee for the 1960 Democratic National Convention, and was co-chairperson for the Resolutions Committee for the Democratic National Conventions of 1964 and 1968. In 1970 she was elected as a Democratic representative to the 92nd Congress, and won reelection in 1972.

In 1974, Grasso chose not to for reelection to Congress, instead opting to become Connecticut’s next Governor. When she won the election in a landslide, the rumpled, salty-tongued daughter of Italian immigrants won to become America’s first woman Governor. Her victory helped to establish the abilities of female politicians, and she became the first in a line of strong women elected to top offices in the state. She began her first term in 1975 and was elected to a second term in 1978.

Ella Grasso understood that gender could not be an obstacle in her political career. In a speech given at Mount Holyoke College she said that the time spent at her alma mater taught her that gender is not a “pressing issue in [her] life.” She opted not to take the radical feminist stance so common during the 1970s; she chose to win the female vote with her policies on education and health. Upon winning the Connecticut governorship in 1974, Newsweek magazine - inspired by her victory and political acumen - ran a series of articles on women politicians.

Sadly, on December 31, 1980, Governor Grasso resigned her office due to illness. She passed away several weeks later on February 5, 1981, at the age of 61, from ovarian cancer. Her accomplishments, however, remained intact and the memories of her fellow politicians and constituents. Later that year, President Ronald Reagan posthumously awarded her the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and said, “Long before the women's movement had gained prominence, Ella Grasso had already begun the long, hard ascent to distinction as an elected public servant. A fond wife and mother, she proved that it is possible to reconcile a full family life with a long and eventful political career…[she] won the respect of fellow citizens of both parties. Tireless in the pursuit of duty and courageous in the face of illness, Ella Grasso has earned the admiration of all Americans as a legislator, a governor and a woman of outstanding character and achievement.”

She is remembered for bringing the state of Connecticut out of debt and for creating an "open government," which gave ordinary citizens easier access to public records. Many citizens still speak reverentially of her actions during the Blizzard of 1978, when a nor’easter dumped over two feet of snow on the state. They recall with gratitude how she personally organized a massive relief effort even after the state lost all electricity for three days.

Governor William O’Neill, who succeeded Grasso, said soon after her passing, “She will never be replaced for she is irreplaceable. Nor will she ever be forgotten.” It would be wise to always remember those who came before us, to acknowledge their courage in the face of criticism and illness. We must never overlook the difficult path pioneers like Ella T. Grasso chose to take. In many ways, it is not unlike that struggles shared by many Italians who have striven to achieve great things in this country.

Dominic Salvatore Gentile: Ace of Aces

2009-05-13T11:45:00.000-07:00

Variously called "a one-man Air Force," "Captain Courageous," and "the Ace of Aces," Captain Dominic Gentile had few peers when it came to air combat. Along with his close friend and dedicated wingman, John T. Godfrey, their lethal partnership so plagued Hermann Göring's Luftwaffe during World War II that they earned the epithet, "Debden Gangsters." In early 1944, Gentile shot down his 27th enemy fighter, surpassing World War I ace Eddie Rickenbacker’s record of 26 combat victories. He would earn three more victories before war’s end, along with a host of military decorations including the Distinguished Service Cross (both American and British) and the Silver Star.

Born in tiny Piqua, Ohio in 1920, Dominic became fascinated with flying as a child. His obsession grew from playing with model planes and kites that during his high school years, his father provided Dominic with his own plane: an Aerosport Biplane. By the outbreak of war in 1941, he deeply believed his flying skills would be of service to the United States Air Force. While the U.S. military required two years of college for its pilots, the Royal Air Force did not and Gentile joined the legendary Eagle Squadrons based in England.

Flying a Spitfire, in a ten-minute span, he downed two German planes over France on August 1, 1942, earning the British Distinguished Flying Cross for his astonishing accomplishment. A month later, he transferred into the U.S. Air Force and in 1944, he took part in one of the great aerial combat missions of the war. After downing two German planes, Gentile was attacked by two more Luftwaffe planes intent on avenging their comrades. Turning and diving to avoid them, Gentile managed to squeeze off his remaining rounds of ammunition but to no avail. They followed him relentlessly, leaving him with the rather forlorn hope that they, too, would exhaust their ammunition if could manage to evade them long enough. Eventually, their ammo also spent, the German planes turned away and Gentile returned to his air base physically and mentally drained, but alive and intact.

By mid-April of 1944, and after three more air victories, Gentile’s tour in Europe was completed, but not before he suffered a minor flying mishap caused by a bout of showmanship. While demonstrating the maneuverability of his plane - a Mustang named "Shangri La" - he crashed but emerged unscathed. Captain Gentile returned to the U.S. where he and other war heroes participated in War Bond drives.

When the war ended, and in the era before commercial airlines, pilots had few options that allowed them to continue flying. Remaining with the Air Force as a test pilot among other duties, he was stationed at Wright Field in Ohio until 1946 when he received an honorable discharge. Later that same year, however, he was recalled to active duty and served in both the Fighter Gunnery Program and Air Tactical School. In June of 1949, Gentile enrolled as an undergraduate – studying military science - at the University of Maryland.

While piloting a T-33 jet trainer in late January of 1951, Captain Gentile’s plane crashed in Forestville, Maryland. Both he and a passenger perished. Perhaps in consideration of his courage and dedication, the U.S. Air Force honored him with a posthumous promotion to the rank of Major. Only 30 years old at the time of his death, he was survived by his wife, Isabella, and their three sons: Don Jr., Joseph and Pasquale (Pat).

Dominic Salvatore Gentile died but he left behind an extraordinary legacy. The then-unconventional air combat tactics employed by Gentile and his wingman, Godfrey, were later used In Vietnam by U.S. fighter pilots. For his war record of 30 kills and combat advancements, he was posthumously inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame. He is remembered today as one of America’s great combat aviators: The Ace of Aces.

Mother Frances Xavier Cabrini: America's Patron Saint of Immigrants

2009-05-13T11:43:00.000-07:00

As debates rage nationally and locally over immigrant's rights, we are well served to remember that - ultimately and with very few exceptions - all Americans are immigrants in one form or another. At the Statue of Liberty's pedestal, the American ideal is reflected eloquently in a poem by Emma Lazarus that begins: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…" Ideology and dialogue alone, however, provide little visible relief to immigrants. Help often comes from individuals, and for many Italian immigrants in late 19th America, this support came from Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini.

Widely recognized as the first American citizen canonized by the Roman Catholic Church, she is also acknowledged as the Patron Saint of immigrants. She gave hope to those desperately seeking help, offering assistance in both their material and spiritual needs.

Born Maria Francesca Cabrini on July 15, 1850, she was the tenth child of Agostino Cabrini and Stella Oldini. Her difficult birth, premature by two months, affected her health throughout her life. Many of siblings, however, would not survive adolescence. Her father farmed as her mother tended to the children in Sant'Angelo Lodigiano, a small village sited on the plains of Lombardy south of Milan.

Maria's life found its direction early. Nightly, her father read to the family, often recounting stories of great Catholic missionaries. Especially appealing for Maria were the tales of Chinese missions, and she hoped to become a Franciscan missionary. At the age of 13, she enrolled as a boarding student in the Normal School located in the commune of Arluno. Graduating in 1868 and certified as a teacher, she remained in Arluno, living in the convent with the religious sisters who ran the school.

In 1877, at the age of 27, she was able to take religious vows and became the Mother Superior of the House of Providence orphanage in another Lombardian commune, Codogno. In a tribute to the evangelizing Jesuit, Frances Xavier, Maria added Xavier to her name. Within three years, she helped establish a new order, the Missionary Sisters of the Sacred Heart. The order helped to create homes, a school and a nursery, and their good works became known to the Bishop of Piacenza, Giovanni Scalabrini.

By the late 19th century, thousands of Italians had arrived in the United States, with many making New York City their home. They suffered tremendous hardships in their new country. Viewed contemptuously by most Americans, Italians labored in the most menial of jobs. Even the Roman Catholic Church in America was unprepared for their arrival and initially treated the many devout Italians as outsiders. The prayers of the immigrants, however, were soon answered in the form of Mother Frances Xavier Cabrini. Urged by Bishop Scalabrini, and with the blessing and support of Pope Leo XIII, she and six of her Missionary Sisters landed in New York in early 1889.

Unable to speak English and lacking a place to stay, she and her fellow Sisters endured many of the same problems suffered by immigrants. Obstacles, however, failed to diminish her spirit and within a short time she established an orphanage and school. Her primary donor was the wife of the director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Countess Mary Cesnola. This was only the beginning, however, for during her lifetime Mother Cabrini founded sixty-seven institutions around the world including schools, orphanages, hospitals, and social service outreach programs.
Eventually her work brought Mother Cabrini to Seattle, where in 1909 she fulfilled a deeply held desire to become an American citizen. Her missionary work continued with zeal over the next few years as she traveled extensively reaching to help those with the greatest needs.
A tale persists that in 1912, she and a companion had tickets for the Titanic. Circumstances – and perhaps divine intervention - prevented her from sailing on that ship's final voyage.

The last years of her life were spent in Chicago. Her health, always fragile, eventually failed as she contracted malaria. As she sat in her wicker chair at Columbus Hospital, the disease claimed her life as she prepared Christmas candy treats for the local immigrant children. Mother Frances Xavier Cabrini passed away on December 22, 1917, at the age of 67. Appropriately, she was interred at the Sacred Heart Orphanage in West Park, NY. In 1933, however, Mother Cabrini was exhumed and enshrined in the church's altar at St. Frances Cabrini Shrine in Manhattan. Faithful pilgrims continue to visit this site by the thousands each year.

Five years later, the Church beatified Mother Cabrini and Pope Pius XII subsequently canonized her on July 7, 1946. Attesting to her immense popularity, even in death, over 100,000 attended her canonization at Chicago's Soldier Field. By 1950, Pope Pius XII also declared her the "Heavenly Patroness of all Emigrants."

Mother Xavier Cabrini still represents a ray of hope for many, especially immigrants. She saw not what was, but what could be. Her inspiration and genuine love not only changed lives, but saved them, too. Her accomplishments will never fade nor be diminished with time. Mother Xavier Cabrini left us with a prayer, and it serves a reminder of who she was, and perhaps a guide for future generations: We must pray without tiring, for the salvation of mankind does not depend on material success; nor on sciences that cloud the intellect. Neither does it depend on arms and human industries, but on Jesus alone.

Bruno Sammartino: The Italian Strongman

2009-05-13T11:38:00.000-07:00

One of my fondest childhood memories remains the night my father, Severino, took me to see professional wrestling at the DC Coliseum in 1966. Although we were primarily entertained by the likes of female wrestling icon, the Fabulous Moolah, and the always amusing antics of midget wrestlers, my memory focuses primarily on meeting The Living Legend, Bruno Sammartino. Although he was only 5’ 11”, he was a chiseled 280 pounds, with a massive barrel chest, and towered over my father and me. He had just left the ring, yet was patient enough to provide some kind words, an autograph and handshake.

Professional wrestling in the 60s and 70s was tamer and more family oriented than today’s product. Matches were scripted more along the lines of dime store and pulp fiction with good and bad guys clearly defined. More importantly, wrestlers of that era worked out religiously in order to bulk up, unlike today’s steroid-laced professionals. Bruno Sammartino was a titan, and even today he is considered by many as one of the most honorable athletes of that era. He remains the longest-running champion of Worldwide Wrestling Federation, holding the title across two reigns over a 12 year span. Professional wrestling championships are won and lost primarily due to a wrestler’s popularity; Bruno’s long tenure is a testament to his large and ever growing fan base.

Born in Pizzoferrato, Abruzzi (Chieti), Italy on October 6, 1935, Bruno Leopoldo Francesco Sammartino was the youngest of seven brothers and sisters. Owing to the devastation of war-torn Italy, only three of his siblings lived into adulthood. Similar to the circumstances faced by my own mother, Onorina, Bruno’s family often avoided marauding German soldiers by hiding in the nearby mountains. It was an especially dangerous time as the Germans slowly withdrew north from the advancing Allies. Bruno’s mother, Emilia, would often slip into Pizzoferrato to gather food for her family; she was detained during one trip and survived a German bullet to the shoulder on another. Life in the mountains was harsh on the young Bruno and his health deteriorated. Emilia helped him battle a dangerous bout of pneumonia using hot blankets and leeches.

In 1951, the still sickly 15 year old Bruno arrived in the United States and settled with his father in Pittsburgh. Idolizing a Greco-Roman style wrestler named Batisti who had represented Italy in the Olympics (1930s), Bruno began to work out zealously at a local gym after school. By 1956, Bruno was working construction during the day and either lifting weights or working out with the University of Pittsburgh’s wrestling team. While appearing on a local TV show performing strong man stunts, Bruno was recruited to professional wrestling by promoter Rudy Miller in 1959.

He teamed with fellow Italian, Antonino Rocca, and within a few months, they were appearing at Madison Square Garden in tag team matches. Low payoffs and unscrupulous promoters, including the senior Vince McMahon, forced Bruno to Toronto. That city’s growing and vibrant Italian population helped to make Bruno a very lucrative gate attraction. Eventually, he returned to the United States and in 1963 he won the World Wrestling Federation’s heavyweight title belt by pinning his opponent in 48 seconds.

Throughout the 60s and 70s, as wrestling’s popularity grew, Bruno headlined cards around the country, and even other parts of the world. Once event featuring Bruno in Caracas, Venezuela attracted an estimated crowd of 40,000; in Australia, he managed to sell out twenty-one consecutive nights, then a wrestling attendance record. But his primary venue remained Madison Square Garden, the Mecca of pro wrestling in the United States. It was at the Garden, in 1971, that Bruno lost his long-held title. The sounds of openly weeping fans followed Bruno as he walked to the dressing room, a sign of their heartfelt affection for him.

Bruno regained his championship belt in 1973 and would hold it for three more years. His enduring popularity among wrestling fans continued to draw huge crowds and even helped wrestling to make money in the new medium of closed circuit pay TV. By the end of the decade, Bruno retired from active wrestling and returned only as a tag team partner of his son, David Sammartino. By now, however, pro wrestling was earning increasingly large TV revenue, and was devolving into a more brutal and steroid-driven form of entertainment, led by the Vince McMahon, Jr. Although Bruno wrestled on and off for the next 15 years, he remains a critic of the newer product.

Bruno Sammartino remains an icon in the Italian-American community, though a forgotten one with the younger generations. In 2002, Bruno attended the National Italian American Foundation’s 27th Anniversary Gala Awards Dinner to present a foundation scholarship in his name. As Thom Loverro of the Washington Times noted in an article, “Robert DeNiro, Sophia Loren and Chuck Mangione were among the heavyweights who were honored or attended the affair. There was only one true heavyweight on hand, though, Mr. Living Legend himself: the great Bruno Sammartino.” On a personal note, I will always remember Bruno for his kindness towards me.