No More Smoking in Bed

By Alan Guzzetti

The subtitle of this work is True Adventures of my Life. It is a collection of unique, interesting, and funny stories written by Alan Guzzetti, an east coast Italian-American.

This book is part memoir and part travelogue, with one hilarious episode after another. Some of the stories are full of historical details and others highlight Guzzetti’s intriguing observations. His powers of observation at the time and his amazingly accurate recollection many years later are evident throughout the book. The author's descriptions of places and experiences recapture those memories so vividly that you’ll feel you are there with him.

The book is written in a conversational style that engages the reader immediately. The stories and characters are all truly represented. No More Smoking in Bed is funny and hard to put down.

Born into a large family at the beginning of World War II, Alan is an inquisitive and inventive child. He develops a solid work ethic at a young age, but still manages to find trouble. His family’s odyssey from New York to the promised land of California at age five is the beginning of his travel adventures which continue over the next two-thirds of a century. Anxious to leave home at the age of seventeen, he joins the Air Force where he tours the Far East and then, returns to his home country’s east coast for a period of time. Later, he finds work in America’s early space program. Then, he enters the world of high technology and learns to not only survive, but to excel in business without a formal education, attracting people equally adventuresome and entrepreneurial.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Guzzetti
• Release date: Oct 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311802255

Alan Guzzetti

About the AuthorAlan Guzzetti was born in upstate New York at the beginning of World War II. His family migrated to Northern California when he was five years old. Guzzetti has led an exciting and fascinating life as a world traveler and a businessman.He joined the U.S. Air Force at seventeen and spent four years touring the Far East and other parts of the world. Later, he was involved in America’s early space program as an employee at Lockheed Missiles and Space Company.As the computer industry matured, Guzzetti became a successful sales and marketing executive in the field of high technology. At one point he was responsible for an extensive international marketing operation and visited many foreign countries.Guzzetti was selected for publication in Reed Magazine, the official voice of the John Steinbeck Study Center at San Jose State University. He has also published several short stories in Fresh Ink, a writer’s magazine. Bull Magazine, has also recently featured Guzzetti's literary reportage of the bombing of Hiroshima.His first book, NO MORE SMOKING IN BED was published as part memoirs, part travelogue, and a series of humorous adventures. His second book, RIVERVIEW is a suspenseful crime and punishment novel. His third book, also a novel, is entitled DANGEROUS PROFESSIONS. The sequel to DANGEROUS PROFESSIONS, titled NEVER FAR FROM DANGER, was published in late 2011.His latest work, THE RELUCTANT NAZI, an unusual spy novel set in Europe during World War II, has recently been published.Guzzetti is a past member of California Writer’s Club. His work can be previewed on his website www.americanpacificbooks.com Some of his books are available on www.amazon.com, Lyon Books, and Kindle.Mr. Guzzetti lives in Chico, California.

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Foreword

My initial motivation for this undertaking was based upon a comment from my sister Anna. She told me that my daughter Gina had called one day and asked, Who are we, anyway? It occurred to me that I had never sat down and told my daughter of her heritage from my perspective. If you read the book, you will discover that Gina and I came into each other’s lives much later than should have been expected. My parents were already gone, and she could never connect the dots insofar as her paternal family history. Moreover, she didn’t really know much about how I had lived my life. Hence, neither did my granddaughters Laura and Alyssa. So here it is, for better or worse. I am too old to be concerned about personal criticism. I just hope that there is something of value to be learned here, and that the reader finds amusement and entertainment in the stories that I had the great pleasure to live.

There is nothing invented here, except in some cases, name and place changes. Nevertheless, the stories and timeframes are accurate. It is my belief that an autobiography should be factual and true. If the public at large finds this work to be interesting, informative and entertaining then so much the better. I hope that people will read it, but if only a few are interested, it was still a worthwhile project for me because it allowed me to relive much of the joy of my lifetime. There were times that I could barely bring myself to recall the painful and embarrassing sequences, but I forced myself to write with as much honesty as I was able, and that was cathartic and beneficial. On balance, I think that most of my life has been well spent and I have few regrets. I have been extremely fortunate.

Acknowledgements

My family was most helpful by filling in the blanks for me when I was attempting to reconstruct times, places, and events. In particular, my sister Anna and my brother-in-law Ted were able to assist in clarifying the chronology of certain stories. My niece Jona was and is an enthusiast. I want to thank my daughter Gina, not only for providing the impetus for me to finally take on the task of writing my story, but for her patience over the years and her enthusiasm and encouragement during this process. Among my many friends mentioned in the book, I want to thank Phil and Donna Holland, Neal and Linda Goldstein, Robert Graham, and especially the late Carter Alexander, all of whom have been important sources of encouragement. My niece Kim Guzzetti was there for me proofing and editing while managing to hold down a very demanding job of her own. My dear friend and mentor Dr. Matilda Butler, herself an author and teacher, was a guiding light throughout much of the process. Finally, my great friend Ana Mendoza was always there to cheer me on. I am grateful to all.

No More Smoking In Bed

True Adventures of My Life

By Alan Guzzetti

2015 by Alan Guzzetti

All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Frogs legs

I was spending the weekend in Tokyo with a buddy named Andy Anderson. We were stationed twenty-five miles away at Tachikawa Air Force Base. It was right after payday, and we had taken the short train ride into the big city that we had come to love. We did this whenever we had a few dollars. It was better than hanging around the little base town with its myriad bars and street hookers. There was so much to do here and it was exotic and strange. Both of us had developed a fondness for virtually all of the Japanese delicacies; sashimi, sushi, miso soup, osoba, udon, you name it. We had been out most of the day, girl hunting with the usual result – no results. Evening was approaching and we were in the Shinjuku district enjoying some really good jazz in a small club. Andy was originally from Canada and his family was even larger than mine – in addition to Andy, there were ten siblings. They numbered thirteen in all. We were discussing the cultural differences between our countries and Japan. Japanese rarely have large families. I don’t know why. Perhaps it has to do with economics, or maybe the pressures of so many people living on such a small piece of land in small houses.

When we saw the six rough-looking Japanese men come into the club and head straight for our table, we could sense that we were about to gain a new cultural experience. They were Yakusa – Japanese Mafia. They were brethren as well, only in a cultish and organizational sense. The leader was tattooed from head to toe with the most exotic and colorful designs imaginable. All of the men had tattoos. You could see portions of them on the backs of their necks and their wrists. Andy and I were sitting at a long table on a bench, and our backs were to a wall.

The meanest-looking thug slid right next to Andy, followed by two others. The remaining three sat right across the table from us. All of them sneered a greeting of some sort in Japanese. Mr. Mean had a long bladed knife with which he flourished and played, sticking the pointed blade into the tabletop over and over. Somehow, they communicated that they wanted us to buy drinks for them. Their manner was very threatening, and we were appropriately scared. We signaled to the Mama-san owner that we wanted to order, and we secretly hoped she would call the police.

Just then, four very large black men entered the club and took a table in a lofted area about fifty feet away. They were in civilian clothes, but were obviously G.I.s of some flavor – maybe Army. They were preoccupied, but we knew that they had seen us. Quickly calculating our odds, I spoke to Andy under my breath. Put your hands under the table top - palms up. When I give the signal, lift and shove it over on top of those guys across from us and beat it up those stairs to where those soldiers are sitting. Are you with me? I could see Andy trembling. He was scared silly. He was the one sitting right next to the ringleader and his knife. Andy nodded assent, and a few seconds later, when Mr. Mean was busy joking around with his buddies, somewhat distracted, I gave the command: NOW.

Thank God, the table wasn’t bolted down. I had not even thought of that! Imagine what a disaster it would have been – two skinny kids impossibly trying to lift a huge, heavy table bolted to the floor. The Yakusa thugs would probably have laughed themselves senseless, and we might have got away after all. As it turned out, the table went over beautifully. The hoods were completely surprised, and we made it to the safety of our fellow countrymen who understood everything that had happened. We were so grateful. I guess Mama-san had called the police at some point because presently, several tiny cars, each stuffed with three of four cops, came screeching to the front door with sirens wailing. They wasted no time rounding up our protagonists and escorted them out of the little club.

8:00 a.m., January 11, 1939. America was struggling to rise out of the Great Depression, and Adolph Hitler was rapidly becoming the most powerful man in the world. After years of double-digit unemployment, anyone in this country who had any kind of job at all could count himself very lucky. Yet, my father-in-waiting had somehow managed to remain employed as a heating company salesman for the past ten years.

Utica, New York was one of the cold spots in the country. Typically, at this time of year, there were short daylight periods and grey, ominous skies accompanied by snow flurries or sleet and icy cold temperatures. This was one such day, and as unwelcoming as it appeared to be, it welcomed me at 8:35 a.m. into the local Italian-American community. What a community it was. Our family made up a fair portion of the total population. There were nine of us.

I was one of three children born to Giuseppe Dominico and Giovanna Nasto Guzzetti, who were already forty-eight and thirty-seven years old respectively. I was christened Alan Thomas, and I was clearly a mistake. In those days, birth control was effective only if a couple maintained separate bedrooms and fought frequently and sufficiently enough to quell any amorous intentions. My parents obviously got along better than that. My brother Pasquale Antonio and my sister Anna Theresa were ten and seven years old when I was born in Oneida General Hospital. Two more brothers and two sisters were at home waiting to welcome me: Maria Natalie, nineteen; Clement Ross, seventeen; Anita Frances, fifteen; and Joseph Francis, thirteen years old. This gang was born to Papa and his deceased wife Rose Pavese.

Later as a lonely widower, he met and married his twenty-five year old maiden wife Jennie as she came to be known. All of the original Italian given names became anglicized at some point: Giuseppe became Joe, Giovanna became Jennie, Maria became Marie, and Pasquale became Pat. Only a few years ago, when he lay dying of cancer I learned that there had been a mix-up regarding Pat’s birth certificate, and he had originally been named Antonio Pasquale. Somehow, the two names were switched and he spent his life as Pat instead of Tony.

Growing up as the youngest of seven children brought me more attention than the others did. That was to my advantage at times. I was frequently reminded through my more difficult teen years that I had always been treated preferentially and was perhaps a bit spoiled. Often, I was compared to my older brothers or sisters. Your brother Clem always got good grades and always had an after school job, Papa would say. This made me feel as if I could never satisfy him. I felt that I couldn’t do enough, and I really wanted him to be proud of me. My early memories were mostly pleasant though, and I can still recall sights, sounds and fragrances that bring me back to those innocent years.

It seems that there were only two seasons during my first four or five years -winter and summer. Winter was ugly, grey, dark and dirty. Coal was used in homes as the primary heating fuel. The snow piled up along the streets and was filthy with soot and ashes, which were used as melting agents to allow for the passage of vehicles. Dented grey galvanized metal garbage cans with lids cocked and trash overflowing were everywhere. Occasionally, for a short while after a fresh, heavy snowstorm, the city would be transformed, blanketed in clean, white snow. That’s when we kids really had fun, sliding down little hills and eating snow. Of course, we were always warned not to eat the yellow snow because that is where the dogs had peed.

I remember our house at 926 Mary Street- clapboard, three stories, with an enclosed stairway leading up to our middle flat. There was a flat on each floor. A door opened into our large kitchen and Momma cooked sauce for our twice a week pasta dinner. What a wonderful and talented cook she was. I came to appreciate her even more when we later moved to California, and I was enlisted to help with the canning and meat preparations.

An incident occurred at the Mary street house; I must have been about four years old when we got the news that our upstairs neighbor Orie had fallen off a ladder and died. His widow Mary was terribly distraught, and I couldn’t understand how someone could be killed falling off a ladder. I fell off all sorts of things all the time. The worst thing that happened to me was a skinned knee. I do remember sledding down a snowy little hill on a makeshift platform – probably a garbage can lid, and slamming into a tree. I saw stars, but that’s not quite the same as falling off a ladder, I guessed.

Summer was the best. Papa was an avid fisherman who loved trout fishing. He always stubbornly insisted that trout were not fish – as if the word fish had a negative connotation. Fish are fish, and trout is trout. They are not the same, he would say. I later realized that it was his way of showing reverence for his favorite creature and for the sport of catching the wily critters.

I don’t remember the first time he took me to watch him fish, but I do recall that I loved scampering down stream banks and balancing on rocks while the water rushed by. The smell of damp leaves and the experience of seeing my first lizard or salamander held a natural attraction for me. I was excited. Papa would always make me stay quiet as he sneaked up to a deep hole and would whisper, Be very quiet. Trout are very smart and they can hear us. If you step too hard on the rocks, the sound will travel. He showed me where the water would eddy and swirl near small deep pockets, and he taught me that the trout would be there, just under the surface, awaiting the fat worm he had for them.

Best of all was the part of the day he would reserve for me to catch frogs. He had a broom handle with a gig on the end, and we used it to jab and impale unsuspecting frogs who might be resting on a rock or who had made the mistake of assuming we didn’t see them as they stuck their heads out of the water a bit. He would make one for me and say, Remember to move very slowly and don’t wait too long or he’ll jump and you’ll miss him. Try to get him from behind if you can.

We would keep the frogs alive in an old paint bucket with a lid until we got home that night. Then Papa would have the bloody job of butchering the poor creatures so we could skin the legs, flour them, and fry them up. Oh, how I loved frogs legs! It didn’t even bother me to see them killed and cut up because I knew a special treat was in store for me only minutes later. I know it sounds trite, but they really do taste like fried chicken only better. To this day, I take great pleasure in spending time by a rushing stream, especially late in the spring or in early autumn, when there is a slight chill in the air, and the ground and leaves are damp and have that wonderful woodsy fragrance. I keep an eye out for frogs.

Other summer memories include a place called Prospect Park where there was a swimming lake and a sand beach. I had a little bucket and a tiny shovel, which I would use to methodically dig, fill the bucket, dump the sand, and then do it all over again. Other kids may have been learning to play the piano, but I was communing with nature.

The Great Depression gave people pause to take a hard look at their fellow man. Thousands of people were out of work, and some were homeless. People didn’t look at the homeless as deranged, socially unfit individuals who were taking advantage of the social system to get a free ride. These people, for the most part, had a genuine interest in getting back on their feet. More than once a stranger knocked on our door, and Momma would make him a sandwich and give him a cup of coffee. My folks were old-fashioned Italians, both from the old country, who came to this country through Ellis Island just like all the other European immigrants. They naturally gravitated to a community where they felt comfortable with people who had a cultural commonality. My folks spoke Italian to each other and to friends and relatives until I reached my teen years. Less and less Italian was spoken as I got older, and I could get the gist of what was being said.

Racism was common, and my folks were both victims and participants- not the violent kind so much as attitudinal expression. In Utica, there was often mention of the different cultural groups, not always in flattering terms. Yes, the word Nigger was used occasionally as was colored and the more polite Negro. The most derisive comments were directed toward a group described as swarthy, dark, unclean and dangerous – the Syrians. Then, of course, there were the Jews. However, in this case reference was usually made in an adjective form – a way of describing someone. I used to work for the old Jew, Mr. Schwender.

Later, when we moved to California, there were the Mexicans. However, my parents’ attitudes clearly changed with time. They became more accepting. After all, virtually every one of my friends was Mexican, as was my brother-in-law. I even had a black friend or two as I was growing up, and I never heard my parents make a negative comment.

By the time I was four, the world was at war and the WPA was being officially disbanded. The Work Projects Administration was created by executive order of Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1935. However, it was not an effective organization until it was reorganized under the Federal Works Agency in 1939. Many people believe that the WPA pulled us out of the depression. It put 8.5 million people to work at a time when unemployment was running as high as 20%. Under this program, 116,000 buildings, 79,000 bridges, 800 airports, and thousands of roads were built or improved. Of course, the war came along at almost the same time, and as tragic as that was unemployment quickly became a non-issue.

Six million women went to work for the war effort. My sister Marie became an aircraft worker at the Rome, New York Airfield. She later got a letter of recommendation when the family moved to California and went to work at Moffet Field in Sunnyvale, working in the prop shop repairing propellers. She met her husband-to-be there. She and Evo Ted Tedeschi, now both in their late eighties, have been married for almost sixty years.

My brother Joey, at age seventeen, was drafted right out of high school into the Navy. The family was outraged, but there was nothing to be done about it. Clem joined the Navy voluntarily toward the end of the war. How he escaped the draft is a mystery. I remember that he was on the Amsterdam and was in the battle of Midway. My brother Pat couldn’t wait until he was old enough, but enlisted into the Navy when he turned seventeen after the end of the war. By then, so many men were being discharged that he was released after serving only a little more than a year.

In March of 1944, my father arguably made the gutsiest decision of his life. He quit his job and packed our 1939 Chevy with my mother and four of us kids – Pat, Marie, Anna and me- as well as everything else we could carry. My sister Anita had married and remained in New York for a few more years. We headed west to the golden land of palm trees and movie stars – California.

Obviously, this was the greatest adventure of my young life, and it created the mindset and wanderlust that has stayed with me until today. I don’t think I have ever had that much fun in my life, and I’ve had some fun. I vividly remember standing up in the back of the car almost the whole trip. I was yelled at a lot, but my eyes and mind were taking in the most amazing things.

I remember very little until we got onto route 66 in the Midwest. Then, we visited the Meramec Caverns in Missouri. Wow! A dark, damp trail went down, down, through one chamber after another. Sometimes the entrance to a new chamber was so small that the adults had to bend over and squeeze sideways through the opening. There were turquoise pools with huge stalagmites and stalactites, covered with white calcium deposits, dripping eerily from the cavern ceiling and protruding from the floor. . The air outside was warm, but it was like a refrigerator in there. It was scary and I made sure to stay in front of the group so that if some horrible monster would grab me, Momma and Papa could notice before it would eat me. Imagine what all of this was like for a five-year-old boy!

Somewhere along the way, we crossed over some very big mountains, which must have been the southern Rockies. As far as I know, we never had any car trouble, but the old Chevy did have a tough time getting over some of those 12,000-foot passes. Moreover, the road would often narrow down to one lane in the steepest and most scary places. Inevitably, as we were going up, we would meet another car coming down and back up to let the car pass.

As if to accentuate the danger, God had placed rusted hulks of destroyed cars in the bottom of the canyons, often 1,000 feet down. My sisters were hiding on the floor, and Momma was screaming in terror and sobbing so much of the time, she just didn’t see how much fun it all was. I just stood up and enjoyed the danger. Papa was so brave, but I could tell he was mighty nervous. Just stay calm and I’ll take it slow. We’ll be all right Jennie. Stop crying.

One morning, we were leaving our motel in Oklahoma City, and I must have had too much sugar because I became fascinated with a roll of toilet paper. I decided to see how long a stream I could create by unraveling it and allowing it to flow out the window. Somehow, the chamber pot fell through the window, clanging and rolling down the street. If you knew how modest and proper momma was, you would understand why she didn’t stop slapping me silly for ten minutes. She was mortified, and after that incident, I don’t think I ever embarrassed her again.

When we reached New Mexico, we visited the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest. I was