The Old Man

By Tom Anthony

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 9, 2005
• ISBN: 9781477167076

Tom Anthony

Tom is one of the founders of the Neighborhood Collective and the Minister of Community Life at Oak Hills Church in San Antonio, Texas, where he serves on the senior staff with Max Lucado and Randy Frazee. As a church planter and founding pastor in Indianapolis, Tom transitioned his church to a neighborhood model back in 2000. In 2007, he went to Pantego Bible Church in Fort Worth, Texas, where The Connecting Church model was first implemented. In 2009, Tom moved to The Ascent Church in Monument, Colorado, to serve as their Executive Pastor and was the chief architect for their transition to a neighborhood model. In 2013, Tom oversaw a church merger which positioned The Ascent Church as a multi-site church pursuing a neighborhood model. In 2014, Tom came to San Antonio to join the senior staff at Oak Hills Church. Oak Hills opened her 7th campus in 2015, and currently has over 10,000 people in weekend attendance. Tom’s work in neighborhood in a small church plant, in the original Connecting Church, in a church merger environment, and in a gigachurch gives him a unique perspective on how to lead and transition a church in a neighborhood model. He is currently working on his first book related to neighboring and plans to release it in 2016. Tom has been married since 1991, and he is the proud father to eight children!

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Copyright © 2005 by Tom Anthony.

Cover art, illustrations and limericks by Tom Anthony.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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25465

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

SOMEBODY BLOW A BUGLE

THE FAMILY JULES

THE RUNAWAY WAGON

OUR FATHER, WHO ART IN HEAVEN,HAROLD BE THY NAME

THE ROAD TEST

THE OUTHOUSE INCIDENT

AND HE SHALL RISE AGAIN

THE KENSICO DAM

THE OLD MAN’S NOSE

THE OLD MAN AND BILL BYRNE

PADDY, LOUIE, AND SPUD—RAIDERS OF THE LOST BIPLANE

EVEL KNEVEL IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

THE THIGH BONE

SHOES IN THE RIVER

THE LONG-HANDLED SHOVEL

ONE COP, MEDIUM RARE

SHOOTING THE RESERVOIR

THE COTTON CLUB

FIVE EASTVIEW AVENUE

THE CELLAR

FRIDAY NIGHT

THE SAFE CRACKER

LOVERS IN THE PARK

YANKEE INGENUITY

ABOVE AND BEYOND THE CALL

COUSIN JIM O’ROURKE

LILY PONS

MARY

DID HE OR DIDN’T HE?

THE PONY MAN

MY HERO

THE COBBLESTONE

WORLD WAR II

CAPTAIN MOONLIGHT

PLAYING WITH FIRE

THE Y IN ANTHONY

THE 25¢ REWARD

THE TRUANT OFFICER

PICNICS

PETE—HERE’S LOOKING AT YOU… AND YOU, TOO

SANDRA

LEARNING TO WHISTLE

THE SLED RUNNER OPERATION

BUGLE MAN AND MISTER INTERLOCUTOR

THE TRIP TO MAINE

THE BICYCLES

TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME

AUNT BEATRICE AND THE SOUTH JERSEY CLAN

UNCLE MAC RETURNS FROM THE WAR

THE NIGHT THEY PLAYED HIDE-A-BILL

WHERE DID ALL THE WATER GO?

1947-48

PIANO LESSONS

AND THEN THERE WAS THE TIME…

COD-LIVER OIL

THE CUSTOMERS

THE RUNAWAY

THE BRINDLE BOXER

FATHER ZEMBROWSKI

CARS

JOHN FRANCIS AND THE DOG

THINGS THAT WIGGLE, THINGS THAT CLUCK, THINGS THAT OINK AND MOO

THE ROAD TO AKRON

BY THE NUMBERS

THE SCHOOLMEN’S BOWLING LEAGUE

DONNA’S WEDDING

TAKING ROVER FOR A RIDE

THE RED TRUCK

SHOOTING POOL WITH THE DRUMMER

THE PARKING LOT INCIDENT

BROTHERS

TEN GOOD REASONS TO LEAVE FLORIDA AND GO HOME

THE HOUSE ON BAY AVENUE

THE WEDDING ON THE HONEY FITZ

THE BEARD

THE LAST LAND BARGE

THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

THE PARTY IN ST. BARTH’S

THE KING OF SCHENECTADY

TESSIE

SNIPPING, CHOPPING,TRIMMING, AND COPPING.

SANTA CLAUS AT WATER ISLAND

ANY PORT IN A STORM

BOXERS OR BRIEFS?

WORKING THE CROWD

A LETTER FROM GLYNDA

PETE AND THE OLD MAN

JUST DESSERTS

THOUGHTS

BITS AND PIECES

SAYINGS AND OTHER FAVORITES

EVEN IN DEATH…

POSTSCRIPT

This book is dedicated

to the memory of my father,

Vincent T. Anthony,

to those relatives and friends

who were privileged to know him

while he was here, and to those who

will now be able to share him

for generations to come.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I sincerely wish to thank everyone who took the time to stop and reach back for those fond memories and favorite stories about a man who held a special place in a lot of lives. As easy as he is to remember, I could never have finished the book without the contributions of others. For some, it was not easy to go there, to see and hear him again, for his imprint on us is as deep now as it was then. Although most of these memories are filled with laughter and joy, they come with a spoonful of tears and a pinch of sadness that he is no longer with us.

I would like to thank my brothers Bill (William J. Anthony) and Pete (Vincent P. Anthony); my niece Donna Anthony Morrissey; my cousins K. Sandra Anthony Wyman, Kevin Wyman and Kitty Mulqueen (Zita Byrne); my son Justin D. Anthony; my wife Stephanie; and Glynda Thomas, Phyllis Witriol, Davie Raphael and Captain Micki McAuley for their stories, anecdotes, snippets and remembrances that went into the making of this book. Additionally, I would like to thank The Show Jumping Hall of Fame (Busch Gardens, Tampa, Florida) for the pictures of Heatherbloom and The Westchester County Historical Society Archives, Elaine Massena, archivist, for their contribution of historical information and photos. Lastly, a young gentleman named Maurice Lee who patiently taught me the Adobe Photoshop system so that I could include the wonderful pictures contained in these pages.

A very special thanks must go to my grandfather, Angelo Sabatino Pietrantonio, for although he left us in 1947, he gave me enough good memories to fill volumes. I am forever indebted to him for the part he played in my life and that of my father, and it will be told in these pages.

PREFACE

This is not a biography. It is more a series of recollections and anecdotes about a man who deeply affected our lives in every way. He had an unbreakable spirit, boundless compassion, and an incredible sense of loyalty and duty. He worked hard, really hard, and he played even harder. He was an average Joe, just a working stiff, but he had a way of giving it class and making it look good.

Most books of this type are about a person’s life and works, their accomplishments, their struggles, and their victories. This is a little different. This is about a personality, one that you were drawn to, that you couldn’t help but embrace. He was like a magnetic force that pulled you in, and when it did, you might even feel a little silly. But it didn’t matter, you felt safe.

As the servant, teacher, fighter, and leader, he gave the world around him a feeling of purpose. As the clown, jerk, poet, and flirt, he made everyone feel like nothing could be so fucking serious that the whole world couldn’t just relax for a minute, ease up, and try to have a good time. The man was not only good at it, he was a rascal of epic proportions. He should have been illegal.

His name was Vincent Anthony, but most people called him Vince. He was definitely not a Vinnie. He was referred to by some as Big Vince, not necessarily because of his size but, I suspect, more for his personality. There were only a handful of people who ever called him Vincent… his mother, the nuns, maybe a monsignor or two. My brothers and I always addressed him as Pop, but when we talked about him between us, he was always the old man.

INTRODUCTION

In his later years, the old man was no mystery to anybody. Right out front, where you’d want him, where you could always get to him. He was grateful for every day that life gave him and tried his best not to waste any of it. He always had a good time and never broke a sweat doing it. It was fun just to watch.

The dictionary defines a raconteur as a person who is skilled in the art of relating anecdotes and telling stories. As I was reading the definition, I fully expected to see his name… as in one Vincent T. Anthony of White Plains, New York, master of the delivery of misleading and/or useless information designed solely to entertain the gullible of the world. But alas, the dictionary was derelict. He remains anonymous to the masses, but in a small circle of lucky souls who were fortunate enough to fall victim to his wily ways, he remains infamous.

Timing—that was one of his things. He would sit there like an old dog waiting in the yard for the kids to come out, and when there was a lull in the action, out it would come. Sometimes it was just a one-liner. Otherwise, it was an announcement that he had a story to tell, a true one, of course. Everybody always knew what that meant. You just never knew whether you were going to laugh, groan, or fall down. But amazingly though, after all the years of foisting his crazy bullshit on us, he still managed to come up with a new one now and then that would bring the room to its knees with tears of laughter.

Now, memory—that’s another thing. I never saw anything like it. He could recall the tiniest of incidents back as far as when he was a little kid and recount it to you like it happened yesterday. You know how, over the years, your memory tends to blot out the everyday stuff, the mundane, the unimportant, the little things? Not the old man. He kept it all with him, and he wasn’t about to toss any of it away—no, sir. How the hell were you supposed to tell a story, no less a funny one, with whats-his-names and wherever-it-wases? A mind like a locked box. All his marbles? He was a whole bag of shooters.

Okay, about his singing. The old man had a limitless repertoire. I don’t think he even knew how many songs he knew. Didn’t matter. When the moment called for one, which was often, it was there, in tune and complete. And, in an unrelenting tenor voice worthy of a jelly glass full of Jameson’s. I can hear him now as I’m writing, clear as day. It was a big part of his life and ours.

I know he had his downtimes and his disappointments along the way. But he had an amazing facility for keeping his head up and making the best of the hand he was dealt. And I know for sure he had his share of mistakes to talk about, because he did. Well, some of them, anyway. I suspect there were a few packed in his pockets that rose up to glory with him for that big hearing in the sky. But the ones we knew about were real doozies, and he knew that, too. When a son knows these things about his father, it kind of humanizes some of the stupid stunts you’ve pulled, and makes it a little easier to forgive yourself for being the asshole you were at times.

It being no secret that he was a bit of a wild man in his youth, he managed to carry some of the best of it with him into his later years. But by then, his wild became winsome, like wine becomes wonderful. I miss him terribly, and I want to. We talk about him often and we think about him in between. Here goes.

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

June 1889. Nineteen-year-old Angelo Sabatino Pietrantonio leaves his home in Capestrano, an ancient, tiny village in the mountains of the Abruzzo province of Italy, to seek his fortune in America. Armed with a bag of clothes, a box of tools, and a third-grade education, he boards a three-masted schooner and sets sail for his new home and a new life. Twenty-one days later, the ship arrives in New York harbor, with the Statue of Liberty in all her glory there to greet him.

First stop, Ellis Island. Many years later, he would tell me the story of being processed through immigration. I wasa scared, he said. Omma no speaka English. Omma don’ know somebody. Omma thinka, make a mistake, dey putta me back onna boat. He went on to tell me how his name got changed. Disa guy, he seza to me, whatsa you name? I seza to him, Angelo Sabatino Pietrantonio. He seza, ‘What?’ I tella my name again. He seza no-no, you firsta name isa Sebastian, you middla name isa Peter, and you lasta name isa Anthony. Now go siddown onna bench. I take-a my papes, shut uppa, go siddown.

Somewhere around the same time, a pretty young lady named Anne Flynn leaves her home in Manorhamilton, County Leitram, Ireland, to do much the same. The call of a better life wins out over the meager future of a dirt farmer, and she boards a steamship for New York. She, too, is a mere nineteen.

Like most immigrants, Sabatino (the name he preferred to use) took whatever jobs he could find. Being a skilled craftsman, he was able to find work wherein he could make use of his many talents. After a few years, he was able to move on to work in an area in which he particularly excelled—the handling and training of fine animals, most particularly horses. His reputation quickly spread throughout the New York area, and soon his services were sought after by many owners. In 1898, he became employed by a very wealthy man named Howard Willets. Mr. Willets’ estate sat on hundreds of pristine acres in the Gedney section of White Plains, New York. Willets was known for his fine horses. The family lived in a huge mansion, one that required a large staff to maintain it. It was there that Sabatino met one of the young housemaids named Anne Flynn. In time, they would fall in love and marry. Sometime after, their first son, Alexander, was born in the mansion on December 26, 1901.

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Sabatino and Anne, circa the late 1890s.

Secret: She is sitting, he is standing.

Howard Willets was known to be a great sportsman and had a stable of twenty-four thoroughbred horses. There were pacers, trotters, four-in-hands, high-steppers and jumpers. It wasn’t long before he noticed that Sabatino had a magical talent for handling and training these magnificent beasts. They responded to his gentle-but-commanding manner as if he were one of them. Sabatino, or Tony, as he was usually called, soon gained newfound stature and position. He became the trainer in residence.

One of the horses in that fine stable was a six-year-old jumper, purchased in 1901, named Heatherbloom. At only sixteen hands high, long, lean, and graceful, he proved to have the talent and athleticism that placed him far above the others. In short time, under the guidance of Sabatino and a rider named Dick Donnelly, he would go on to show the world what high jumping was all about. They would go to Madison Square Garden (the original) in New York and compete in the National Horse Show against the best in the world. As it turned out, it wasn’t long before Heatherbloom became the best when, in 1901, he jumped an amazing seven feet ten and one-half inches, setting a world record. Soon after, in 1902, in a photo shoot for Harper’s Weekly Magazine, he jumped eight feet two inches and followed that with a jump of eight feet three inches shortly after at the Willets farm. His records remained unchallenged for years.

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Sabatino with his prize pupil, Heatherbloom.

Rider Dick Donnelly is in the saddle.

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Heatherbloom clearing the hurdle at eight feet two inches. Willets Farm, 1902.

Others of the show horses under Sabatino’s guidance would add to the estate’s trophy collection, and he and Howard Willets would become known worldwide for their fine animals. But Willets’ good fortune would be short-lived. One day in 1910, there was a tragic fire on the estate, and many of the horses were destroyed. After a few years, Willets closed the farm down, moved his cattle operation to Massachusetts, and basically dismantled the estate. Sabatino was forced to move on down the road, literally. He was enticed by the owner of another amazing estate nearby to come and do much the same as he had done for Willets. The owner was a gentleman and sportsman named Paul G. Thebaud (Tay-bow). They were given a house on the grounds, and Annie assumed the management of the twenty-six-member staff in the mansion, all fifty-four rooms of it. Sabatino continued to train and show the Thebaud horses, build fine coaches, and perpetuate his fast-growing reputation as a sportsman and artisan. Life in America was being very good to this young immigrant couple.

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Mr. Willets, Mr. Simmis, Mr. Gedney, and Mr. Thebaud, circa 1900.

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Handwritten on the back of the original picture: Sebastian Anthony (Tony), professional horse trainer with a wagon called a trainer to train four-in-hand teams to pull a coach. These horses moved in unison with great precision. Four-in-hand meant that the driver held all four reins in one hand and his whip in the other. Circa 1900.

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Sabatino at the reins of a custom-built mahogany-and-gold coach (which he built) with one of his trained high-steppers in the lead.

SOMEBODY BLOW A BUGLE

He was born on December 21, 1905, on the Howard Willets estate, in the Willets mansion, surrounded by a bevy of midwives and housemaids. We will soon come to learn that this gathering was an omen, a sign of things to come, the beginning of what would be a pattern that would follow him to the very end. He was barely dry and had hardly finished his first song, and already, the ladies were swarming and swooning.

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The Willets mansion and a second building, circa 1898.

He was baptized in the Church of Saint John the Evangelist on Hamilton Avenue in White Plains and given the name of Vincent Thomas Anthony (the addition of DePaul, if you can believe that, came with confirmation ten years later). His older brother, Alexander Steven, who preceded him by four years, got hit with Francis Xavier the same way. If you had to guess who was naming these kids, you’d have to go with Annie.

Life on the estate was as idyllic as it could be for common folk. The have-not’s kids played, ate and slept with the have’s kids most of the time and it was one big happy family, except for the obvious; the rich guys were rich and the hired help was not. They just lived like millionaires. But, the old man grew up knowing which end of a thoroughbred to feed and which end of the Rolls Royce you put the gas into. Hell, it was home, it was comfy, and nobody wanted for much of anything. And he certainly got to see some possibilities of what life had to offer.

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Sabatino, Anne, and Vincent aboard an unidentifiable,

but definitely big and expensive touring car. Circa 1908-9

THE FAMILY JULES

The Thebaud estate, 1911. The mansion stood three stories high and contained fifty-four grand rooms. Annie assumed the job of directing the house staff and Sabatino went to work training horses. During this time, the Thebauds were in the middle of a separation and, after giving his wife the entire estate plus twenty million dollars, Paul G. went his way, and they ended up working directly for her. Try to fathom what twenty million bucks could buy in 1911.

The Thebaud family had three sons. The youngest, Jules, was of the same age as little Vincent. They were inseparable pals. Although they were most definitely from different social levels, neither young Jules nor his buddy Vincent had any idea of it. When it was time to entertain—and the grand bankers of New York, or the governor, or the local land barons came

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Young Vincent’s best pal, Jules Thebaud.

calling, all the kids, Vincent and Al included, would be required to don the proper duds befitting the occasion. All the youngsters complied dutifully, but none of it really impressed them. Not that they didn’t know about money, station, and privilege, but to them, it was just so much so what. Jules was a barnyard kid at heart, and he had the perfect accomplice… Vincent

More often than not, either Jules would end up spending the night in the Anthony house on the grounds, eating from Annie’s Irish stew pot, or he and Vincent would belly up to the table in the grand kitchen of the mansion, stuffing their faces with the chef’s goodie du jour, after which they would be sent packing up to the children’s quarters on the third floor to frolic and boogie ’til they dropped.

Often, when Jules’s family entertained, the kids would be called upon to perform at these gatherings, playing, singing, reciting, or whatever. Vincent’s favorite thing was to lip sync or sing-along with recordings of Enrico Caruso, the famous Italian tenor, while acting out the corny opera roles. Sometimes Sabatino would accompany them, playing the fiddle, accordion, piano or any instrument that was called for. The kids were often dressed in costumes for their little vaudeville shows, a requirement they reluctantly went along with, not having a lot of choice in the matter. Oddly enough though, the one kid who didn’t mind this at all was Vincent. He happily dove into his performances, wore his costumes proudly, and was usually the hit of the party. No strange thing there. Anyone who later knew him as an adult could easily see that his love of singing and clowning for others had