I Only Cry When a Lion Bites Me: A Saga of Life and Death and Everything in Between

By Nicco Montefeltro

This book is the true story of a life spanning two centuries, from Prohibition to the Internet, from boyhood to great-grandfather, from the Great Depression to a man on the moon, from victory in war to a tenuous peaceall relived on these pages to induce both tears and laughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524648497

Nicco Montefeltro

Nicco Montefeltro wrote for his high school and college newspapers/papers. He was a literary agent for thirty years while representing some of Hollywood’s most esteemed writers, several of them Academy Award winners. Upon retirement, he took up the pen again and has written for numerous publications including Reader’s Digest, The Times of London, and Los Angeles magazine. He has had two plays produced. I Only Cry When a Lion Bites Me is his third book. He has been for more than thirty years (and still is) the featured columnist for his hometown newspaper, The Ojai Valley News.

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© 2016 Nicco Montefeltro. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/03/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4850-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4849-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016918423

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Life, Liberty & Defense Of One’s Country

Boys Will Be Boys

Infinity In A Moment

Not Hemorrhoids, But A Pain In The Butt Returns

The Girl That I Marry

From A Tumble Comes Wisdom

The Castle Crumbles

Two Hundred Dollars For Passing Go

A Million Dollar Lesson At The 5 & Dime

The Best Laid Plans Of Mice & Men

Behold! A Miracle In Waiting

The Barber Shop Choir & Noise Band

Touched By God

Wet Sheets In The Wind

His Eminence

The Return Of Harry Dinger

Mr. Chips, Tottie, Sweetness, & Twinkles

Le Grande Anomaly

Saint Joseph’s Literary Society

Frances

A Million Dollar Memory For Two Bucks

For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow

Not All Grandmothers Are Grand

A Lesson To Be Learned

Berkeley Square

Bob Dylan Knows

Confessions Of An Addict

A Daughter For All Seasons

A Lifetime In A Single Day

And Maybe A Little Wine

A Time For Tears & Farewell My Love

And I Talk To You, Dear

Epilogue

To Andrea

I have you fast in my fortress

And will not let you depart

But put you down into the dungeon

In the round tower of my heart.

And there I will keep you forever

Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin

And molder in dust away.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

T his introduction might never have materialized were it not for my sainted grandmother who I presume is now rearranging the furniture, the menus and even the habits of those who have been fortunate enough to get to heaven. And it wouldn’t surprise me if she was engaged in an arm wrestling match with The Almighty to determine who should be running the place. Let me explain.

I started this opus (or whatever one chooses to call it) as an exercise or memoir to leave for my family— children, grandchildren and great grandchildren— so they might know there was a time when somewhere in this favored land the sun was shining bright, the band was playing somewhere and somewhere hearts were light. But as it progressed, my daughter to whom I emailed every episode to be backed up on her computer said Dad, this could be a fine book. I initially rejected the notion by announcing, This is all so personal, I want to keep it in the family. And her response was, It’s the personal that makes it good.

Really?

I think so.

So what began as a diary morphed into a book, and there was no introduction in the diary. Consequently, I’m reminded of my grandmother, the most outspoken member of the family and where among her bon mots, one of my favorites (often repeated) was Nicco, why do you always do everything ass-backward? And I can just hear her saying Why would you finish the book and then write its introduction? That is ass-backward.

And through the many years of my life’s meandering, in grandmother’s eyes it was often as ass-backward. As I matured I became better matched with grandma and began to carry my own weight. I forgot the issue but I remember the skirmish. Grandma started with the by then proverbial Nicco, why do you do everything ass-backward?

Grams, I replied, because you are you and I am someone else. Every person marches to the drummer he or she hears.

You hear drums, Nicco?

No, Grams. That’s just an expression.

Where do you come up with such expressions?

Some man said it.

Does this man have a name?

Yes. He did. Henry David Thoreau.

And this Mr. Thoreau, is he still with us?

No, Grams. He died a long time ago.

So Nicco, tell me, why do you listen to a dead man?

He wasn’t dead when he said it.

O.K. So he said it when he was alive?

Actually Grams, he didn’t say it. He wrote it.

He couldn’t talk?

That’s just an expression, Grams. That’s all it is.

It doesn’t make sense, Nicco. Not every man has a drum. This is not fair.

I loved my grandmother. She was wonderful. But I knew then at 20 years old, she would always outmatch me. I hope, if anyone reads this book aside from my kids, grandkids, and great grandkids that I wrote this introduction after the book was finished in complete disregard of Grandmother’s ass-backward theory. So, in gratitude for the memory of my Grandmother, I must admit it is conventional to begin everything at the beginning and not write an introduction after everything else has been finished. And to use Grandma’s own words, So, sue me.

I also think there may be a bit of arrogance in anybody who writes an autobiography. Maybe it’s because people of great accomplishments and/or fame are usually such writers. But this opus is written neither out of pride nor arrogance, but out of habit. I love to write and I was on the papers of my grammar school and high school, and when in college I was a columnist for the Daily Northwestern. For a livelihood (and a fun career) I was a literary agent. When I retired I had the honor of being the featured columnist for my hometown paper, the Ojai Valley News, and now 37 years later, I am still there. Somewhere between 30 and 50 I concluded everything is ephemeral, even people; especially people who believe that notion has best been expressed by King Arthur in Lerner & Lowe’s Camelot, when the king bestows a knighthood on a young boy just before a battle and one of the king’s men asks, Who was that, Arthur? And the king replies with the incomparable line: One of what we all are. Less than a drop in the great blue motion of the sunlit sea. But it seems some of those drops sparkle.

In the infinite scheme of things that says it all for me. I once long ago repeated that line to a therapist in whom I had great faith and she replied Well, you’re a sparkler, and it made me feel good. Sometimes in life we need to hear things like that as they soften the punches which come unexpectedly. Lives consist of both hugs and punches and the fortunate lives are loaded with hugs. Still, even in the best lived lives where hugs are predominant, no person can dodge every punch headed his or her way. So I leave this account of some of my hugs and punches for my children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren and anyone else who may happen on this book with the hope and wish in their lives that the hugs are multitudinous and the punches minimal.

The term All men are created equal is ingrained in America’s DNA. And though it is high sounding and noble, is it true? The answer depends on how we interpret it, but there are caveats. Some people say it means in the eyes of God we are all equal and that is hard to rebut because to believers it seems sensible. Other people say in the eyes of the law we are all equal, a noble concept but not necessarily true in practice. Or, in the words of Ira Gershwin and DuBose Heyward, It Ain’t Necessarily So.

It’s difficult if not impossible to find universal equality in any aspect of human life simply because humans are neither gumballs, frankfurters, fabrics, or anything else made by a machine and every one of us, for better or worse, is unique. Even the time each of us is allotted on this planet is not equal. For some it may be only a few minutes; others might reach a century and even beyond. The concept of equality while philosophically sound in many areas doesn’t seem applicable when dealing with human beings in all their endeavors. How can we, even devoid of all our prejudices, ratify Beethoven is equal, (or better or less) than Mozart? Or Michelangelo to Rembrandt? Though fans of all of these talented guys may avidly proclaim one is better than the other, how can they possibly be equal? By what measurement?

Let us put equality aside because it is merely a measure of comparison and instead deal with something more tangible and considerably less complex. How about memories? We all have them even if some of their acuity has faded with the passing years. Still, there are some moments in our lives which have retained their initial power and have been seared on the hard disc of our minds as permanently as a cattle branding and they will for the remainder of our days provoke a smile, a tear or even a chill as we recall them. They were, if not exactly life changing, important and powerful and for the most part we hang on to them.

Often when speaking with friends and contemporaries (all of us up there in years) we recognize many of our exchanges are reminiscent of the popular folk ballad, Where Have All The Flowers Gone? and particularly the refrain Long time passing, which indicates a yearning for the good old days. While most of these recollections are happy or wistful some bring back pain and I suppose for we lucky ones that is the reason our storeroom holds more happy memories than sad ones. Many psychologists maintain we have a tendency to blot out unpleasantness. Perhaps we do.

As years accumulated I began to make assessments. In some respects that doesn’t surprise me as I suspect it is a natural process as action diminishes and thinking and introspection emerge. I find it exceptionally interesting to speak with friends and colleagues as to what were their most vivid memories and especially ones which might have had a profound effect on their lives be they happy, frightening, quaint or merely just interesting. Initially, most of the people were somewhat reluctant to provide an answer as they were rather shy to speak about personal matters without any advanced notice. Some of them warmed to the idea as I gently suggested it would make for an interesting and revealing conversation. That was especially the case when there were three or more of us in a gathering. Never the less a number of people brushed me off politely by affirming there were no moments in their lives noteworthy enough to describe or reveal. My reaction to such an attitude was either their sense of sang froid was too deeply ingrained, they were unaware of what was occurring, or they thought it was none of my business.

I would imagine every life is a mixture of gratification, contentment, even euphoria along with an assortment of downers from just the blues or blahs to unmanageable rage. And yet I am aware some lives are snuffed out in moments after birth or even in later stages where the victims were too young and unaware to know what was transpiring. I’m also convinced some areas of this earthly existence are so harsh that when they occur one wonders if the sun will ever shine again as upbeat moments are unimaginable. As I have entered the twilight of my years I have decided to inventory some of my own unforgettable moments. While there is neither time or space or even need to record them all, I have come to the realization in just thinking about them. I have lived what some would call a charmed life, and were I astute enough to calibrate a ratio of happy/sad I would guess it would come out 80% upbeat, 20% down. I consider that pretty good. And I am not only aware of my blessings but very grateful for them. That declaration returns me to 50 years ago when a colleague with a serious drinking problem in the firm where we jointly worked confided, "I drink so I might feel like you during your