Alec

By J. Demetrio Nicolo

ALEC is the story of a man as seen through the eyes of his only son. Alec emigrated with his mother from Italy to the United States when he was a teenager. When he arrived, his father returned to Italy leaving him to fend for himself and take care of his mother. He didnt speak the language, had a very limited education and no financial resources. Despite these drawbacks, he toiled to make a better life for himself, his mother, wife and three children. Along the way he adopted many new American customs, but he never abandoned his culture nor did he forget those fond memories of his homeland. He never forgot where he came from.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524668778

J. Demetrio Nicolo

J. Demetrio Nicolo continued his excursion into the world of fictional writing with his third novel, Posers, following his previous endeavors, The Silent Treatment published in 2004 and The Ultimate Escape published in 2020. During the course of his literary journey. he also ventured into a more personal endeavor writing a book titled Alec that has a biographical theme involving his childhood interaction with his father. Posers, a novel about people who posed as other people, represents a continuation of his writing style leaving readers with the proposition of using their imagination to formulate their own conclusions to unanswered scenarios.

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© 2017 J. Demetrio Nicolo. 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 01/25/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-6880-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-6877-8 (e)

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

Preface

The Voyage

The Early Years

Work, Work, Work

Education

Respect

Frugality

Mangia

Cures, Myths, Superstitions and Traditions

Familia

Heritage

Do As I Say

The Women

The End

PREFACE

A s I was walking down the avenue in a place called the Italian Market, I couldn’t help but reflect back to my childhood when I used to occasionally accompany my father to this place where he purchased fruits, vegetables and sundry list of other necessities for my family. Back in those days, I absolutely despised having to make the long trip to the market. The trip itself was arduous in that we would have to board two different streetcars and travel over an hour and a half to reach our destination. Normally the trek would only take about forty five minutes but unbeknown to my father or me, I had a problem with motion sickness. So after about fifteen minutes on the streetcar, I would become ill and we would have to get off before I spewed the contents in my stomach all over the streetcar. After a few moments on solid ground, I would regain my composure and off we would go again on the next streetcar to arrive. Again after fifteen minutes I would become ill and the tortuous process would be repeated. Fortunately, the streetcar operators would be sympathetic to the situation and provided a free pass to be used for the next ride. Of course, this process would be repeated on the return trip home. Once we arrived at the market, my father would instruct me to remain at one of the stores where he was friendly with the proprietor. He would then go off to shop, returning occasionally with bags of fruits and vegetables, leaving them on the floor next to where I was sitting. It was my job to keep an eye on the purchases.

The market was a very unique place comprised of large carts lining the avenue for a number of blocks. The carts were manned by hucksters who continuously shouted out descriptions of their fruit and vegetable products. Intertwined along the avenue at each intersection and along the way were stores specializing in a host of different products ranging from spices, cheeses, pastas and olives to live crabs, eels and chickens. Now here I was, some thirty years later, following the exact same footsteps that my father took when he shopped at the market. Back in those days, the incentive was to make that long trek to the market to take advantage of food prices that were much lower than those sold in our neighborhood stores. This was certainly not my motivation but here I was anyway, doing what my father did and shopping at a place that I absolutely hated when I accompanied him as a youngster. I struggled with this thought, wondering what other idiosyncrasies I inherited from my father.

The following is a narration of recollections of my life with my father, who was born with the name Alessandro but affectionately and simply known to his friends and family as Alec

THE VOYAGE

A s I recall, my father emigrated via ship from Italy to America when he was about seventeen years old. He came here with his mother as his father had preceded them some time before. My father never spoke much about that ordeal but having visited Ellis Island and seen the many photos taken during that period of time I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to endure that journey with thousands of other immigrants loaded on a large ship for days on end. The only memories I have about discussions we had pertained to his vision of America and some fond memories he had about his homeland. He recounted how America was described back before he set sail. He used the expression that there was gold in the streets. When he arrived he and my grandmother followed the precedent already set for people arriving by ship. I can recall viewing film of immigrants disembarking at the Philadelphia piers, looking for friends and family. In fact there was a film I viewed where a famous proprietor in South Philadelphia would venture down to the piers to witness the meeting of family and friends. The story goes that he would wait until all passengers had disembarked and made sure that no one was left behind. If there were people stranded on the piers with no apparent family or friends greeting them, he would take them into his house and care for them until their family could be located.

In my father’s case, he and my grandmother were apparently taken care of since he never discussed any circumstances about his trip to America or his settlement in the new land. I do remember that there was a system set up to take care of family and friends arriving in America. One of my older cousins owned a farm and this is where new arrivals would be housed until they could fend for themselves. The strange thing about this missing part of my father’s narrations about his past is that his father, my grandfather, had preceded my father and grandmother’s arrival. As best as I can determine is that once my father and grandmother arrived, my grandfather went back to Italy. Maybe this is why my father didn’t discuss this part of his life with me.

All of the discussions I had with my father that addressed his past were in the form of a learning experience where he attempted to impart knowledge and wisdom about life in general. He would often tell me how wonderful it was growing up in the place where he was born. He would tell me about the beauty of the country and how bountiful it was with fruit and vegetables growing on the farmland where he was raised. This theme would be repeated several times over the years giving me the impression that there may have been some regret on his coming to America. This thought, however, was dispelled many years later when my father returned to visit his homeland. When he was in his forty’s he made his first trip back home, He set aside several days for this visit. I can remember taking him to Kennedy Airport on Long Island and picking him up upon his return. On the way home from the airport I asked him how he liked his visit. He looked down and sort of reluctantly said Jim, you only remember the good parts of life. He then related how his hometown was still impoverished and he wanted to return after only one day. But out of respect for his aunts, uncles and cousins he stuck it out and stayed the full time. My father never forgot his family back in Italy. He would continually send clothes and other goods to them over the years. In fact when he made his first visit back, he left everything but the clothes he was wearing the day of his return. He would travel back to his homeland several times after that but his stays would be for only a day or two. One of the regrets I have in life is that I never accompanied him on these visits even though he would plead with me to join him.

I don’t have a recollection of any discussions I had with my father regarding his life on my cousin’s farm. I know that there were some very stringent rules that he and my grandmother had to follow while in residence on the farm. Apparently my cousin ruled with an iron fist as there were a few stories related to me over the years. One such story involved my grandmother and a pet German Sheppard she owned. The story goes that the German Sheppard did not like my cousin who owned the farm and would growl at him when he came near him. My cousin voiced his displeasure with the dog’s disposition and warned my grandmother that if the dog didn’t behave he would do him in, which as the story goes, he did with his bare hands.

One recollection I do have is the family get-togethers that were held every Sunday on the farm. As a youngster I can remember that these were good times with good eats and good interaction. However, the one thing that I found very distasteful was the use of the outhouse. I can still remember the god awful smell and the encounter with the swarm of flies that occupied the interior of the small building located in a field some distance away from the main living quarters and barn. The day was filled with stories of the past, worldly advice and the witnessing of a game played by the men. The game resembled bowling with a sawed off baseball bat placed in the center of a group of sawed off bats some distance from what was best described as a starting line. Placed on top of the sawed off bat were coins that I think were added after each attempt to knock over the center bat.

I’m sure there are many other memories I should have of this eventful gathering of relatives