Grazie Dio

By Ric Romano

This is the story of a child of Italian heritage, brought into this world from January 7, 1935, to 2020.

Feel the joy the pain, the tears, the fears through five significant emotional events and period in a life that was lived to the fullest, not always in the straightest line and sometimes without boundaries, without caring or fearing, but that is who I am.

The underlying philosophy in my heart and mind: “Life is for living and loving…everything else is BS.”

Love can be expressed in many ways and forms. From a simple smile of recognition or understanding, a handshake, a hug, a pat on the back…perhaps a kiss or warm embrace, or to total committed love. All are acts of love…

Have a love affair with everyone you meet. The world will love you, and God will smile.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781639036578

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Grazie Dio

Ric Romano

Copyright © 2021 by Ric Romano

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Ric’s Book Part 1

Ric’s Book Part 2

Ric’s Book Part 3

Ric’s Book Part 4

Ric’s Book Part 5

Ric’s Book Part 6

Introduction

What you read here is not intended to offend embarrass or open to finite investigation inspections etc. What I’m trying to say is, this is to the best of my knowledge (memory at eighty-five). Yes, I’ve embellished from here and there, who wouldn’t? Because I want it to be first—the history for my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and children yet to come. So I am doing the best that I can to keep it informative, at the same time entertaining and giving you this sense of what it was like to be a child of Italian heritage, brought into this world January the seventh 1935. (Elvis would have been one day older than me.)

Wow, sounds like ancient history, but it’s really not. Bear with me, I sometimes ramble, but that’s part of who I am. I’m going to start off with the earliest memories that I have. At times I am told it’s impossible to remember things at that age. Yet believe me and trust me, I remember a lot of it like it was yesterday. I feel the joy, the pain, the tears the fears; and when I looked at it in writing, it seemed worthwhile and amusing, so here goes:

Hang on, take a ride with me through a life that was lived to the fullest, not always in the straightest line and sometimes without boundaries, without caring or fearing, but that is who I am. At times, too soon, I forgot the lessons and repeated the same mistakes… You’ll see as you read on.

The underlying philosophy in my heart and mind: Life is for living and loving…everything else is bullshit. I don’t mean it in the negative sense, that it’s unimportant. We all desire more and better things in life. The realities of life are based on interactions and love we have for one another, not material possessions (BS). That is my true belief. LLLEEBS.

Love can be expressed in many ways and forms. From a simple smile of recognition or understanding, a handshake, a hug, pat on the back… Perhaps a kiss or warm embrace or total committed love. All are acts of love… Have a love affair with everyone you meet. The world will Love You, and God will Smile.

This is the start of the book that originally was called Letters to Gavin after one of my grandsons. Gavin liked to hear stories about how it was when I was his age. When I had the chance to see him, I would tell him many stories about growing up.

When I was away on the road, working, when I could, I would sit down with Stubby Pencil and handwrite, print, a story that came to mind. There were times when I could write many tales, and other times I just never got around to it. The pages and pages of stories grew. Somehow I never got around to mailing them. On one of my visits to Texas, I was talking with my daughter Yvonne, Evie, about these notes, and she said, Dad, you should write a book.

At that time, I was still working and traveling a lot. I was doing contract work as an electrical designer in different companies across the USA. I believe at that time I was working for Boeing up in Seattle, Washington. As the years drifted by, I had quite a collection of notes and letters that I had written. I really didn’t get serious about writing this book until about five years after Evie passed away.

Now I am dedicated to writing this book. For Yvonne, my Doll Girl, and for my mom. Mom always wanted to write a book about moving to the farm in Upstate New York. Kind of a Ma Kettle tale, which it truly was. From city slicker to moving to an old country farm, outhouse and farming with horses, hand pitcher pump in the house, woodstoves…but always Mom’s special cooking.

Evie—real name Yvonne, my second daughter—was a schoolteacher. When she was a little girl, I referred to her as my Doll Girl. She indeed was a sweetheart as all four of them were. We lost Yvonne to cancer at a very young age, fifty-one. Rest in peace, my "doll girl." Now I sit to write this book and gather up all the notes that I had been carrying around for years and years. I’m trying to get it into some sort of order the best I can. A lot of this is from those notes. Most is still in my heart and head wanting to come out. God already knows my story, and I want to share it with all of you!

Actually, this is a story of the misadventures of Richard, Dick, Nick, Ric, Sarge, Popeye Romano. Having a little problem getting used to the voice-to-text program, it’s calling me Brick Romano for some reason. Hello, program, this is Ric Romano, you got dat? New sentence.

Have been accused of being dumber than a rock, but never being called denser than a brick…oh well.

Ric’s Book Part 1

1935–1948. Brought into the world at the end of the Great Depression. Another little Italian boy. From childhood to moving day, the early years, World War II, and moving to the farm.

How We Started in Bridgeport

When my dad and family moved out of New York City to Bridgeport, Connecticut, each found the house and lot they could afford, and we lived here until 1948. I was born in an upstairs apartment house not far from Old Town Road. This was before Dad bought the house. There were actually three lots with our property. Our house faced on Old Town Road. Then the lot behind ours and on the next level, hilly there, had a driveway facing Lane Avenue. An unpaved dirt road that ended in the woods. The lot had a cellar home on it where Grandpa Romano lived and a huge garden along the driveway in the front of it. Next was a smaller lot that also faced Lane Avenue. After World War, II my Uncle Andy married and built a house on this lot.

Our House

This is from some old notes I had. The earliest things I recall was the house at Eighty-Six Old Town Road, Trumbull, Connecticut; that was our address. Trumbull is located on the line with Bridgeport, Connecticut. One side of the road in Bridgeport, and the other side is Trumbull. The house, two-story, at first had cedar shingles and a front-and-back porch. The back porch was the entry into the kitchen, and we mostly used that. In the summer, my dad put up huge wood-framed screens that were stored in the cellar along with the heavy, solid wood storm shutters for winter. The shutters made the back porch always seem darker in the winter. With the board panels in midwinter, with the sun setting early and going down, passing through the porch, it was darker than it should be. Also, the wind would blow frequently, and snow and hail beat against the wood shutters, a frightening place for a little boy to pass through. At times it felt like I was walking through a haunted house; to hold back fear, I would sing. I got the idea from some movie. I can’t recall which one or name of the movie; however, there was a scene that the man told the little boy to whistle when he was frightened. Well, I never could learn to whistle, although my dad would call us boys from anywhere in the neighborhood by whistling loud, so I would just sing…that was all I could do.

When the family time came, my family enjoyed music, and we always sang and always had plenty of music around. I loved to sing and would always join in when someone started singing. I thought I was a great singer, loved hearing old Caruso records, and he hit some pretty awesome high notes. I tried to be like him and with my little voice would sometimes get some awful smiles when my voice squeaked. That never bothered me, and I just knew that someday I would be a great singer. More about that later.

We also had music from the player piano at Grandpa La Russo’s house, an old upright piano. They played like any piano, but this one had pedals, and if you open the front doors of the panel at the top, there was a place to put music sheets or music rolls in there. Then there were pedals in a door at the bottom of the piano. These rolls had little holes which went across a bar—now, I’m not sure how it works, saw some of them in antique shops. As you pump the foot pedals, the keys would move like someone was actually playing the piano by striking the strings in the piano. As the music roll passed across the soundbar, the words were printed on the music. I can remember many of the old songs, mostly from after World War I, like KKka Katie, a song that the soldiers sang about when the moon sets over the horizon—I’ll be knockin’ at the kakakitchen door—and Smile Smile Smile and of course I’ll Be Home for Christmas.

Then we also had an old hand-crank Victrola or record player. These are the ones at our house. My dad loved classic music—Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and all. Dad was a fan of the conductor Arturo Toscanini. When Dad wasn’t playing records, he had a big squeaky RCA radio; he would get his music on and blast it louder than necessary. My mom would yell at him to lower the volume, but he kept it up. Dad would close off the doors, and I used to peek through the door keyhole and see my dad conducting the orchestra, like Toscanini. Waving his arms with a fly swatter in his hand seemed funny to me. I would have been in deep trouble if I got caught peeking through the keyhole.

When My Brother Was Born

I recall the day my brother Michael, Tony, was born I was only three, and most people say this is not true, but I can remember it like it was yesterday. We are three years apart, so I had to be three years old. At the time, the house was undergoing some remodeling; the stairs to the upper floor were being moved to the other end of the house so we could fully use upstairs and put in more bedrooms. The new stairs were in, but not stained, varnished, or painted. I remember clearly they were bare wood, just the wood construction. I can remember everyone’s aunts and uncles telling me to stay downstairs. My mother gave birth with a midwife, and I could hear her screaming up in the bedroom, and I wanted to go see what was happening. Every time I tried to climb up the stairs, my Aunt Lillie would pick me up and bring me back into the living room. As the crying and yelling of childbirth got loud, everyone ran upstairs, so I decided to start up by myself. There was a strong odor throughout the house; I really don’t know from what it was, but to this day, if I smell creosote or ammonia, I get a flashback to being on the stairs and Aunt Lillie carrying me back into the living room. Then I heard someone cry out, It’s a boy, it’s a boy, Rae (my mother’s name). They called her Rae; her real name is Raffaella. It’s a boy, Rae! Soon the house was quieter, and everyone was coming back downstairs; much celebration started. At first drinks, wine, and of course, music—this seemed like a happy time, a time to celebrate. And Italians surely know how to do that.

I spent many, if not most, weekends, or when there were no school days, at Grandma and Grandpa La Russo’s house. Their house was within walking distance, but still a long hike for a boy. I mostly went with Mom to visit during the day, but sometimes I got to go myself when I got a little older and bigger. And if time came short, on the way home, and starting to get dark as the sun was going down, I would keep on walking. Walk a little faster and keep on singing all the way. Many of the neighbors used to hear me and know I was passing by. Some got a kick out of hearing me. Others just thought, It’s that little Italian kid from Whiskey Hill. Grandpa’s house was in Bridgeport, the other side of Old Town Road, not Whiskey Hill to them. Like we were on the wrong side of the tracks, poor immigrant families.

The dream to be a singer was sidetracked for a time, about thirty years. One day at Grandpa La Russo’s house, I was weeding in the garden, and Grandpa and his friends were enjoying the wine and snacks. Grandpa would call out to me and say, Ricardo, go to the cellar and bring the wine, and I would get the pitcher from the table go down to the cellar and fill the pitcher up. Grandpa would tell me which barrel to fill from, depending on the guests, I guessed. Also, Grandpa would tell me to sing while I was doing this. All in Italian. This was my moment of fame—I thought my singing was getting better—which I did with gusto! I was getting my attention I craved. As I went to the cellar and down the stairs, I would sing louder so they could hear me. One day I was weeding in the garden, unbeknownst to Grandpa. And I could hear what the men were talking about, all in Italian. One of the men asked my grandpa why when he sent me to bring the wine, he always asked me to sing. My grandpa’s reply made me cry! He told them that if I was singing, I was not drinking. After I heard this, for many, many years, I could no longer sing. Every time I tried, my voice would freeze up and squeak. I could not sing a note. I don’t believe Grandpa meant to hurt me; it’s just the way it was back then. (Grazie Dio.)

Spring Water and the Mom and Son

I remember, down the hill past the little dirt road, Lane Avenue, there started an open field on the left, and it had a freshwater spring with a pipe driven into the ground that had a little built-up rock pool. People from the area used to love to come here and collect water from the pipe. They thought it had natural minerals that were very good for your health and made you feel strong. I don’t know about that, but I do remember there was one family; that was their only source of water supply. It really wasn’t a family—just a mother, old lady, I believe she was from Russia. They hardly spoke English. The young son—big, tall, strong man—I never heard him say but one or two words or just smiling and grunting as he would fetch water from the spring in two big five-gallon buckets, one in each hand. Every day he would walk down to the spring and bring back two buckets of water. He would walk back up the hill past our house. Sometimes we tried to just say hello or smile, and he would never stop, just walk by or sometimes say hello and walk on up the hill to where he and his mom had a garage that was converted into a house.

House across the Street

Across the street from our house was a very beautiful brick house on kind of a little slope or hill with a driveway. There were some huge Oak trees in a row, I don’t recall—three or four tall, big Oak Trees—and we used to admire the colors in the fall…beautiful, beautiful… No artist could ever match God! There were twin sons there, older than me, and they were both drafted into the Army when the war started.

I also remember, for some reason, this stuck out in my mind: the awful hurricane that hit Connecticut. It must have been 1938. I’ll have to look it up and confirm the year, but it was awesome, a lot of damage. Okay, I was three when the storm came, but I do remember. Everybody was huddled in their house. Our sunroom that was by the front porch had big windows to look out on the road and where Mama planted flowers there so the sun could bring them to life and look beautiful. Mom had a Christmas cactus plant that she had for many years. Even brought the plant to the farm. We were watching the rain and the wind from the sunroom window. The rain began to hit the windows so hard my mom told us to come into the living room and get out of the sunroom. About that time, the wind picked up and started knocking the big trees over into the road. It seemed like you were watching a science fiction movie to see these great big trees tumble over. When the first one fell over, my mom grabbed us, boys, took us into the kitchen, and told us to get under the table; in later years, this was somewhat like an air raid warden. Hello.

Stone Wall to Picnic Grounds

Past the house across the street was an empty lot then woods with a butternut tree and a hickory nut tree. At the edge of the woods was a stonewall that came up and then turned down and ran along the road, very typical in Connecticut—many of ’em still there today. Us boys liked to walk on top of the stonewall down to the picnic grounds. This was also a public facility or park where people could rent the park and the attached kitchenlike pavilion building to hold picnics, parties, wedding parties, and of course, seasonal ethnic parties. It seems like the whole summer weekends were taken up with a soccer game or baseball game in the pavilion park area and then followed with a picnic, and of course, there were band concerts and music. I remember in later years, one of our favorite things to do was for us kids to go up to Heinie’s Store at the top of the hill. He had a big crock filled with kosher dill pickles, and you could buy one of those pickles for five cents; to us boys, that was a lot of money. We would chip in our pennies and buy at least one pickle; sometimes, depending on the number of boys, we could buy two. Then we would take out our jackknives, which all boys carried at that time. It seemed to be a status symbol and necessary for every boy to have a knife. We would cut the pickles so that each boy had a slice of pickle, then we would go down to the pavilion where the band was playing, and we would slowly work our way to the very front row, climbing on our hands and knees to sit on the grass in front of the people sitting there. Then we would start eating our pickles in front of the tuba and horn players. I know this was kind of cruel in a way, but it sure was funny to watch some of those horn players, looking at us kids eating a dill pickle and trying to play a horn. Finally, one of the grown-up men would come grab us by that scarf of the neck or by the hair, and not too friendly, and escort us out! As I said, I like recognition and always needed attention, but sometimes that attention came at a price. Maybe not so bright, but we thought it was funny. Gee, some people just don’t have a sense of humor!

Many times, we would hang out around the picnic grounds because it was on the way to my grandpa’s house. I would tell my mom I’m going to Grandpa’s but would detour to the picnic ground just to watch the soccer game or ball game, listen to the music, or in general just kind of see what was going on, what was happening. Always curious as to what was around the next turn, hill, mountain, or ocean. Maybe because I was an Italian explorer like Christopher Columbus? Ya think! As a very impressionable kid, when I listened to radio shows or got to watch a movie, like many kids, I was there, sometimes to the extreme. And that trait has not left me. On my many travels, here and the world, I still have that burning need to know, see, hear, taste, feel, touch what wonders God has planted there.

Our Yard

We had a long driveway off the road but no garage. There was a thriving big Concord grapevine running down the side of the driveway. It made great jelly, and my mom would have us pick the young, tender first leaves to stuff. At the back of our yard, just before the little hill down to Grandpa’s lot, was a garden space. There were also cherry trees and a pear tree and big, beautiful lilac bushes. At the end of the driveway was the well. You can see in the picture (see pictures pages) (me in my new Easter suit Grandpa La Russo made for me). We did not have city water at first, only the well, but we had a pump to the house. To most kids living in a city and never having a yard, this was the best ever. We could run around and play cowboys and Indians and war, shooting behind trees. I always loved to climb trees, especially in the summer when the cherries were ripe. I could climb to the tallest and skinniest limbs because I was so skinny and light. There was also a flower garden with a birdbath in the center. I remember after we moved there; I must have been about eight years old. We were playing with a ball, and I was trying to run away with the ball. My older brother Donald stuck his foot out and tripped me. I landed facedown into the birdbath; my upper lip was split and bleeding, and I was crying. I was taken to a doctor, but they did not stitch it up, and to this day, I have that scar in the middle of my upper lip, and that’s why I wear a mustache. Our yard seemed like a magical place when the cherry and pear trees were in blossom, the wonderful smells and especially on a fresh cut lawn under the trees. Dad had a reel-type lawn mower; powered mowers were not around back then. There were many fond memories of the yard, with the place to run and trees to climb and all private, no city-kid problems—those indeed were the days.

Outdoor Fireplace in the Backyard

In our backyard, near the cherry trees, my dad had built kind of a fireplace/fire pit; he had some heavy metal grillwork that he laid across it and a piece of metal if he was going to cook something that might fall through the grill. Most of the time, he only built the fire in about one-third of the pit or grill. It was built out of bricks, a few fire bricks on the very inside and then mostly stone, kinda rude and crude, but it worked. I can remember many great meals cooked on that fire pit. And it didn’t really matter what we were cooking, whether it was beef, pork, fish, or lamb. Like most people, I believe, there is nothing that gives food a better flavor than cooking it over an open fire. We also had apple, pear, and cherry trees in the yard. Anytime a limb or branch had to be pruned or cut off, my dad would save every, every little piece of wood for the fire. Now I realize why. I remember, usually in late summer, early fall, when we have a gathering; the family from New York City and/or New Jersey and Massachusetts comes to the house. Dad and Grandpa would roast either a small pig or a lamb on the grill; that’s when he would build a fire the whole length of the pit, and he had some steel pipes that they would pound in the ground. The pipes had holes in them, and he put a long pipe across and skewered the meat, whatever it was gonna be. Then they slowly turned it and turned it until the meat was roasted and tender. Delicious! Sometimes these cooking sessions would last the whole night through, always on a weekend, so us kids got to stay up a little later. We sat around the fire and watched and listened to the men as they told each other stories and had their drinks. Every once in a while, we heard a couple of words we weren’t supposed to hear, then they’d realize what they have done, told us kids to go on up and go to bed.

The kids were the three of us Donald, Michael, and me; usually Uncle Ed’s daughter and Uncle Johnny’s two girls—Arlene and Lorraine; and cousins from Massachusetts—Worcester, George, and Nina, a most beautiful Italian lady. They had two boys and one little girl, Morris and Anthony and Maria. Uncle Ed and Aunt Lillie at that time just had one boy and one girl, Muzzy and Lady. Muzzy’s real name is Anthony, but when he was a little baby, cute little guy, like all little baby boys are, he did seem to look like Mussolini, and Mussolini was a very bad dictator. He took over Italy and allied with Germany during World War II, and that’s how the nickname hung on, even to this day. I can remember a lot of the other people that came. Uncle Mike had a friend named Mario and his wife, Rose. I’m sure he was connected; he always drove a great big black Cadillac or Packard, class cars back then and seemed to be the preference of the mob. On some gatherings, there were other cousins and friends from New York City.

Grandpa Romano’s House

Back then, houses were built usually starting with the dugout cellar or basement, then they would put up the stonewall with a cement smooth finish and a concrete floor; that was the basement. Then on top of this was built the first floor of the home, and until then, it had a flat roof on top of it. Here is where the people lived until they could afford to build a second story. That is why most of the homes built this way just kept the kitchen in the cellar. This kitchen was often the meeting place for close friends. Then keep building a floor at a time and finally a roof, and the home was finished. In those days, getting a home loan was a whole different story than today. You didn’t get a loan to build the whole house; you had to buy it piece by piece and put it up, generally yourself. Sometimes you could afford to hire a real carpenter, but being from an Italian immigrant family, we did it ourselves, the best we could. Sometimes the craftsmanship was less than perfect, especially if they were a concrete-and-stone guy, and sometimes that work was done excellent by cabinetmakers who learned a trade in the old country. And there were a few rich people’s houses. We really didn’t fit into that group. Grandpa Romano’s house was just the cellar finished off and a roof over it. They had two bedrooms, a kitchen and eating/cooking area. There were only two windows in the kitchen and one small cellar window in one of the bedrooms; that was Grandma and Grandpa’s room. My Uncle Andy, Dad’s brother, slept in the other room. It didn’t have any windows. Uncle Andy, much younger than my dad, was working in Bridgeport at the foundry. And when World War II started, he joined the Navy; that’s a story for later on.

Grandpa Romano’s Baseball Bat-Size Zucchini

Grandpa Romano had two great talents: he was a tremendous baker and baked wonderful homemade Italian bread for the whole family, and he was also an expert when it came to the garden. Grandpa grew giant squash. I don’t know what kind of squash it was, but it was light green in color