Rand Unwrapped by Frank Catalano

uncle Marty’s house. My uncle Marty was my mom’s oldest brother. My parents owned a produce business that required them to work long hours on the weekends. They didn’t have anyone to watch me. So, they shipped me off to aunt Virginia and uncle Marty’s house in Queens, New York until my dad was able to pick me up on Sunday mornings and take me up on Sunday mornings and take me back home. My uncle’s house was a huge two-story colonial located in a charming area of Queens called Cambria Heights. The house was an elegant older home probably built in the nineteen thirties and held it’s own on the beautiful tree lined street where they lived. My aunt Virginia, a tall thin woman with curly hair spent a good deal of her time in the kitchen. She was a sweet soul who took great care of me. One thing I remember most about here is that she made the best vanilla malted milk shakes ona huge blender in the kitchen. She taught me to be kind and giving. There were other people that lived there as well including my aunt Virginia’s brother (Uncle Anthony), her father (Michael), her aunt (Aunt Lucy), my uncle Marty and my two cousins (Johnny and Juliana) along with a large Collie named Rinty (short for Rin Tin Tin). The household had lots of people energy like an Italian version of a Chekov play. It was a kind and loving place and I am glad that I was part of it. Aunt Lucy used to bake me coconut cakes and fresh apple pies. My cousin, Johnny (who was about seven years older than I was) introduced me to Doo Wop music and Elvis Presley on his 45 rpm Victrola. I still think of him today whenever I hear Elvis Presley sing “Love Me Tender.” My Aunt Virginia’s brother, who I called Uncle Anthony, was a tall lanky sort of guy who always wore his paints up high on his waist, sported a white shirt and tie all the time. As I think of him now, he looked a lot like the actor Christopher Walken. Uncle Anthony was a devoted New York Yankees fan who watched baseball games on a small black and white television up in his bedroom on the second floor of the house. Sometimes, I’d sit with him there in front of the television and watch the games. As the game progressed, he would impart little bits of baseball philosophy to me. “ Ya got all of life down there on that field. The game teaches to be part of a team something bigger than you are. It teaches you to use your head in tight situations, how to be a winner and most important of all, how to lose with dignity.” He tried to teach me all he could about baseball game and get me interested in actually playing the sport. But, although I liked baseball it never really stuck to me. I was really never one of those sports type kids. I guess I was destined to be a theatre major although I didn’t know it when I was five. But Uncle Anthony’s baseball analogies taught me that it was important to be part of a team. That “no man is an island” (I actually think John Donne said that) but that value that Uncle Anthony imparted stuck with me the rest of my life.
    My aunt Virginia’s father Michael (I called him Pop) an older man from Italy. He spoke mostly Italian, which mean t that I re ally couldn’t have a long conversation with him. But I did manage to have a great time with him sitting on the side porch of the house. He would sit out there in a chair in a long knit cardigan sweater he wore neatly over a plaid shirt that was buttoned to the top. Pop sometimes smoked a pipe or short little Italian ci gars ca lled stogies. I can still remember the stogies now because they had a really distinct smell when they were lit. Sort or a cross between dirty socks and Limburger cheese. Most days, Rinty (the collie), Pop and I sat out there on the porch steps for hours and watched the world go by. We had long conversations about life even though we didn’t always understand each other. Pop mostly spoke Italian and well, Rinty was a dog and I