Out of my comfort zone

       

              UNCLE FRANCIS AND ME!

  When I think of the Mafia, I think of Uncle Frank, when I think of Clark Gable, I think of Uncle Frank, when I think of cigars and heavy gold rings on one's little finger, I think of  Uncle Frank. When I smell cloying gladiolas and Old Spice, I smell Uncle Frank. To me, when I think about him, his presence was extraordinary and nonpareil among the members of my dad’s family.

Uncle Frank, born Francis Xavier Grattano, was no luke-warm Catholic. He took his religion quite seriously (well, at least his mother did). The fact that he was a member of our family was stranger than fiction. Yet after WW2, intermarriage and assimilation was rampant. America was victorious and it was a time of great celebration.

 My dear Aunt Jeanne, my dad's sister, who was the capital, "C" in the word Chic, and preached think in the pink and be positive (which by the way, thinking positive all the time, is not so positive after all, and is highly overrated) broke all tradition and married Frank Grattano, of Brooklyn, a Sicilian, dark, suave and handsome, a real Lothario. Much to the chagrin of her parents, my paternal grandparents, she threw all caution to the wind. The deed was done, and lamenting was a waste of everyone's time.They lived a rakish life full of gaiety and vigor as Jeanne proudly wore a fur boa wrapped around her neck and Uncle Frank in his tailored Brooks Brothers' suit, as they walked down 5th Ave., hand in hand.

Uncle Frank was synonymous with the Mob, aka the Mafia, I am sure of it. His friends according to my memory were something like Vinnie, Lucco or Frank aka Blinky; when my Aunt Jeanne and I kibitzed she mentioned these names to me, as though she had an intuitive feeling of his less than questionable activities. Maybe she was right, maybe not, but looking at Frank, and his life style, I wouldn't be surprised. Also I never knew how he made his money. I knew he was preoccupied during the week, especially evenings with perhaps some nefarious activities.  Yet, Sunday he always traipsed to Mass, like clockwork, and upon his arrival home, the aroma of frankincense and the sweet saccharine smell of calla lilies were palpable. He was very tolerant of my aunt's capricious involvement with Judaism, and in fact I remember him setting up and lighting the Chanukah lights, as we all sang Maoz Tzur, and the Little Dreidel, etc. He actually sang the loudest, with the most enthusiasm. It must have been all that choir practice at the local Sicilian Catholic Church near Bedford and Church Ave. Go figure!

An outstanding memory comes to mind. It must have been during the late  1950s. Uncle Frank was a member of the Brooklyn Naval Yard, (where incidentally, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, OBM, worked as an engineer). To be part of the social club at this place was no small thing. It was only by invitation, and having money, sweetened the deal. I do remember that Uncle Frank took us there for lunch. So during the meal, the Brooklyn Dodgers just happened to be eating nearby. Of course, Uncle Frank, who was all consuming and made a significant impression (didn’t most of the Mob members know everyone worth knowing?) walked over to those Brooklyn Bums and introduced me and my brother to these superstars. Afterwards, they all signed a baseball: Carl Furillo, Gil Hodges, Duke Snyder and more. We had that baseball for a long time and actually several years ago I wondered what happened to it. We probably could have made a small fortune auctioning it off with Sotheby’s or Christy’s. Unfortunately like the Biblical Korach and his gang all of whom were swallowed up and simply disappeared from the face of this earth, the ball simply vanished. Also putting coins into the Baal Ha Ness Tzedekah box (the go to person for lost objects) in order to find that a baseball didn't do much help as well.  However, still hoping!! 

Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Frank, later on had one son, Mickey, a real piece of work. One thing I do remember about Mickey is that each night while he slept, he wore a hair net to protect his heavily sprayed coiffure. Also, he liked his bacon crisp and stiff so it would be able to stand up straight. I will elaborate on Mickey, another time, another place. Too much strangeness from one family at one time is a bit much.

 These are the memorable, characters in my family. Ray Bradbury, the quintessential science fiction writer, couldn’t have done better with his characters compared to those characters in my family.