the house would be in chaos, but one night I woke up to find everyone in a complete uproar. Somehow, this time it was different; I could feel my mom’s panic. I remember shouting over and over, “Oh, my God, Ma, what’s happening?” But no one answered me. It was very late at night, everyone was running around like crazy, and once again they rushed my father to the hospital. This time he was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, and he contracted pneumonia. He soon lapsed into a semiconscious state.
I went to the hospital every day to visit him. The shades in his room were drawn, and there was a simple lamp by his bed. I sat next to him in the dim light just holding his hand and hoping more than anything that he would get better. After an agonizing three days he regained consciousness and seemed so alert that the doctors told us he had pulled through and would be able to come home. The next morning we readied his bedroom and marched down to the hospital. But when we arrived, the doctor came out to the waiting area and gathered us together. He told us that my father had suffered another bout of congestive heart failure and had died in the night. We were devastated. My father was only forty-one years old. Icouldn’t believe that this wonderful, beautiful man was really out of my life and that I would never see him again. I was heartbroken. My eyes welled up with tears and I wept.
The news hit us all like a ton of bricks, and I wasn’t sure my mom was going to get through this tragedy. That night the family gathered at the house, and there was complete pandemonium. My aunt Millie, in her grief, came up to my brother and me and shouted, “You killed him; you two killed my brother!” I was stunned. I had just lost my dad, and now, of all things, I was being blamed for his death. My mom was too distraught to reassure me that this was not the case, so I was left with the horrible impression that I had killed my father, and I suffered with this for a very long time.
The whole situation was so painful that this entire period of my life is a bit out of focus. I barely remember my dad’s funeral. To top it all off, after the funeral my father’s brother, Dominick, decided that now that my mom was a widow at thirty-six, with three kids to take care of, it would be better for her if I came to live with him upstate in Pyrites. That way, he said, she would have one less kid to worry about. I looked around in amazement as my uncle spoke, waiting for someone to veto this ridiculous proposition, but everyone thought it was a good idea. Everyone, that is, except me. Even my mom consented, and off to Pyrites I was sent.
Pyrites was a small, working-class mill town in 1936, about fifteen miles from the Canadian border. My Uncle Dominick and his wife Dominica owned the general store and farmed, and since it was summer, I helped out with the chores. Uncle Dominick never had kids, and he didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a child. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t particularly sensitive, either. One afternoon I was hanging out with my aunt in the kitchen while she was ironing, and she asked me to sing to her. So there I was, leaning against a chair,singing, when in came my uncle. He started yelling at me, “Why don’t you do some work around here? Why don’t you milk a cow or something!” And with that he kicked the chair out from under me. He yelled at me all the time and he made me sleep on the floor. This kind of treatment certainly wasn’t what I was used to, and I missed my family desperately.
Fortunately, we had other relatives up in Pyrites. Our cousins the Futias lived next door. They had some wonderful kids my own age, including my favorite cousin, Mary Lou. I spent as much time with the Futias as I could. I hated going back “home” to my uncle’s house.
That fall I went to school with Mary Lou and her brothers and sisters. I didn’t like it much better than I had in Astoria, but I got to do
I went to the hospital every day to visit him. The shades in his room were drawn, and there was a simple lamp by his bed. I sat next to him in the dim light just holding his hand and hoping more than anything that he would get better. After an agonizing three days he regained consciousness and seemed so alert that the doctors told us he had pulled through and would be able to come home. The next morning we readied his bedroom and marched down to the hospital. But when we arrived, the doctor came out to the waiting area and gathered us together. He told us that my father had suffered another bout of congestive heart failure and had died in the night. We were devastated. My father was only forty-one years old. Icouldn’t believe that this wonderful, beautiful man was really out of my life and that I would never see him again. I was heartbroken. My eyes welled up with tears and I wept.
The news hit us all like a ton of bricks, and I wasn’t sure my mom was going to get through this tragedy. That night the family gathered at the house, and there was complete pandemonium. My aunt Millie, in her grief, came up to my brother and me and shouted, “You killed him; you two killed my brother!” I was stunned. I had just lost my dad, and now, of all things, I was being blamed for his death. My mom was too distraught to reassure me that this was not the case, so I was left with the horrible impression that I had killed my father, and I suffered with this for a very long time.
The whole situation was so painful that this entire period of my life is a bit out of focus. I barely remember my dad’s funeral. To top it all off, after the funeral my father’s brother, Dominick, decided that now that my mom was a widow at thirty-six, with three kids to take care of, it would be better for her if I came to live with him upstate in Pyrites. That way, he said, she would have one less kid to worry about. I looked around in amazement as my uncle spoke, waiting for someone to veto this ridiculous proposition, but everyone thought it was a good idea. Everyone, that is, except me. Even my mom consented, and off to Pyrites I was sent.
Pyrites was a small, working-class mill town in 1936, about fifteen miles from the Canadian border. My Uncle Dominick and his wife Dominica owned the general store and farmed, and since it was summer, I helped out with the chores. Uncle Dominick never had kids, and he didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a child. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t particularly sensitive, either. One afternoon I was hanging out with my aunt in the kitchen while she was ironing, and she asked me to sing to her. So there I was, leaning against a chair,singing, when in came my uncle. He started yelling at me, “Why don’t you do some work around here? Why don’t you milk a cow or something!” And with that he kicked the chair out from under me. He yelled at me all the time and he made me sleep on the floor. This kind of treatment certainly wasn’t what I was used to, and I missed my family desperately.
Fortunately, we had other relatives up in Pyrites. Our cousins the Futias lived next door. They had some wonderful kids my own age, including my favorite cousin, Mary Lou. I spent as much time with the Futias as I could. I hated going back “home” to my uncle’s house.
That fall I went to school with Mary Lou and her brothers and sisters. I didn’t like it much better than I had in Astoria, but I got to do
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