As a small boy, our middle son, John, was sensitive and
impressionable. How did I know this? Well, like most young parents who
are preoccupied with worklife, homelife, kidslife, moneylife, we didn't at
the time. Today he's a grown man of 38 years and a father himself. Still
sensitive and impressionable and smart; a credit to his parents. This is
all preamble to a charming and amusing story...............
As many young American families, we lived in the same city as my
parents. Every two or three weeks, usually on Sunday, we would pack up
the family and make the short trip to visit my parents. Being an Italian
family, we were always welcome to join Mom and Dad for Sunday dinner.
On many Sundays, my brother and sisters and their families were also invited.
The whooping, yelping and chasing of the children and the yakking and laughing
of parents and grandparents made it a raucous affair. Typical Italian!
There was always cookies, candies and vino for all. My Dad, a warm
and funny man, had a special hiding place (known to all!) where he'd have a
box of chocolates. He loved to surreptitiously slip a chocolate to each of
his daughters and daughters-in-law. He loved the ooooooohs, aaaaaahs and
squeals of delight from each of them.
Dinner was always typical Italian........pasta, insalata,
meatballs, roast veal, vegetables, cake, pie, cookies, vino, Italian
coffee, cheese and fruit. Oh, how we ate! Then the hour of lethargy when
the children were banished to the outdoors and the grownups stretched on
the floor, the couch, the easy chairs, any comfortable place to rest after
the strains of eating. It was a memorable tradition that our children
remember to this day.
By late afternoon or early evening it was time to pack up the kids
and head home. After kisses and hugs, my wife (who particularly loved my
Dad) would say "Thanks, Pop, for the wonderful dinner and chocolates". To
which Pop would invariably reply, "It's ok, I writem-a down-a in-a li"l-a
blacka booka". Over the years, son John, heard the "li'l blacka booka"
comment countless times. It made an impression because one evening on
the way home he asked his Mom what Pop meant by the "li'l black book". After
a chuckle between us, my wife off-handedly explained that Pop was just being
funny and that he kept track of everything in a little black book. The chuckle
between us, my wife off-handedly explained that Pop was just being funny and
that he kept track of everything in a little black book. The comment and the
explanation were absorbed in that sponge in his head and was forgotten.
My wonderful Pop died when son John was about 9 years old. At the
funeral home, after the many hours friends and relatives came to pay
respects and stand by Pop's coffin, my wife took our three boys up to the
coffin for one last quiet visit with Pop. Indeed, he "looked good" as
everyone had commented. A big man with a strong face, gray hair, huge
hands an clutching a black bible.
Suddenly son John began tugging at his mother's hand whispering,
"Mom!, Mom!" His mother, slightly impatient, bent down and whispered,
"What, John?" Pointing to the bible and very serious, John whispered,
"Mom, he's got the li'l black book!"
Ray LaMacchia
July 1996
