Author: patcamerino

Tumbling down the rabbit hole results in confusing conversations. Alice learned that lesson in her discussions with a mad hatter, a caterpillar, and a Cheshire cat. My lesson is still underway with computerized, on-line chats and with supposedly real people on the other end of a telephone line. My recent journey through the looking glass began with my sudden inability to communicate with my Internet link to the virtual world.

The pop-up message did not say “drink me,” but rather suggested I should check my router, that mystical device between my computer and the reversed world on the other side of the mirror. My attempts to reconnect my real world to its image failed. It was likely that the portal – switching to another literary illusion for the moment – was, itself, broken.

I journeyed to Best Buy to purchase a replacement for the router I’ve been using for the last fifteen years. Returning home, I connected all of the wires going into and out of the device. Nevertheless, the Internet was still unavailable. It was then, when I picked up the receiver to my telephone, that I realized my connection with AT&T was completely unavailable. My problem was with the muggle world, and not one of magical cyberspace. Or so I presumed.

With my landline dead, I had to resort to my emergency cellphone to call AT&T to ascertain when their service would be resumed. It was then that my Wonderland conversations began, at twenty-five cents a minute, given my limited plan with ConsumerCellular, the provider for my non-smart cellphone.

Our tea-party started with the AT&T agent’s statement that I did not exist. The company had no record of my telephone account, although I have been sending them more than $130 each month for the past sixteen years of residence at Eagle’s Trace. Since my record could not be found, the telephone company could not tell me if their service to my neighborhood was working and, if not, when it might be resumed.

Since I did not exist, according to AT&T’s record, I decided it was time for me to transfer my allegiance to Comcast/Xfinity, the source of my television coverage at Eagle’s Trace. We paid our television fee through our monthly service contract with ET. However, Karen had been receiving, each month, a billing statement directly from Xfinity indicating she had a credit of $163, the origin of which we had no idea. However, this recurring notice did indicate Xfinity recognized her existence. This observation gave me confidence to call Comcast, using my ConsumerCellular cellphone, to establish telephone and Internet service with them. However, since we had neither a smartphone, with text message capabilities, nor a functioning email connection, Comcast could not confirm that we had ordered their service. The rabbit hole became deeper.

I agreed I’d find a local store and visit them the next day to pick up the router required for connection to the Xfinity Internet However, without access to online sources, I would not be able to locate the nearest one. The Xfinity agent finally located one on South Voss. I planned to pick up the required router the next day. Meanwhile, I could return the one I had purchased earlier in the day from Best Buy. Fortunately, they were willing to refund the cost for the returned device. My tea-party began to have a few pleasantries.

At the same time, the mad-hatter’s teapot had a few more surprises. Later that evening, our land-telephone rang! Service had been restored as mysteriously as it had been lost that same morning.

Early the next day, I returned to the Looking Glass World and, using the pro-offered bird-head mallets, I began the next round of my croquet match. I should have known better.

I thought I would check out the online Comcast account, identified under Karen’s name, to determine the status of the order I had placed the previous day. Unfortunately, we had never established a password for her online account, since we had never had any need to access it. However, the account could be accessed through her Username. Surely, I could follow the steps for “change a password” and establish one for her. Unfortunately, in true Alice’s world fashion, the steps to be followed led to a circular system in which a password was required in order to change the password. Thus, in an attempt to establish her password, I began an Internet chat session, lasting more than four hours!

I lost track of the number of agents to whom I was transferred for an ongoing chat with Xfinity. With each exchange, I had to wait for the new agent to review the preceding chat before continuing. The comments they returned seldom had any relationship to the questions I raised. Many of the replies were for preestablished pleasantries expressing how interested they were in my problem and how they would solve it, immediately, to my satisfaction. Alice had more meaningful interchanges with the caterpillar and the Cheshire cat than I did with the five Indians I met for tea!

By the end of our extended interlude, I learned that it would not be possible to change the password, since I did not have access to a smartphone to which a text message could be sent with the necessary security code required to complete the process. However, my own Username could be added to the account Karen held. The only problem was, as a mere co-user, I did not have access to any of the actual content for the account. As co-user, I could see only the overview page for her website.

Nevertheless, I had not been dissuaded from going to the Comcast store on South Voss, even though the now-available site map indicated closer locations existed. When I arrived, the human agent at the South Voss Xfinity store could not find any records for the order I had placed yesterday with their telephone agent. I had to begin again.

After an hour-long interaction, I contracted for a transfer of my AT&T landline telephone number to a Xfinity landline connection. Along with keeping the same telephone number I could retain my email address. I was extremely pleased I would not be required to notify all of my commercial accounts as well all of our family and friends about new ones! The tea-party, finally, had a pastry to offer.

I was also able to transfer my telephone number from my dumb ConsumerCellular phone to a new smartphone. Although I’m currently waiting for the transfer of my telephone numbers to occur before being able to complete my new Internet and iPhone connections, Karen’s new smartphone, with a new number, is functional. All she needs to do is to start using it. Moreover, it appears that the monthly cost for a landline, an Internet connection and two smartphones will be less than half what I have been paying AT&T for my nonexistent account with them.

In the meantime, I must wait until I have a functioning cellphone capable of receiving text messages before I can attempt another chat with the intent of having direct access to Karen’s Comcast account. I’m not sure I’m looking forward to another conversation in which the meaning of words depends upon the meaning intended by the speaker, regardless of those of the listener. On the other hand, much of current communication in life, be it relating to morals, civics, religion or politics, seems to bear these conditions. Communication now exists as a series of parallel monologues without any dialog being possible. When looking into a mirror, speakers see only their own lips moving and believe they are communicating with others. They’re not.

To learn of a war while on a silent Ignatian retreat is, indeed, a strange experience. It was on the morning of my second day, Thursday, March 20, 2003, of an eight-day retreat at Grand Coteau, Louisiana, that I learned the United States had bombed Iraq. The scriptural passage assigned for my first meditation of the day was Sirach 43, a reflection on God and nature. My written thoughts are given as follows:

“Even on a day with magnificent weather, it is difficult to pray about the grandeur of nature and of the Creator when mankind has released the dogs of war. At our session this morning, Fr. Tom informed me that It has begun! Last night the United States of America initiated its attack against Saddam Hussein with fourteen cruise missel strikes on ‘selected’ targets around Bagdad. Bush has started his war, the war his father began a decade or so ago. For the first time in history, America has launched a war without first being fired upon by the direct foe. It will not end until Saddam, himself, is destroyed. And if he flees, what then? Whom does Bush attack next? It may be a longer conflict than the so-called leaders in Washington predict.

“Yet here I am, to contemplate God’s marvelous creation, the sun’s light and the blue vault of heaven. The warm breeze from the south again stirs the fields of wildflowers before me. The birds sing merrily the songs taught to them ages ago, unconcerned by the new cries thousands of miles away. Oh, that I could sing so merrily!

“Instead, I hear the drone of an airliner passing overhead and assume that death will not leap forth … unlike the thoughts of innocent Iraqis who hear death on a day when only Allah’s glory should be sounded.

“This creation of Yours, miLord , has survived the folly of your creatures over the centuries. You continue to sustain us. I’m not sure why. The sun continues to shine with its warmth; the winds continue to cool us. The balance remains. We remain in your hands, in your care, in your love. You tried to teach us about Peace by becoming one of us. For some you succeeded. Others have ignored your words; they even make a mockery of those they have heard.

“Our journey has begun, miLord. I know not how it will continue nor how it will end. This is to be a season of trust, of hope. Strengthen my trust and my hope. Walk with me and all those who truly want to follow you. Guide us in the hours and days ahead so that we may honor all you have created and given to us.”

The next day, Day 3 of my retreat, had an afternoon meditation on Matthew 4: 1- 11, the temptations of Jesus in the desert. My reflection includes the following:

“What a bucolic place to think of war! The pale-yellow barn with its white silos stands before me as a fortress of tranquility. The pecan trees flex leafless fingers against the clouding sky. The stable roofs rust slowly beneath the overpowering live oaks. All is silent except for a cow lowing in the distance and a few birds twittering nearby. Even the black flies are going about their own business and leaving me alone with my contemplation on this second day of a war fought so far away in time and space.

“Men, women, and children are surely dying as they do in all wars. There may be terrorism striking here in the U.S., but I do not know of any of this, wrapped in my silent Retreat. If only the world, itself, could be on such a Retreat instead of its own retreat from civilization.

“My assigned meditation is on the Temptations of Christ, your temptations, miLord. Your encounter with Evil, itself. Temptations to life without effort, living food from dead stones. Power without effort: merely step forward, you will not fall. Control without compassion: speak the name of Evil and all will follow you.

“Begin a war and your popularity will increase. Provide a circus and the people will forget their problems. History will remember you as being decisive. Or will future generations call you a fool? It depends upon the outcome. A quick victory with a minimum loss of lives (yet what is a ‘minimum’ when lives are to be counted?) and your actions are justified. A long war with vast destructions, and the event is recalled as folly. Temptations for the quick fix; for precipitous change in contrast with the change resulting from a change of heart, from growth into maturity.

“Enough of my jottings. It is time for Prayer.”

Yes, it is always “time for prayer.” The Gulf War finally was terminated. Bagdad was captured a month later; President Bush declared “the end of major combat operations” in his “Mission Accomplished” speech of May 1st. Saddam Hussein was captured on December 13, 2003; convicted by the Iraqi High Tribunal of crimes against humanity and executed, by hanging, on December 30, 2006.

Twenty years later, in October 2023, the forces under Hamas, the Palestinian military authority in Gaza, attacked Israel. A counterattack has followed and once again, the “Holy Land” is the site for warfare which could expand into a major conflict for the entire world. Once more we witness the temptations in the desert and continue to pray.

I’m not an historian, but I do enjoy reading history, regardless of the time or place, but preferably that of Europe or the United States. I am fascinated by the cycle of history, how events seem to reoccur over the centuries, how mankind never seems to learn from the past, but retains its desire to return to a time when life seemed simpler, when people felt safe, providing they were in agreement with those who were their superiors, those who had authority over their economics and culture.

Although people may maintain they want to be in control of their lives, it often appears that they want to be led by those who can offer them the safety they desire. This condition may have originated thousands of years ago when small groups of people gathered together as tribes who went searching for their food under the leadership of their best hunter, the one who knew the ways of wild animals and how to subdue them. A wooly mammoth, a wild boar, or a fleet-footed deer could be killed more readily by a tribe than by a single pursuer.

When those once nomadic tribes settled down in villages and, later, in fortified towns, they were willing to be governed by their elders or by the strongest male in the community, especially if the local gods seemed to favor these rulers. The pharaohs of Egypt and the kings of Mesopotamia were, after all, designated by their gods. The kings, themselves, might even be seen as divine creations who would offer their subjects protection from all of their enemies, all those who sought to destroy them, whether they were foreigners or threatening neighbors. Even the Greek city-states, claiming to be democracies which considered the rights of individual men, had their own divinely appointed rulers.

Some twenty-eight centuries ago, semi-divine twins, sucked by a she-wolf, attempted to found a city-state in Italy. One of them, Remus, made the mistake of jumping over the wall erected by his brother, Romulus, around one of the seven hills located in the city. In their feud, Romulus killed Remus and the city of Rome, rather than of Rem, was begun under the leadership of a royal family of kings. Several centuries later, these kings gave way to leaders elected by the freemen of Rome and their city-state became a republic. After a few more centuries, the citizens of Rome were very willing to allow a single Emperor to become their divinely appointed leader, one who could protect them from invaders and offer them circuses for their entertainment.

By the standards of today, in the twenty-first century after these events, we tend to see those days of the Roman Empire to be difficult ones for ordinary life as we know it. However, for those who, at that time, lived them, this was the age of an Augustinian peace in which the population lived a harmonious life without fear. It was good to live under a dictator, one who addressed the needs of the people as he, himself, viewed his own rules to be just and proper.

With the ultimate fall of the Roman Empire, life under invading Germanic tribes led to a new way of life, one we call the “dark ages,” but well-lived by those who experienced them. The men of Europe willingly followed the leadership of divinely appointed kings and their own elite royalty. Both the nobility and the peasantry looked back to the glory of the lost Roman Empire through the formation of the new Holy Roman Empire which came into conflict with the Roman Catholic Church and the growth of competing empires in France, England and Spain.

The briefly held concept of a Roman Republic governed by men elected democratically was buried under a willingness to be ruled by strong individuals. Until, in the mid-eighteenth century, there were a few men living in colonies established by England, who now desired to re-establish a republic governed by those they, themselves, elected. The United States of America became the first modern democratic nation.

Others followed, but only for short periods. The French Republic became a new Empire under the control of Napoleon. Later democracies in Germany and Italy saw the rise of fascism under Hitler and Mussolini, who, originally, were willing elected by their followers. Other new-born democratic nations quickly came under the control of cultic leaders like Stalin and Mao. It would appear that individuals wish to have their own political freedom for only limited times. When given an opportunity, they are very willing to allow a cultic leader to take control of their political life if everyone is promised safety from invaders and from those whom they believe might take them in cultural directions not to their liking.

The result is a strange paradox. Individuals are willing to give up their authority, their control, to someone who will control what they, the individuals, want to control but feel they, themselves, cannot control! In our modern society, there seems to be a fear that outsiders will cross established borders and bring with them killers, terrorists, drug bearers, poverty-prone non-workers, and others who will change the lives of those living within their borders. A cult leader, even a dictator or tyrant, who offers such protection, is once more desired to be in control. He is admired and followed by all who demand a return to the “good-old-days” of an imagined past.

According to a recent article in Time magazine, “In 2024, more than half the world’s population will go to polls – 4.2 billion citizens across approximately 65 countries in what, from a distance, at least appears to be a stirring spectacle of self-government. At closer range, however, the picture is cloudier, and warning lights flash red from the murk.” The article goes on to quote Staffan Lindberg, director of Varieties of Democracy, a Swedish think tank, who believes: “2024 may be the make-or-break year for democracy in the world, [since] … so many have now empowered leaders or parties with antidemocratic leanings.”

I am reminded of a Latin line written by a Roman poet, Juvenal, in the first century: “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” It may be translated as: “Who will guard the guards, themselves?” or “Who will watch the watchmen, themselves?” Perhaps in the twenty-first century we might ask: “Who will control the controllers, themselves?”

Recently our daughter, Deb, posted a Facebook notice that she had bought a previously owned car to replace one incapacitated by rats chewing on the wires in the engine of her current run-about. She lives in the country outside of San Antonio and is accustomed to the challenges posed by bobcats, coyotes and scorpions, but this was a first-time event. Her posting, which included a list of the ten cars she had previously owned, prompted me to recall the vehicles I, myself, have purchased over the past seven decades.

During my high school and college years, when many of my friends had their own jalopies to drive, I walked or bummed rides with them. My father had no use for a car for the family; he, too, walked everywhere he had to go, or hitched a ride with a friend or relative. For some strange reason, when I graduated from Kent State and was about to go off to graduate school at Cornell, he decided I should have my own car to travel between Ohio and New York. He bought me my first car, a 1957, black-and-white Ford Fairlane 500, a four-door sedan with white sidewall tires. This Ford served me well on my visits to see Karen when she had her summer employment at Camp Wingfoot on Lake Erie. On the other hand, this model did have its electrical system problems, as I noted in my recollection, “House Hunting in Ithaca.” Nevertheless, that Fairlane made it through the winters of ice and snow usually found around the Finger Lakes. Its end came as the result of an elderly driver plowing into us when he made a turn from the highway into his own driveway as he completed his vacation trip.

At the time, we were living in a basement apartment in the home of the owner of the Volkswagen dealership in Ithaca. He sold us a grey beetle we named “Fritz,” the only car we ever personalized. For several years, Fritz accompanied us on our journeys between New York and Ohio as well as providing us with an adventure in which he almost fell on me after an ice storm. (That’s another story recalled under the title, “Falling Volkswagen.”)

We outgrew Fritz, who was replaced, after a few years, by an olive-green and cream microbus that saw us through winters in New Hampshire and a long journey westward to Corvallis, Oregon, as reported in another reflection, “The Oregon Trail.” That microbus caught on fire on a trip from Corvallis to Portland (see “Hot Hymns”) and was replaced by a grey Chevy minivan for the rest of our Oregon years and my cross-country return drive to Bethesda, Maryland.

The grey Chevy was the first car Karen drove, although she had made a few attempts with the Fairlane in the first year of our marriage. When that automatic-shift vehicle was replaced by stick-shift VW’s, she gave up her attempts. However, living in suburban Washington, D.C. prompted her to take additional driving lessons and make use of the minivan for local shopping.

The major driving issue during our first year in Maryland, was the need, each night, to re-park the van in our driveway so that it would face outward each morning in order to pull into the rapidly passing traffic on Cedar Lane, a major street heading into Bethesda. We were able to continue with only a single vehicle, since, upon moving from Bethesda to Wheaton and, later, to Rockville, I was able to share my daily commuting with two NIH neighbors. Before moving to Amherst, I sold this van to one of them, Will Nusser, who wanted to buy it for his son even though he knew from experience that, for some unknown reason, a hole had appeared in the floorboard on the passenger’s side of the vehicle.

The grey Chevy minivan was replaced, for the Massachusetts years, by a brown Mercury four-door sedan, a Marquis Brougham model which Karen would use to convey me, on a five-minute drive, to and from work on the UMass campus. Seven years later Ken and I drove in it from Massachusetts to Texas, with the parking brake partially engaged somewhere along the way, requiring a trip to a local service garage shortly after our arrival.

Karen and I agreed we would now need two cars to survive in Houston. My commuting car became a new Ford Pinto, bright yellow with a stick-shift and a clutch which was constantly engaged in my attempted commute on I-45. This compact car also took me, Ken and Kip on our father-sons encounter with West Texas. Ken planned the vacation; Kip saw most of it from a cramped backseat of the Pinto.

The brown Mercury, now replaced by a red and white Buick LaSabre for the family, became Ken’s means for traveling between Houston and College Station. To personalize his possession, he exchanged the interior roof with his own Texas A&M blanket. Later, the LaSabre became Chris’ means of going back and forth between Houston and San Marcos when he went off to college.

After a few years, the family sedan was replaced by a long, green Chevy station wagon. There was sufficient room for Chris to have the third seat in the far back where he would view where we had gone on our vacations, since he had to ride backwards. Ken and Deb shared the second back seat as well as they could. Fortunately, this station wagon resembled a small tank; it served Karen well when she was hit by an eighteen-wheeler on I-10, having driven several religious persons from the Cenacle, where she volunteered, to the airport. The ‘wagon made a 360 degree turn and ended up on the highway with no major damage to it or her.

After a few years, the Pinto was enlarged by exchanging it for a blue Honda CRV, one that lasted until we moved to Eagle’s Trace upon retirement and decided that one car would be sufficient. The station wagon was sold and the CRV was transferred to one of our grandsons, Jordan, to be used to help with his new family’s life.

Our current car, and no doubt the last one we will own, is a red Honda HRV. Like most males, I expect, I had always wanted a red car. I finally owned one, although it was debatable just how much I would actually be behind the wheel. Karen greatly preferred to be the driver rather than the passenger. This relationship lasted between 2016 and 2023, when she developed the condition of fused vertebrae in her neck and could no longer readily turn her head while driving, a necessity when in Houston’s traffic.

Over the last seventy years, I’ve owned ten vehicles, five of which have been vans or station wagons. I’ve never been overly interested in having a luxury-vehicle to show off. It appears that two of them were involved in accidents, one seriously and the other with no physical damages but with a significant psychological impact. Another minivan was lost through an accidental fire. It’s also the case that several had crumpled fenders from encounters with other vehicles or stationary objects. However, none of them were damaged by any animals eating their wiring! On the other hand, one of our cats, who liked to keep warm by sitting on the top of a tire under the hood, did meet with an untimely demise one cold morning when she did not jump off quickly enough when the motor was turned on. Evidently, both rats and cats do not do well with cars.

A few days ago, Samantha, who is married to our grandson Jordan, had a Facebook request about wanting the names of friends and relatives who would like to be remembered in a quilt she is making for James, due sometime in August. Of course we do want to be included, and Karen responded accordingly. Sam’s request, however, prompted me to think about other grandchildren and their own offspring, our great grandchildren.

James will be a special grandson. Samantha and Jordan have been trying to add a third sibling for Claire and Charlotte, born in 2016 and 2018, respectively, but they have experienced several miscarriages over the years. They are joyfully awaiting James’ arrival. He will be the third boy in his generation to bear the Camerino name.

Dillon, Jordan’s younger brother, and Carolyn have two sons who have rather unusual first names: Brantley and Shiloh. To add to the nominal confusion, “Brantley” is also the last name of our daughter Deborah’s husband, Franklyn. There is no direct connection. Brantley Andrew Camerino was named for a favorite country western singer and for his father, Dillon Andrew. Shiloh has the middle name, Kenneth, the name of his grandfather, our own son, Kenneth Andrew.

Naming children can have interesting backgrounds. Christopher Paul, our own middle child, is named Christopher because I like the repetitive hard consonants found in Christopher and in Camerino, having married Karen and named our older son, Kenneth. Chris’ middle name, Paul, comes from Karen’s favorite uncle, Paul Swank. However, until Chris graduated from college and became a schoolteacher, he was known by the nickname, Kip, a combination of Christopher and Paul, since I have a cousin who named her daughter Christina and beat me to using Chris as a nickname. Back then, overlaps were to be avoided in family names.

When the change occurred, Christopher evidently thought that “Kip” would not go well for a teacher-coach. However, he has not been able to escape completely. His older daughter, Kirby, named her own son Kipton Royce, to combine her father’s nickname, Kip, with that of David Royce Whitworth, the grandfather of her husband, Stephen. Kirby Michele and Stephen are expecting their own second child in May; her name will be Rory Michele, which includes Kirby’s middle name as well as that of her mother, Kelly Michele.

Our other great grandchildren also have special names. Ken’s daughter Christina, who is married to Cristian (!) Araujo, has three children: Elijah David, Lila Rose, and Liam James. Samantha and Jordan have not released James’ middle name, but “William” would add well to the mixture, as a reversal of Liam James and the inclusion of my own middle name, William, taken from my own grandfather, William Moransky, whose actual name was Viktor, but changed to William by an agent at Elias Island!

It appears that name changing within our family has a well-established history. It began with Viktor Murawka becoming William Moransky and continued through my own change from Patty, the nickname given to my own father, Piligrine, by a well-meaning teacher, to that of Pat William and on to our daughter, Deborah Lynne, renaming herself “Cammie” to the world-at-large while remaining Debbie or Deb to her relatives.

And so it is. Pat William Camerino married Karen Jane Swank and had three children: Deborah Lynne (Cammie) married to Frank Brantley; Kenneth Andrew married to Tracey Lynn Sturek; and Christopher Paul (Kip) married to Kelly Michele Siegel. Ken and Tracy have given us Jordan Michael, Dillon Andrew, Christina Noel, Thomas Joseph, Victoria Elizabeth, Olivia Dominique, Damien Paul, Jospeh Xavier, and Gabriel John. Christopher Paul (Kip) and Kelly have two daughters: Kirby Michele and Kennedy Lane.

Our great grandchildren include Brantley Andrew, Claire Marjorie, Elijah David, Charlotte Helen, Lila Rose, Shiloh Kenneth, Liam James, and Kipton Royce along with additions-to-come: Rory Michele and James (the unknown).

Among my fondest memories are those of a family reunion of the Moransky clan, which occurred while I was a sophomore in college. There was a picnic attended by aunts, uncles and cousins-by-the dozens. It was the last time they gathered together. Although the tradition has not been maintained, due to the death of many of them and to the scattering of the next generations, there are still weddings that serve as the reason for the gathering of the descendant clans.

Fortunately, Ken and Tracy have served as the focus for the major gatherings of the past few years. Given that Tracey has a sister and four brothers with large families, their total gathering can be well over fifty direct relatives. At Olivia’s wedding in November of last year, they completely filled the altar of Christ the Good Shepherd for the post-celebration photograph, even though not every one of them could attend the event. At this rate, they will need to shift to the co-cathedral for the archdiocese of Galveston-Houston for the nuptials of their own grandchildren.

During my younger days, very younger days, the ones when I was a teenager growing up in northeastern Ohio, my travel was limited to imaginary trips, ones taken to the stars, by way of the sci-fi stories I read. Reality travel was limited to bus trips from Niles to Youngstown for special shopping expeditions, usually with my mother, for buying shoes and clothes for school. Although the single department store in my hometown carried wearing apparel, primarily work-clothes for the local steelworkers like my father, nothing there could satisfy my mother’s tastes for school clothes. Real shopping required a journey to Youngstown and the Strauss’ Department Store with its five floors, accessed by the only escalator in that part of the state.

There were occasional Sunday drives in Uncle Frank’s car to visit a shrine or some other special site in northeastern Ohio or northwestern Pennsylvania. My first railroad excursion came with a college-sponsored weekend in New York City, during a school break in my junior year at Kent State. My first airplane experience was a flight from Oregon to Washington, D.C. where I interviewed for my position with the NIH, when I was in my mid-thirties.

Karen and I went on our first foreign travel, to England, for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Those never-to-be-forgotten two weeks whetted our desire to visit Europe annually, thereafter, for the next thirty years. We still have the desire, but not the ability.

Even our shopping trips have been curtailed. During the early years of our marriage, weekends were devoted to necessary, but very enjoyable, outings to the local malls or shopping centers. We became well acquainted with many of the stores in and around Hanover, New Hampshire, Corvallis Oregon, Washington, D.C. and Amherst, Massachusetts.

For wandering on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, small, college towns have great places to explore, with marvelous names such as “Dangling Conversations” or “Yankee Peddler Candle Shop.” For major items, a journey to Springfield, Greenfield or Northampton was not unusual.

This was also the time when Karen and I would take our coffee-and-donut-drive, after dinner, in order to have time together before she would begin her evening studies for her Master’s degree. In later years, when we had moved from New England to Houston, our getaways were confined to walking tours of Greenspoint, Willowbrook and Memorial City malls, with occasional excursions to Deerbrook, Sugar Land or The Galleria.

Traipsing around a major mall can offer inexpensive pleasure for couples with a few, free hours to spend. These are convenient sites for people-watching, an event that does not require any monetary cost in order to be enjoyed. European counterpoints are even better. I have been amazed by the international scope of the shopping malls available in any large city in the world. Given the prevalence of identical stores selling clothing and shoes, it is difficult to realize you are in a mall in Edinburgh, Scotland, and not in the States. The only differences are in the accents of the buyers and sellers. Throughout Europe, it is easier to stop at a McD’s or a Pizza Hut than to find a local fast-food stand.

When visiting a shopping mall, the only condition a stroller needs to consider is whether the mall is laid out in a string, such as Memorial City, so that the walker can visit shops which are always on the right side as the explorer transverses the building, or is it circular, like Katy Mills, so that the efficient traveler must zigzag back and forth in order not to miss any buying opportunity. On the other hand, the true mall-walker really does not need to buy anything. The entire purpose is merely to look at things and at people. Of course, there is always a Cinnabon, or other pastry along with coffee, that can be purchased to maintain one’s energy for the visit, should the need arise. It’s also a good idea, to know where the restrooms are located, especially as one ages.

Aging, itself, is the only real problem associated with travel, whether it is to a foreign country or to a local collection of shops such as those found in Old Town Spring or Old Town Tomball. It was not that long ago, when Karen and I would take pleasure in wandering around their shops in springtime or late fall, when it’s possible to enjoy being outside along the Gulf Coast. There were also weekends when we would drive to visit The Strand in Galveston or River Walk in San Antonio. We even managed to stroll around Fredricksburg, Schulenburg, Lagrange or Boerne, Texas. There were years when we would spend a fun-filled afternoon at the Texas Renaissance Festival or wandering through Lost Maples Forest.

I’m not sure whether it was the years of the COVID epidemic or merely the aging-process, itself. However, no matter what might have been the original cause, we have not traveled much beyond Brookshire for the past four years. I cannot recall the last time I saw the beaches at Galveston, with or without seaweed and oil droplets, or the musicians and jugglers of Renfest.

Indeed, we recognize we can no longer endure a ten-hour flight to Europe and two weeks on a riverboat cruise along the Rhine or Danube, as we once did. There are times I think about how I would, once again, love to be in New England in October, either driving along the Kancamagus highway in northern New Hampshire or bouncing on the ferry boat to Nantucket Island. Although we have seen more of western and eastern Europe than I could once have imagined, we never did get to Ireland, Scandinavia or Spain. And we never will.

Time has ended our travels. Once more, I’m limited to my imagination and my memories. I am grateful for having both of them. On the other hand, I recognize time-travel, itself, is still possible. Although no one can physically go backwards (or forwards) in time in order to see and hear the wonders of the world, I have hours of videos I captured on our visits to so many national and international places. I’m pleased I made the effort to edit them into viewable recollections of sights Karen and I have seen. Those images, along with the memories I retain, and the imagination I currently possess, allow me to engage in a mental time-travel that warms my heart and stimulates my mind as much as those journeys I once made with Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov. I hope that the time-travel I enjoyed once-upon-a-time may remain with me until my memory is no more.

The other day, my cousin, actually my “second” cousin, since her dad was my “first” cousin, sent me a Facebook link about Braunschweiger sandwiches. She replied to the original sender that, when she was growing up, she called it “goose liver.” I appended a note that I, too, fondly recalled eating “goose liver” sandwiches when I was a young kid. I also added how this term made me feel foolish the first time I visited a delicatessen in New York City. When I ordered a “goose liver” sandwich, the clerk had no idea what I wanted. I finally had to point to the customer next to me and say, “I want a sandwich like his.” I’m not sure whether I would have had a better result requesting “liverwurst.” At the time, I had never heard of Braunschweiger. Since it was not a French bistro, I could not have ordered foie gras, even back then when it was still legal to eat. Now the only time I have this delicacy is not in a delicatessen but at a Jewish Passover Seder. Then I consume as much as I can fit on pieces of matzoh.

This linguistic confusion reminds me of the classic problem of where one eats a submarine, a hoagie or a hero sandwich. In New England I enjoyed grinders and here, in Cajun country, I do like Po’boys. To help in the consumption of that hard bread roll, I often would drink a milkshake; I preferred plain vanilla ones. However, along with my grinder in New England, I had to order a frappe rather than a milkshake, unless I wanted only flavored milk without the ice cream. On the other hand, a malt would also have served the same purpose in the mid-west. I did, however, require it must be a chocolate one. The consistency of a malt was more fluid than that of the frozen custard I bought at the local Dairy Queen, since the former could never go into a cone, whereas the latter always did.

Of course, when I was a kid, the usual drink was not a milkshake; they were for special events. The usual way to slake my thirst was with water, or, if I was out shopping, with pop. Later, in life, once I had left Ohio for New England, I drank a soda instead of pop. However, during my years in Texas, I have consumed a lot of coke, regardless of the flavor.

Texas is also the first place I was exposed to country-fried steak as well as chicken-fried steak. The names probably originated during the First World War when German immigrants in the Lone Star State changed wiener schnitzel to a more American-sounding term as well as replacing the veal with more readily available beef. It’s also possible, in recent years, to order chicken-fried chicken, which seems a bit odd to me. As far as I can tell, the only difference between country-fried steak and chicken-fried steak is in the gravy – brown for country-fried and white for chicken-fried. Although some call the sauce for spaghetti, “gravy,” I refuse to use the term and maintain true gravy must be a shade of brown to tan and not tomato-red.

Although I do not recall steak being breaded for childhood meals, one of my favorite items was city-chicken. This special treat was composed of small, flour coated, cubes of pork and veal on a small, wooden skewer and fried in a skillet. They were an acceptable alternative to chicken legs or drumsticks. As for roast chicken, itself, the stuffing or dressing had to contain cubes of stale bread along with sausage and bits of chicken liver. I did not know about cornbread stuffing until we moved to Texas. I still prefer the Ohio version Karen makes, but will accept the southern one if I must, so long as it has plenty of real gravy.

With great courage and a great deal of expended energy, I am also willing to peel and eat crawfish, crawdads, crayfish or even mudbugs, providing the spices yield a finger-licking accompaniment. Nevertheless, I greatly prefer lobster, especially if it has rested in New England water and its appropriate salts. It has been many years since I have eaten chicken-lobster, which is not a fowl but a one- to two-pound crustacean that is very tender and flavorful. Although it takes practice to remove the tails and claws easily, the process is faster than the one required for crawdads.

Growing up in land-locked Ohio, i.e. away from the waters of Lake Erie, I was not exposed to food that swam. Lent was a time for Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks, which had only a weak reminder of the taste of seafood, even though they were devoid of bendable bones. It took me many years living with a wife who had grown up on the shores of Lake Erie to get me to attempt eating fillets requiring some work to separate the good stuff from the chokeables.

Along with meat or fish, I also like to eat the heel rather than the butt or end of the loaf of bread, so long as it is buttered – even with oleo, when I was younger, or with margarine, now that I’m older and living in a different part of the country.

For breakfast I prefer having pancakes instead of either hot cakes or flapjacks. I also would rather eat an over-easy to a regular sunny-side-up along with either a roll or bun. Furthermore, I prefer take-out food for dinner instead of take-aways or carry-outs for supper. Of course, I prefer frosted cake or cookies but am equally willing to eat desserts that are iced, even if I must now specify whether I want iced-tea or hot-tea. When I lived up North, tea was automatically hot-tea and coffee was black, unless I ordered a “double-double.” In any case, I am now willing to consume many things, no matter what word I must call them when I eat them.

In earlier reflections on my life in Niles, Soldiers and Sailors, I reported on the military service of my uncles: Joe, Fremont, and Isadore. Those recollections have now led me to a consideration of other paternal relatives. Joe, Fremont and Isadore were my father’s brothers. Joseph was the eldest, born in 1906, more than a century ago! I really find this particular time interval to be quite remarkable; my personally knowing someone born more than one-hundred years ago seems impossible!

Uncle Frank (1907) was the second child born to Dolgizia and Luigi. He arrived premature. Family legend has suggested that, with the unavailability of postnatal intensive care, he was kept in a warm oven for the first weeks of his life. (I assume the oven door was kept open.) As the result of his premature birth, Uncle Frank was intellectually challenged. Growing up, I found he was very difficult to understand; I admit I avoided interaction with him as much as I could. On the other hand, he did have a positive, influence on my own development. Since he walked with a lumbering gait, with toes pointed dramatically outward, I forced myself to walk with my feet pointed directly ahead. This has been my distinctive gait for more than eighty years.

My father was the third born (1908). Fremont was a year younger (1909). I’m not sure why he was called by a name that had a minimal, if any, relationship with an Italian source of which I am aware. Interestingly, he spelled it as “Freemont” – with double “e’s.” Later, his son, my cousin, spelled his own name as “Fremont,” a more usual form.

The next son was Galvino (1910), whose name appears to be more Italian than “Freemont.” He was always called “Uncle Guffy.” He was seldom involved in any family activities; I probably saw him less than a dozen times in my life. Family legend indicated that Guffy was often away in jail; I have no idea what the charges might have been. He had a son, Ernest, whom I recall slightly from my very young days. However, I have no idea whatever became of either Uncle Guffy or Cousin Ernest in the years since then.

My Aunt Mary (1911) continued my grandparent’s annual births. She was the only sister and, when her mother died, inherited matriarchal control of this traditional Italian family. Her two younger brothers were Angelo (1913) and Isadore (1916). Family legend also suggests that my grandmother lost several other babies. I vaguely recall an ancient photograph of several uncles, and maybe Aunt Mary, standing next to a casket with a baby or small child.

I remember more about Uncle Angelo, who continued to live with his brothers and sister at home, until he was “sent away to Gallipolis” in his mid-twenties. This small town in southern Ohio was the site for the Asylum for Epileptics and Epileptic Insane, founded in 1893. I do not recall being around when Angelo had an attack of the ancient “falling sickness”; but he must have had them in sufficient numbers that the family believed it was no longer safe for him to live at home.

I have already mentioned Uncle Isadore as a brother who served in World War II in some un-designated capacity. I seldom saw him at “up-the-hill” gatherings. He had two sons, Donald and David, whom I’ve not seen during the past sixty-five years. On the other hand, David became the executor for my Uncle Joe, upon the death of cousin Fremont, several years after Uncle Joe had died. Cousin David and I did interact when the “up-the-hill” property was finally sold in 2019.

This may be the place for me to comment about the Camerino vendetta. It is, indeed, fascinating to me, how Italian families are capable of in-depth “fallings-out.” Unlike the vendettas, or “revenge” events of the Italian city-states during the Renaissance, any Italian family can have a long, intense misunderstanding without actual bloodshed. During my adolescence, my cousin Fremont was the outcast in the family. His father had divorced his mother and he had taken “her side” in the split-up. This made him a persona non grata for several decades. Then it was my turn.

My Aunt Mary, who once held me in an apple-of-the-eye status, disavowed me when my father died. She deeply believed I had abandoned my father, who suffered greatly from a spectrum of diabetic conditions. Living in Houston, I was not able to attend directly to his needs in Ohio. Being the matriarch of the family, she thought I should have been of greater assistance to him – and to her. At his funeral, she ignored my existence, which is a characteristic behavior for a vendetta. I was no longer welcomed “up-the-hill.” When Karen and I tried making an occasional visit, we would chat with Uncle Joe, while Aunt Mary would hide out in the storage-room-kitchen.

After my Uncle Fremont had died, his son was now allowed back into the family. I must admit that the logic for all of this escapes me. My cousin Fremont, Jr. now replaced me within the rankings within my extended family. When Uncle Joe died in 1998, a year after his sister Mary had passed away, cousin Fremont became the executor for his estate. Fremont was in charge of trying to sell the property, which was its major asset. Over the next twenty years, he was unable to find a buyer. When Fremont died in 2017, cousin David, became the executor. He finally completed the property sale in 2019.

I have found the recent Goggle map view of 1487 Robbins Avenue to be very strange. Several houses occupy the land that once held a concrete garage, which served as the family homestead; the result is completely unrecognizable. “Going-up-the-hill” exists only in my memory, where places and events will remain relative, at least for the time-being.

Since I’ve written reflections on my paternal relatives, it’s only fair I do the same for my mother’s side of the family. Born in 1907, she was the eldest of the Moranskys. The next in line was Aunt Sophia (1909). Among my mother’s siblings, she is the one I recall the least. She married Gilbert Tipper and they had five children, whom I seldom met before they all moved to California and completely disappeared from family interactions. I do remember that Maryann, their eldest daughter, who was only a year younger than I, had Down Syndrome, although, back then, the term “Mongolism” was commonly used for this genetic anomaly. During the time when there was contact among the cousins, she was usually protected by her sister Rosalie and younger siblings: Marcella, Gilbert and Oswald. Among them, I interacted primarily with Rosalie; I scarcely knew the others.

My mother’s next sister, Violet (1911) was my favorite aunt. The two of them remained very close during their entire lives. She was my mother’s matron-of-honor; her husband, Charles Weida (also known as Uncle Chike, seldom Chuck), the best-man. My Aunt Vi was my godmother, Uncle Chike, my godfather. She was almost a second mother to me. For several years during my early childhood, her family lived across from us on Cedar Street. I have very fond memories of those years spent there with Rosemary, my favorite cousin, and her sister, Donna. The three of us played together daily. They were my sisters and best friends. I have so many thoughts about them (and other cousins) that they deserve their own essays: Weida Girls and Cousins by the Dozens.

Aunt Vi’s home, whether across the street, on Main Street in Mineral Ridge, or on the other side of Niles, was a place of joy and noisy tranquility. It was constantly filled with her own children (Rosemary, Donna, Wanda, Charles, Bill, Althea, and Michael), other Moransky cousins, and hordes of kids from their own neighborhood, if not much of Mineral Ridge or Niles. Their dining room became a hub of hubbub during the day and into the evening. Laughter over milk and cookies of the early years grew into pleasant conversations over coffee and pastries in later years. If I needed, as I often did during my adolescence, to escape from Seneca to sanity, my retreat was to Aunt Vi’s, which was a long walk across town.

William Moransky, Uncle Bill, was next in line (1913). As Aunt Vi was my favorite aunt, Bill was my favorite uncle. She was my mother substitute; he was my father-figure, the model of what the perfect father would be. As the years moved on, he was the first adult who treated me as a fellow adult; I enjoyed merely being in his presence. Fortunately, there was a long period when he and his wife, Ada, provided my parents assistance in travel. It was not uncommon for them to drive us to different places to visit on a weekend. Trips to Lake Meander and to other nature-parks in northeastern Ohio introduced me to the idea that it is possible to travel and to experience new surroundings. We would also visit their home in Mineral Ridge. I spent minimal time with their son, my cousin Billy, Jr. I preferred to sit nearby and listen to the four adults talk. Besides, Uncle Bill allowed me to sit in his recliner – the seat he would otherwise occupy as his personal site, and the first such piece of furniture I had ever seen.

The other traveling companions for my own parents, since my father refused to own a car, were Aunt Rose, my mother’s youngest sister (1916), and her husband Frank Borecki. Being the youngest in the family, Rose maintained, for her entire life, a position of being fashionable. It always appeared that her attire and her own home were based on a television setting for a sitcom of the fifties. Their favorite places to visit were various shrines spread throughout northeastern Ohio. They favored them along with parish festivals and dinners. Aunt Rose, a very devout woman, was the one who persuaded all of my relatives not to attend, under pain of moral sin, my non-Catholic wedding with Karen in the Congregational church in Sandusky. I admit I was amused when years later, her son, my cousin Frankie Jr., was not married in the Church, either.

During my early days, I greatly enjoyed my trips with Uncle Frank and Aunt Rose, since he drove a Nash American convertible that had a rumble seat. There was no greater fun than being allowed to ride with the wind blowing my hair while the rest of me resided warmly concealed in this special place. It was also during one of those early adventures, I discovered that Uncle Frank was not quite as devout as Aunt Rose. While waiting alone in the front seat of the convertible for the return of the four adults, I discovered, in the car’s glove box, a small pornographic comic book, the first and only one I had ever seen.

Following Aunt Rose, came Uncle Frank, the youngest of my mother’s siblings, who was born late in the same year as Aunt Rose. Throughout my life, a distinction has always been made between “Uncle Frank” and “Frank Borecki.” When I was sacramentally confirmed, as a teenager, this Uncle Frank was my sponsor. I would have liked to have had Uncle Bill as my second godfather at the celebration of my Confirmation, but since he and Aunt Ada had not been married in the Catholic Church, he had suffered the same excommunication later promised by Aunt Rose when I was married “outside the Church.” At the time, his younger brother, Frank, was the best alternative for this sacramental responsibility. He had married Aunt Betty within the Church and so was an acceptable relative for the role, even if we seldom interacted before or after this event. I did not see either of them or their daughters, Carolyn and Diane, very often.

Almost every Sunday during my childhood, my parents and I would go to my paternal grandparents’ house on Vienna Avenue for dinner. During my adolescence, we went “up-the-hill” for the same purpose. Since we had to walk to either location, the visits did not occur during winter snows and spring rains. A similar regimen did not exist for the other side of the family. The Moransky relatives gathered on rare occasions, probably only for special events, the meanings of which I no longer recall – except for those Christmas Eve gatherings. Blurry black-and-white photos suggest there were special events in the very early years, before elementary school, when these relatives would gather for beer and card-games on a Sunday afternoon. These events, probably, involved the baptism of one of the cousins, although I do not remember any church service associated with them.

I do, however, recall one family reunion which occurred during my years at Kent State. There is a collection of Kodachrome photographs of a picnic attended by almost all of the aunts, uncles and cousins from the Moransky clan. It might have been part of a visit by Sophia and the Tipper family, since there are photos of them, as well as the families of Aunt Vi, Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose.

Later in life, when I no longer lived in Niles, my parents continued a close association with Uncle Bill, Aunt Ada, Aunt Rose and Uncle Frank Borecki. According to notations in my mother’s diary for those years, there are numerous Sunday dinners taken at local restaurants. Arthur Treacher seems to be among their favorites. I think the pleasure drives also continued for regional parks and religious sites, depending upon who the driver might be: Bill or Frank. I’m pleased they had the opportunity. It suggests that Karen and I can still enjoy local travel and dining, once COVID-19 is well past. My only concern is that we are out-of-practice, and it might take us an added effort to return to our own Arthur Treacher.

Aunts, uncles, and cousins – it’s time for comments about their parents, my grandparents, and a great-grandmother as well. It seems strange to me that I, myself, at the present, have nine great-grandchildren: Claire and Charlotte; Brantley and Shiloh; Elijah, Lila Rose and Liam; and Kipton. Even though they live close-by, I have seen them only at significant family gatherings. I’d like to blame this on the COVID-year. It is certainly not a lack of interest and desire causing us not to visit one another.

As for my own great-grandparents, I have no direct remembrance of any of them. There is a blurred photograph of me with Babush, my mother’s grandmother, Annie Sluchalis Olupkwicz, who was born in Poland in 1860, the time of the US Civil War! Except for a genealogical search, I would not know her name; I heard references only to Babush. The word is Polish for “grandma.” The designation probably comes from babuska, the head scarf worn by elderly Polish women.

My maternal grandmother was Rose Olupkwicz (1891- 1950). However, the Americanized name she used was Ulip, or some variation of this spelling. Since immigration agents often could not spell European names, especially those from Central Europe, they assigned new ones which might have a few sounds heard in the original language. Her husband was William Moransky, although a copy of my mother’s baptismal record suggests the original form was “Viktor Murawski.” Family legend reports that the agent wanted him to be “Moran,” but my grandfather insisted it must remain Polish. He was willing to accept the Irish name with a Polish ending. I suppose his first name, Wicktor, is why my mother was named “Victoria” and her oldest brother was “William,” although the transformation from Wicktor to William does take a leap of faith!

I personally have no real memories of Grandfather William, who died in 1945, when I was ten years old. This realization causes me to wonder if Brantley and Claire will have anything beyond a few photographs as the major part of their recollections of me. I’m pleased I have those of Grandfather William, whose name I took on, when I was confirmed a few years later.

It’s possible that Grandfather William was a coalminer in Ambridge, Pennsylvania, where he arrived, after leaving Poland sometime around 1900. Family stories suggest he came from Warsaw or Krakow, although genealogical searches report in was born in Zuweleki, Poland. He became a farmer when he and Rose moved to Ohio, sometime before 1913, since my Uncle Bill was born in Girard, rather than in Ambridge, where the older daughters were born.

I’ve described how, during the time I lived on her farm, I helped my grandmother Rose, by reading her recipes to her each day before she went to work as a cook at a local factory. Her spoken English was fluent, even though she could not read it. I remember how well dressed she was before going to church or on other visits. I also recall that she enjoyed whiskey. My mother, however, believing that her mother was an alcoholic, refused to drink cocktails, beer or wine. This may have been helpful to me in that I never tasted alcohol while growing up. On the other hand, I may have inherited the need for my gallbladder surgery from both of them! My grandmother’s occurred in the “dark ages” and I remember she had some sort of drainage bag during her final years. My Grandmother Moransky died in 1950, at age 59. I was fifteen. Does this suggest that if I live to 2030 (age 95!), Brantley and Claire may remember me!?

Name-wise, my father’s parents made out somewhat better at Ellis Island than my mother’s parents did. Evidently, Italian surnames were easier to spell phonetically than were those from Poland and other Slavic countries. My grandfather retained “Camerino,” my grandmother continued, until marriage, as “Russo.” However, first names were still a challenge. Luigi became “Lewis” rather than “Louis.” I’ve always wondered if the agent at Ellis Island was Welsh. My grandmother’s Italian name of Dolgizia (or Dulcizzia) was Anglicized into “Dorothy.” I suppose that transformation from the initial sound of “dull” to that of “dor” is equal to that from “wick” to “will” back in the early 1900’s.

My grandfather Luigi/Lewis was a painter-paperhanger all of his life, prior to becoming an urban farmer. Although the exterior of homes, back then, was painted (with two coats of outdoor paint), interior rooms were decorated with wallpaper rather than being painted. Enamel was used only for doorways and moldings around the upper edge of the walls, which were “hung” with rolls of paper having floral prints. As a young child I had fun when I occasionally helped to clean up scraps of wallpaper while avoiding the paste which was used to adhere the paper to the walls. Scrapping and tearing the old paper from the walls before the new wallpaper was applied was even more fun.

When grandpa Luigi retired, leaving the business to Uncle Joe, he worked long hours in the gardens surrounding the house “up-the-hill.” He sold his excess produce from a stand on the front lawn. His major offerings included tomatoes, corn, string beans and zucchini (also known as cucuzza and pronounced “cucutz.”) My grandmother, of course, supervised the canning of most of his crop. My favorite from the garden was fried peppers loaded onto fresh baked bread. The bread came from outdoor ovens when they lived on Vienna Avenue and from an indoor, cast-iron oven “up-the-hill.” I preferred the brick oven outside, even more so for my grandmother’s pizza.

If my lack of interest in drinking beer and wine is a result of the stories about my mother’s mother, and the medical fact that both of them had gallbladder problems, I should probably mention that my father’s mother had diabetes and Uncle Joe would administer her insulin, daily. Fortunately, therapy has improved tremendously over the last decade; I use my own epi-pen on a daily basis with minimal fuss.

In contrast to grandmother Moransky, grandmother Camerino never owned a fancy dress. She always wore a housedress made many years ago from floral-designed material. She always wore a half-apron around her waist. The two also differed in their use of English. I never heard a word of English come from my Grandmother Camerino. I knew she understood English, since she seemed to know what I said to her, but she refused to speak a word of it. On the other hand, I have mental images of my Grandfather Camerino reading the newspaper as he sat at the kitchen table drinking a mug of coffee.

As I’ve stated in other remembrances, Italian was the primary language spoken around the table during both dinner and card-playing “up-the-hill.” When I was young, I could make out some of what was being said, but never learned the language. On occasion my father would take great delight in one set of words with vastly different meanings in Italian and Polish. The word struny in Polish means “strings.” Although there is another word for string beans in Polish, the colloquial word was pronounced as “struntz.” The Italian heard this sound as a “piece of shit!” My father took great delight in the observation that my Polish relatives ate struntz.