Cape Cod Crusader

Tribute to the Rascal King

Six degrees of separation. We sometimes hear those words in an attempt to explain the unexplainable. How strange and quick events occur, without notice--like a flash of light and how they transform us into the people we become.  Sometimes we go on a gut instinct about things we pursue, like stories that have nothing at all to do with us, but serve as a reminder of days gone by.  The days which lay like broken glass from a cherished figurine, never to be put back together in the same way, so we toss it in the barrel and say forget it, what does it matter. If we dare to pick it up and mend it,  could it somehow be preserved or will those sharp edges cut us deeply, never to be healed again.  Sharp fragments which later serve as a burning torch inside a maze, providing a lumious, long journey with some rough terrain--and like written parchment from an old quill, sent by secret courier--there lied a detailed map of riches.

I'm still haunted by the days of standing inside a red line train, reading that red and black hard covered book,  by a local journalist, not so long ago, trying to find the answers about dad and his days during prohibition.  It's the best kept secret around, but if you're lucky enough to find a few of dad's old friends who remember those days, they might just toss you a few quick stories.  Stories to help shape the missing parts of who the man my dad was, who just one family member simply described when pressed, "well, he was sort of unethical".   My response may have come as quite a shock. I just laughed out loud.  By this time, I had already learned some stories but always wanting to know more about the man I felt I never knew enough about.

Many of us are taught that good and bad are separate traits--you are either good or bad, never both.  A devout Christian who always walks a straight line of virtue or a condemned Devil, one who is dripping of poison, lethal enough for everyone to fear and avoid at all cost.  St. Augustine said,  "We walk among angels and demons and both live inside of man".  I think St. Augustine may have been onto something.  Maybe he knew something the rest of us didn't know.

While sitting in dad's 1950's model chunky style, silver matte Buick, those words keep coming back, "See that house over there with the shamrocks, that is the home of my good friend, Mayor Curley".  What did an 8 year old know about some guy who lived in what appeared to be a dulled stucco white-gray house with shamrocks cut out from the matching pale wooden shutters? I wondered why dad use to take me to the St. Michael's Cemetary in Forest Hills every Sunday.  I think he enjoyed those rides since they helped to reminise of the good ole days.  Driving by James Michael Curley's home seemed to be a declaration of paying tribute for all that he did for dad and he wanted me to know how much he loved his friend.  But why was he so insistent on pointing to his house every Sunday?  Even an 8 year old girl thought this was a bit weird. Afterall, it wasn't as though I had met Mayor Curley, nor did I meet the other guy who use to send us Christmas cards every year.  The card was simply signed, Senator McKenna.  Mom would always yell when I insisted on knowing who Curley and McKenna were--and she would tell me to stop asking those questions and seal my incessant pleas with, "They were very good friends of your father when he lived on Hanover Street, nothing more".

The only stories I heard around the Sunday dinner table about dad,  were about how he provided wine on Hanover Street in a tavern that also doubled as his home. Daily patrons included local cops, senators and judges.  I use to think that was a strange set of customers, but that was when I was naive and never told about family business.  He raised six children on Hanover Street, but I arrived much later, in the 60's.  Although, he was  older than my mother, by 40 years, he remained a virile man which defied the ordinary male stamina.  Dad was born in the mountain range of Northern Italy in a place called Vezzolacca di Vernasca.  He visited a few times, in the early 1920's through Ellis Island, as documented on a manifesto I found through a website.  He fled Nazi Germany and tried to make a better life for himself and his family in America as many did and he enjoyed a full life surrounded by loyal friends and family.

I suppose I've realized that throughout all my days of research and blogging, the most important quest of all, was the search of who my dad was, because somehow it all links back to Cape Cod.  You see, he really wasn't a wine maker, but instead,  what his dear friend "chipper" described as,  "The only one who made the very best cherry rum around".  I recently discovered there are  photos, somewhere of dad and James Michael Curley and other well known politicians of that era. I hope to discover those photos and more about dad.  But, during this time of finding out who he was, I realized one important thing--who he was to me.  He was just dad.

So, thanks Mike, King of the Rascals,  for all you did for dad. Whatever it was, that bonded you,  those long ago memories sure brought many smiles to his face while circling the Jamaica Way, and even a few glimmering wells from those sad eyes.