Letter III to Roxie by Betty Finocchiaro
Excerpt from the Short Story titled "The Day My Father Made me Promise to Shoot Him on Pulaski Road" by Patricia Bennett
Drawing and Tanka Poem, "Mexican Dragon" by George Asdel
Letter III to Roxie By Betty Finocchairo
Hi There Kid,
Been meaning to write, but my life has gotten in the way. There's always so much to do around here. d I've never understood people who moan and groan about how bored they are. I'm too busy to notice stuff like that. Maybe they should get a life that could get in theirway.
A couple of days ago I came across some old family pictures and amazingly a picture of my uncle Max fell to the floor. Its probably the only one I have of him. It set me off thinking about him and the relationship he had with my mother. They were like cat and mouse, my mother being the cat. She chased him down everywhere she could and being a kid, I never understood her reasons to look for him. They couldn't stand each other.
Did you know that the whole family called him the “Engineer?” I use this title quite loosely since I never saw any evidence that he was truly in the profession. The last I had heard he was a janitor in the school system. Mom and I would visit him, usually on a Saturday, when I think my mother knew she could nab him. His office was in the school's basement. From the time I was a little girl, she literally dragged an unwilling me to visit her educated brother. Everyone in the family deferred to this sibling because everyone in the family did not go past third grade. So, the respect was tantamount to adulation. I think I was the only smart one to figure him out. Maybe Pop knew too.
Uncle Max had a strong personality just like his strong addictions to cigarettes and coffee. I still get sick to my stomach when I think of how he would crush the butt of his cigarette grinding it into the bottom of the not quite empty cup, soaking up the last drops of coffee. Ugh.
Honestly Roxie, when I think about my childhood, my mind runs the full gamut of one emotional scene to another. My mother's whole family lived off the edge of a roller coaster of emotions. My shelter from this storm was always within the confines of my father's stability. I hid there and felt safe. Having uncle Max live with us was a nightmare. I hated it and it went on well into my teens, until my dad got up the courage to get rid of him. I remember, it was a Sunday morning and I was standing near his car that he was packing his things into when I asked him where he was going. His answer was “your father threw me out.” Can you imagine a grown man talking to a kid that way? What he didn't know was this was no sad song for me. I was glad to see the free-loader go.
When I was six years old, mom, dad and I moved to another part of the city. We had come from the tenements to what I remember as a very pretty apartment. Uncle Max - again -lived with us for awhile. He seemed to rotate homes among his brothers and sisters and for the life of me, I still can't figure out why this so called respected engineer didn't have a home of his own. Remember I was a kid and nobody explained anything to me. One day, mom took me shopping with her and when we returned home there was an ambulance outside of the building. Mom panicked. I think she knew this scene involved her brother. Mama and I went up to the third floor where we lived to find the door wide open. I know she didn't expect the scene we came upon. I can still hear her screams.
The carpeted floor was littered with bottles of iodine which lay in puddles of their red liquid. The stench burned our throats. My mother was mumbling something to herself and then she began to cry. Uncle Max had tried to commit suicide. I found out later that he had attempted the same thing once before.
Wow! How one little picture can conjure up so many bad memories is amazing. But you know Roxie, It wasn't always that bad. Sure, it's taken me many years to understand my mother's aloofness, at least that's how I saw it. But I long ago forgave her. You know she had tragedies in her life that maybe she was too weak to overcome. She had a wino for a father who beat the mother she loved and from what I saw, was never able to forgive him. Then she lost her precious baby boy at six months to pneumonia – I was three and a half years old – and life had to be hard. There was the Great Depression going on. Oh, I could go on and on, but I really don't want to depress you kid. I've gotta find happier things to write to you about.
Have I ever told you, your'e a great listener? And how much I like you? Your'e a lot like me or a lot like how I wanna be. That's it Roxie! I wanna be just like you.
Love you,
Betty
See the Original Letter to Roxie and Letter II to Roxie |
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Mexican Dragon
Drawing and Tanka Poem by George Asdel
Who drew me in black?
I’m supposed to be bright red!
Color of chilies
Color of summer sunsets
Color of my wildest dreams
An Excerpt From the Short Story Titled
The Day My Father Made Me Promise to Shoot Him on Pulaski Road
by Patricia Bennett
My father and I have an understanding about life . . . . I suppose you might say it began the day he made me promise to shoot him on Pulaski Road.
I was born late in my father’s life.
When I was very young, barely eight, we traveled together every Sunday afternoon from the suburbs of Chicago to its northwest side, to my grandparent’s home on Pulaski Road.
During the warm summer months, we drove with the windows of my father’s ’54 Buick rolled down and the radio turned up. We sat side by side on the front seat, our eyes squinting against the sunlight, our ears straining toward the radio. An excited broadcaster pumped our imaginations with the play-by-play as the Cubs ran bases on Chicago’s south side.
We were headed for the city, and all the while the Cubs played their game.
When Ernie Banks struck out at the plate, my father slapped the side of the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and groaned as though he’d been slugged in the belly. But when Ernie Banks hit a home run, my father reached for my hand, shook it hard, and let out a whoop and a holler. I’d let out a whoop and a holler as well, and we’d sit there together, side by side, grinning ear to ear as Ernie rounded the bases.
Truth be told, baseball wasn’t my game, but I swear I would have learned to love the art of batting cow pies and whooped all the same just to share those rides with my father, and Ernie Banks, on a summer’s afternoon. |
