THE WINE BOTTLE

It was about 1958. Dad was stationed in Iceland with the U.S. Air Force and we were living in a beat up duplex next to Grandma Mongelli and her second husband Joe Pirani. Joe was a short, stocky, steel worker, with huge hands and arms, strong from years of manual labor. He wasn't particularly bright, was prone to drink too much wine and could barely speak English.

Dick, Bob and I were "cute kids" to him and he never took us very seriously. Uncle John was frequently there to help Mom with repairs on our house, a house that had seen better days. He was the "man" of our home and we relied on him for advice and male role modeling. We would have probably never rented that home under normal conditions, however, since it was right next to Gramma, we endured.

A common expression for, "Dicky" was "fifty dollars." When asked the cost of anything, he would always give the same reply. "How much does it cost Dicky?" Grampa Pirani would say and Dicky would reply, "Fifty Dollars." It always got a big laugh out of Grampa, none of us could quite figure out why, but that was Grampa. Uncle John was kind, took an interest in each of us kids and would talk with us on Grandma's covered patio about "important" things to us. John played the trombone, drove a big car and had a full head of rich, dark hair. We loved him, respected him and looked forward to our talks as he tried to be Uncle to us and a Dad to his own wife & family.

Grandma's house was well cared for in every detail. She shined, cleaned and polished every day. The size of the house was maybe 800 sq. feet and included a carport. It all sat on perhaps a sixth of an acre. The outside of the home was maintained by Grampa Pirani and he also did a great job, when he was sober. Gramma was usually after Grampa for something almost perpetually. They would speak in rapid fire Italian and we couldn't understand a word but could tell by facial expressions and mannerisms, what was going on. He would always say to her, when he felt like using English, "Don't worry for nothing." "Joe, the house, she's a need painting," she would say. He would reply, "Don't worry for nothing." and eventually get around to painting the house.

One day, Joe was working in the vegetable garden on a very bright, hot Fresno, California, summer day. He grew corn, tomatoes, and other vegetables and the entire property was directly across the street from a huge grape vineyard. Evidently that made him think of his wine bottle or maybe it was something else, but anyway, he began to hit the sauce quite liberally. The three of us boys were climbing trees in our yard and saw what Joe was doing. We weren't rocket scientists by any stretch; I was about 12 or 13, Bob was about nine and Dick maybe five or so, but we could still tell that trouble was brewing. Speaking of brew, the show next door was more interesting than climbing trees so we watched with some interest as Joe began to sing loudly and stagger about.

Just then, Gramma came out for some reason, throwing out trash or whatever, looked at Joe and began to scold him. He scolded her back and was rattling off in Italian, I suppose saying something like, "mind your own business." She got madder and spoke faster. Joe got madder and staggered more, but we weren't prepared for what happened next. Joe went over to the garden hose turned it on and began squirting Gramma with the water. She ran about screaming and finally went inside the house, thinking she was safe. That did not even slow Joe down. He went inside the house with the garden hose and squirted her some more. She was screaming hysterically and he was laughing, having a grand time. Joe finally took the water ouside when Gramma slipped on the floor. He laughed some more, finally turned off the water and passed out on the lawn chair. It took Gramma hours to clean up the house and she didn't speak to Joe for days.

We, as kids, thought it was all very comical but now looking back as adults, it all seems so sad. A few years later, when I was about 20, and serving in the military, Gramma was killed in a pedestrian accident. Joe went hysterical, became helpless as a child and later died in a nursing home. Funny, but it's one of those stories that got burned into my memory.