Uncle Rocco Had Style

I never met him. As a matter of fact, I haven’t even seen his photo. But I have been told about him so many times, that a vibrant image comes to mind. A dashing figure. A fine story teller. A man of wit and charm and good looks. He could draw and paint and play many instruments. He gave lessons. He had a following, and was invited to parties. His siblings adored him as someone with a “great gift”. You knew when he entered the room. Scarlet lined cape flipped over a shoulder, soft Fedora at a jaunty angle over one eye, sporting a hand carved cane. He filled the space. He had presence.

But in his heart of hearts who was he? In the down times, when left to himself? Sure he came to family functions on occasion. And if you know anything about Italian family functions you know the warmth, and food, and good times that entails. But in the end, all my mom could tell me is he married a barmaid and they had many children. Mom never met them. The family always stayed home.

Crazy Quilt

On Art’s day off, during our prairie years, we went places. Mostly to the McDonald’s in town, for the ten cent burger special lunch, splitting a large soda between the three of us, (with free refills). Or to Ziegler’s, the thrift/antique/oddball place run by a family we knew. Several times a year we’d trek the hour and a half to Pierre, to a real shoe store, and get John’s problem feet fitted. While visiting the “big city” we’d tuck in some sites. South Dakota’s State Museum was air conditioned in summer, pleasantly warm in cold weather, quiet, and free. My favorite case enclosed a crazy quilt festooned with small oil paintings, embroidery, fair ribbons, and bits of cloth advertising. The varieties of silks, velvets and fine embroidery spoke of a more gentile life. Fair ribbons hinted at the realities of cattle farming, miles between neighbors, frostbite winters, and blasting hot summers. I recall Art and John impatiently pulling me a way from that display after a long look see. I so wanted to embed that image in my heart, to understand the woman who drew her disparate life-parts together.

My own attempt at quilting started innocently enough. While helping set up a yard sale, I spotted a 1940's red rayon tie in a pile of donated clothes. It shimmered ruby-like with blue and orange highlights in the white sun. And it was only 25 cents. Opening seams and ironing it flat, it yielded about eight inches of fabric at the widest spot. All in all, it took over forty ties for the quilt. Each had a story. One was my dad’s, a narrow woven black and white checkered number he wore in the seventies. Another came from a friend back home in Pennsylvania, a crazy red thing with gold threads woven through it. Most were silk or rayon, in various reds, given by individuals through word of mouth, or carefully collected at yard sales. Strips were arranged and rearranged side by side onto squares taken from a worn bed-sheet, then pieced, and assembled into wide panels. Panel over panel until a substantial rectangle formed. Then framed with swatches of drapery fabric, sandwiched with batting and another sheet, and finally quilted. Though not expertly done, it’s richly colored, and keeps us warm. And like the one in the museum, it tells a story, of places, family, and friends.

Looking at it Sideways and a Little Upside Down

The whole thing started by accident. In 1898, German chemist Hans von Pechmann heated diazomethane. It left a waxy residue which his colleagues dubbed “polymethylene”. For years nothing came of his discovery. Then in 1933, two British chemists, Reginald Gibson and Eric Fawcett combined ethylene and benzaldehyde under extremely high pressure and produced that same waxy plastic. It was easily molded and looked commercially promising. The trick was reproducing the process, as their equipment sprung a leak during pressurization, skewing results. Another chemist, Michael Perrin, finally reproduced the experiment in 1935. Perrin’s work became the basis for commercial production of “polyethylene”.

In 1939 polyethylene replaced metal in British radar components. This innovation enabled severely outnumbered Allied planes to carry on-board radar, giving them an advantage over Axis aircraft. After the war, chemists attempted to replace high pressure with chemical catalysts. In 1951, Americans Robert Banks and J. Paul Hogan, added chromium trioxide. It worked alright, but try as they might, they couldn’t get uniform quality. Tons of off-spec “Marlex” pellets filled Phillip’s Petroleum warehouses. So the product was laid aside again.

Backtrack a bit to 1948. Richard Knerr and Arthur Mellin started a slingshot company in their garage. These powerful little numbers tossed chunks of meat into the air to train falcons. As one might suspect, business was slow. That is, until one of the partners went on a sales trip to Australia. There he observed kids exercising in a school playground with wooden hoops. In 1958 Knerr and Mellin approached Phillip’s about purchasing their plastic. Phillip’s was delighted to get the stuff off their hands.

That odd marriage was a rousing hit. The former slingshot company,“Wham-O”, sold twenty million hula hoops in six months.

Christmas in Aliquippa

I may have been eight when the switch occurred, maybe younger, but not much older. I remember sitting at my grandparent’s table for a Christmas feast. Candlesticks gleamed, wine glasses shimmered, a hand crocheted table cloth lay over dark green damask, along with big linen napkins, and special dishes. I had graduated from the kiddie table, and was permitted to sit with the big people, use real silver, and sip a bit of Cribari Mellow Flame. Grandmom lovingly prepared and presented each course, one after another, in leisurely succession. The conversation hummed on. Stories told. Recollections of meals we had known and loved. Oohs and Aahs at each new course’s arrival.

Grandmom came by the many-coursed meal honestly. In her region of Italy, Abruzzi, an ancient feast to the gods was held, called a panarda. With Catholic influence, it was cleansed of "gods" stuff, and added to the repertoire of special occasions, like weddings and feast days. I never quite got the hang of it though. By the time I had a few olives and a piece of fennel, some of Grandmom’s incredible wedding soup, and a bit of homemade pasta in a sauce simmered for hours with a veal bone and three-meat meatballs, I was stuffed. No room for the turkey, ham, roasted vegetables, broccoli. No room for salad. No room for tangerines, walnuts and Torrone candy. And even when she served a certain cookie I adored and said, "I made this especially for you", I was hard pressed to eat more than one or two.

So we’d sit and talk and tell stories. Actually the adults talked, and I’d listen, big eyed. Grandpa’s tales included secretly borrowing his foreman’s car to learn to drive and knocking over outhouses in the process. Or the time he was harassed by a ham fisted drunk bully, and being so scared Grandpa knocked the guy down, sat on him, pummeled him with his fists, and won. (Grandpa was about 5'7") Or the little old lady with a cane in Montegallo who chased him out of her cherry tree when he was a kid. Uncle Tony spoke about more genteel things, the beautiful hills in his region of Sicily, and ewes bearing lambs in the spring. All very educational.

After an hour or so, a bit of stomach room opened up and Grandmom would say, "Can I get you a little something?" And Uncle Tony would say, "Un poco." So out came the meats and vegetables and salad and desserts and fruit and Torrone. With a little more wine, and a little more coffee. Uncle Tony would then unbutton his pant’s top button, pat his stomach and say, "I feel just like the Pope." With that benediction, the meal was over.

Bill Hoffman

"Well done, good and faithful servant, enter into the joy of your Lord." What a thing for a person to hear the God of the universe say. I can’t help thinking Bill was awestruck by the beauty of heaven and Christ when he entered in. Not to become sloppily sentimental. But soak in the book of Revelation. John’s words fail him in describing what he sees and hears. You have to be at least a wee bit impressed with the overwhelming glory of it all.

Someone described Bill as an infectious Christian. That suits him. He loved painting, he loved music, he loved woodworking, he loved his wife and kids, and he loved God. If a library is gone when an individual dies, and no one’s read it’s pages, that would be an irreparable loss. But because of Jesus' gift to him, Bill was constantly giving away paragraphs and books of himself to people. And he cared about a lot of people. He’s added to all of our personal libraries, and we’re the richer for it. Now it’s our turn to give our paragraphs and books away.

Bill Hoffman died on December 7th around 11 pm at home. Just shy of his 63rd birthday. His memorial service will be held on December 19th at 11 am.

Dumpster Diving

I got admonished a couple months ago by some employees as I peeked into the thrift store dumpster. Broad daylight and on a weekday no less. At least it was out back. Since I frequent the paying side of the store I’m on a first name basis with almost everyone there. So the finger wagging was personally directed and kindly intentioned. They were worried for my safety (broken glass) and probably thought it a bit over the top that someone they actually had truck with would succumb to such devices. So there was some concern for my reputation as well. However, pretty cool things make it into that dumpster. On that particular occasion I was sorely tempted to return after hours and dig through. About a hundred marbles in a cracked vase sat right at the edge on top. All those marbles, and totally free. If I just had a box. Perhaps in another life, or in someone else’s town, or with a truly brazen friend. But not that time. Admittedly, I’ve been known to do it if something poked out on top that looked particularly promising. But never during store hours. Especially when people were coming out the back door during lunch. Perhaps next time I should wear a mask.

A Place of One's Own

Ever since my younger days playing under a blanket draped table, I’ve liked cozy spaces. With concern for people’s carbon footprint, the small house movement is gathering adherents in the outside world, among grown up people. Several problem solvers stand out, and they’re not just from the green movement. Jay Shafer, whose Tumbleweed Tiny House Company produces gem-like-all-inclusive living spaces, and Maria Cusato, architect for the first Katrina House. Shafer offers plans for the do-it-yourselfer and finished homes for the non-handy. Cusato’s design is available through Lowe’s in several Southern states.

Les Walker (writer of a family favorite, "Housebuilding for Children"), recently revealed his not-so-secret passion, in his book on minuscule historic dwellings. Though blueprints aren’t included, "Tiny Houses" is packed with photos, drawings, and enough information to enable someone to construct their own.

As my packrat box of treasured doorknobs and architectural debris attests, I’m quite interested in including salvaged materials in a future home. Texas Tiny House Company is already there. They construct one-of-a-kind structures using historic salvage. You scoff, but I’m actually thinking ahead. As housing is part of Art’s pay, we need to live somewhere else eventually. A subsidized apartment vs. a miniature house on a cooly wooded lot, with a two-seater porch swing out front. Really now, what would you prefer? I just have to convince Art we can make room for all his books.