Chapter One of One Hell of a Ride

I was born in Denver, Colorado, on March 12, 1925, a date which is probably only of interest to family and friends each year when my birthday rolls around and it's time to buy another cake and squeeze an extra candle into the icing. That makes me seventy-eight, and if I don't write about my life now, it may never happen. Tempus fugit. My own family knows little about me. Distant relatives and grandchildren know even less. They may not be inclined to believe my tale, of course, since it contains events that one would expect to find in a James Bond novel. Nevertheless, it's all true, and, for my money, that's the measure of a man's life: the truth. It's equally true, of course, that I prefer tennis, fly-fishing, and bird hunting with my English pointers to writing, but it's the only way people are going to find out about the events in my life-savory and unsavory.

I myself, for example, would love to have known more about my father, Jim, who was born into a large family in Naples, Italy. Dad emigrated from the old country at thirteen and somehow ended up in Brooklyn, like so many of his contemporaries. New York attracted large populations of Irish and Italians like a proverbial magnet since the magnet was a tall metallic woman in New York Harbor who said things like "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore." The magnetic woman filled New York neighborhoods quickly in the decades immediately before and after the turn of the century.

Dad made his money by selling woolens using Puerto Rico's means of transportation, which was mule or donkey. He must have done something right down by the equator. When he returned to the U.S., he was able to buy a car and a chauffeur. I can remember when our chauffeur quit and told Dad, "You drive!" And he did-right through the garage into the neighbor's back yard. The car came to an abrupt halt, the kind that gets everyone's attention. Perhaps he spent too much time with a donkey in South America.

It wasn't easy for my mom who met and married Dad in St. Paul upon his return to America. He had made a lot of money selling woolens. At this point in their lives, they decided, at Mom's insistence, to settle down, and so they chose Denver to be the location of Fredrick Tailoring Co. Dad took two of his half-brothers, Iggie and Dan Garafola from Brooklyn, with him. They were both journeymen in tailoring and could run the company while Dad and Mom traveled to solicit orders. Little did Mom know that this would be in her future, but traveling was in Dad's blood, and there was no way he could be tied down to the factory every day, much to her despair.

So, we headed for Denver, "we" meaning Mom, Dad, Harry, baby sister Ginger, and myself, and, of course, Nick, our chauffer. Ginger, at three, was barely past the diaper stage, and my brother and I were about four and two years of age, respectively. We were like gypsies, not living more than six to ten months in one place. We lived in areas where money could be made, even in the depression years. They were all small mining towns and logging areas where most of the employees were from Italy and spoke little English. Dad was in his glory, and these pisanos were making good money and had nowhere to spend it until Dad came along. Dad was very trusting. He always said, "Pay me later." Some did, some didn't. He loved this venture, as I am sure it reminded him of his donkey days in Puerto Rico. He usually set up his business in the local bar where the owner would most likely be Italian. Dad would do his thing just after the mine would close for the day. His favorite "attention-getting" words would be "Bartender, buy the house a drink!"

A place for a family to stay was almost nonexistent. I can remember to this day how I slept in a dresser drawer when there was no other place to put me. This was consistent with the small towns we stayed in. No luxury Motel 6s in those days (pun intended). We lived for short periods in various mill and mining towns in Utah and Wyoming, occasionally going back and forth to Denver. Then it was on to Montana, Idaho, and Washington before going back to New York. Finally we went back to Denver for two months. The mines in Montana were going full swing, so next it was on to Butte, Great Falls, Gallup (New Mexico), and Jackson (California), where Dad decided to drop anchor permanently while a new Fredrick Tailoring Co. was being built in San Jose, California.

With prosperity came the urge that most Italians feel at some point in their lives: to return to the homeland, at least for a visit. Italians are famous for inspiring guilt trips in their children if the kids don't return home for Sunday dinner at regular intervals. Therefore, in the year 1929, during the construction of the new Fredrick Tailoring location, Dad decided it would be a good time to go to Europe. So Mom and we kids took the train from San Francisco to St. Paul, where Mom was born, to visit her parents. Dad and Nick would drive from Denver to St. Paul in the new 1929 Packard. Then we left St. Paul and drove to New York where we boarded the USS Leviathan, a four-stacker captured from the Germans in WWI and turned into a luxury liner. We left on May 29, 1929, which put me at four years and two months old.

While underway, it wasn't long before I became bored, and so I decided to go looking for Nick one night. Mom was so seasick that she remained in bed the entire time aboard ship. As far as I was concerned, I wasn't lost while searching for Nick who always gave me the attention a child needs. We were pals and he would tell me about all the wild game he would see while traveling with Dad-tigers, elephants, and anything else I could think of. I wandered for quite a while throughout the maze of hallways and decks.

When Dad discovered me missing, a massive search ensued, but the search went on only in the first-class section. No one realized that I had crossed the line from one class to the other-there was only a rope separating first- and second-class passengers. After I had asked no fewer than twenty passengers the simple question, "Where's Nick?" (as if everyone should know who Nick was), some man said I should try the dance hall and gave me directions to where I saw a fellow sitting on a trunk. I walked up to him and, in a bewildered tone, the man asked, "Are you lost?"

And I replied, "No, I am only looking for Nick."

This man immediately went to the PA system and said, "If there is a Nick in here, report to the main entrance because there is a little boy looking for you." Nick was shocked, but I had found him. My mom was pretty peeved and told me that I was going to be the death of her one day.

Unfortunately for Mom, she had more aggravation waiting for her on the high seas. My brother and I snuck into the gym on the Leviathan, where I boosted him onto a mechanical horse. I couldn't reach the wall switch to turn on the machine, so my brother urged me to jump higher so he could have his time in the saddle. I finally succeeded, with both the horse and my brother going wild. Upon being thrown by this bucking contraption, my brother tore his tailor-made pants, which didn't please Mom one little bit since we weren't allowed in the gym to begin with.

The trip was interesting, to say the least, but it involved many kind-hearted, emotional people talking very rapidly, mostly about food and other relatives. The countryside was beautiful, and that, believe it or not, is the story of Italy. Keep in mind that I wasn't five yet, my brother, Harry, was close to six, and my sister, Ginger, was around three. The world, just like foreigners, tends to be hazy when a young person is spirited from one place to another.

Anyway, Dad never did get off the road, and I would be his chauffeur when I was on school vacation and until WWII. I will always remember his favorite expression, which would embarrass the hell out of me ("This cloth is so good you can sit on rocks with it."). He could say this in three languages. My question was who in hell wants to sit on rocks in any language.

As for Dad's other half-brothers, most of them remained back east. They were the Garafolas. One was a policeman, and Willie was a boxer and a dock foreman. His son, Ralph, is one of the finest artists that ever came out of Brooklyn. (See www.ralphgarafola.com. And then, of course, there were some relatives in the mob (Mafia).

I feel my mom's presence now more than ever, as one tends to forget what Mom went through. Sadly, at only 50 years of age, she ended her life.