Mornings were usually the same: dad came home from the night shift at the Post Office, mom made me breakfast and dad had last night’s left overs warmed up or a sandwich. I hung out with dad for a while until he took his nap, but today was different. Mom was leaving with her sister, my Aunt Frances, for appointments in Manhattan and I wasn’t going. I didn’t have a problem with this because Manhattan wasn’t fun. Manhattan was a prison sentence. I had to always hold hands, couldn’t touch anything, and was dragged everywhere.
I was given strict instructions from mom as always. Dad was flexible. I was told that I would be with Grandpa today and not to bother daddy.

Mom leaving the house was like a tornado in Texas while dad and I calmly watched TV. Mom came into the living room to kiss us both goodbye and left us both with lipstick marked faces. I think that was graffiti for her and we both waited for her to leave before grabbing the Kleenex and removing the war paint.
It was time for dad’s nap, and I was sent downstairs to Grandpa who was waiting for me with a carton of Tropicana orange juice in his hand and said, “You wanna da juice?” Grandpa spoke his own English, sometimes half English and half Italian, but I understood him. I finished that iced cold glass of juice and asked if I could play in the garage. He said, “Ok, but dona get dirty. You comma with me later.” He said something in Italian and “Go, go.”

I loved the garage because it had so many things to play with. Grandpa was a mason, self-employed, and had a big red flatbed truck with wooden rails and ‘Falco’ on the doors. He dropped the ‘De’ because it didn’t fit well on the doors, so I was told later. It’s funny that half the family became Falco while the other half kept DeFalco. It was two clans under one roof. They would say things like, “What do you know, you’re a Falco!” Anyways, I was heading for the garage because there was always a huge mountain of sand to play in and sometimes get yelled at, well, most of the time, every time.

I wasn’t in there a minute when I moved a shovel and got a splinter that went in deep, the kind that throbbed while turning your finger red instantly with just a tiny dot showing. I was always told to take bumps and bruises like a man, but the hell with that! this was a mothership splinter, so I went running and screaming, SPLINTER! SPLINTER!!

My Grandpa came out onto the terrace and waived me over to him while saying something in Italian, I’m sure it wasn’t good. He held the screen door open and pointed to the bathroom while still saying something in Italian and shaking his head. I didn’t need this aggravation – I had a tree stuck in my finger! Grandpa opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the brown bottle that had the foamy water and poured it on the splinter, so far so good, but then he pulled out the tweezer, grabbed my finger tightly and said “dona move.” I’d been down this road before, so I started yelling “OW! OW!” before he grabbed the splinter and pulled it out. Like an old-world Italian battlefield surgeon, he had that splinter firmly between the jaws of the tweezer. Miraculously, the pain, throbbing, and redness was gone. He waived the tweezer and tree trunk splinter at me while saying “Monage” (a word used to express frustration) along with something else in Italian that also didn’t sound good. He put a Band-Aid on that was for adults so it looked like my finger had a parachute on it. I wasn’t about to push my luck so I didn’t say anything. Grandpa smiled and said, “Come, we go,” and on we went.

First and third generation of Falco and DeFalco went out the door and up Mazeau Street to Grand Ave where the world was. We turned the corner onto Grand and stopped in front of Maggio’s Deli where Mr. Maggio was inside yelling Italian to my grandpa. They both laughed and waved, and we moved on, he talked for a while to Tony and his mom at Tony’s bakery, all in Italian so I had no idea what was being said. It seemed like he knew everybody because everyone spoke to him in English and Italian, just like him. Many wanted to touch my head and say, “You’re his grandson,” as if I didn’t know. Somehow, between the broken English and touching we made it to Carvel.

Grandpa was a tough, stern old guy, but if worked right, was a softy. I somehow knew just what to do to get away with stuff and this was the time, time for Carvel, and it worked. We crossed the street and there it was, the Carvel guy, and behind him all the Carvel you can eat. Sure enough, Grandpa knew this guy too. They talked and talked and after what seemed like a million years of talking, I finally got a chocolate soft serve with chocolate sprinkles. The Carvel put me in a trance. The next thing I remember we entered a store with painted black windows, dark inside with a bunch of older Italian guys sitting around playing cards.

We walked in and again it seemed like everyone knew him and my father as well. I got passed around like a signed baseball while they said, “Look, it’s Frank’s grandson and Phil’s kid.” The room smelled like cigars, booze and tomato sauce. One of the goombahs took me to the back yard to watch them play bocce ball. After a lifetime went by Grandpa came back and said “Come, we go. You thirst?” and handed me a Manhattan Special coffee soda. I became addicted to that stuff from that day on.

Once again, the first and third generation of Falco and DeFalco were on their way home, but this time no Carvel because it was close to dinner time and I was exhausted from all that Italian and bocce ball to even try to push him, so I felt he owed me one.

On that long walk home Grandpa would point things out in Italian and his English, but somehow, we had our conversation, and I didn’t have to hold his hand, but sometimes I did.

Occhiogrosso’s bakery was a favorite for Grandpa. He knew the family and had done some concrete work for them, so we went inside. I gazed at all the great looking chocolate cookies and cakes while he went in the back to talk Italian and have a few shots with them to the old days. That went on a lot with these old timers along Grand Avenue when I was with him. Grandpa handed me the white box filled with goodness and off we went. Last stop was Maggio’s deli and again the Italian was flying like Old Glory in a windstorm. Mr. Maggio handed him the brown paper bag with ham, cheese, salami, and all sorts of goodies.

We arrived home and everyone was home. Mom was back, my Aunt Stella was home from work, and my dad was up and refreshed.

I remember that time with fondness. We all ate dinner together downstairs at Grandpa’s as a family, sharing conversation about the day and me getting Grandpa to give me some wine with dinner.
After all, he owed me one.

Paul DeFalco was born and raised in Maspeth.