Is there anyone out there who has not heard I am moving? Yes, I am moving, which without much prodding, will give rise to my incurable ADHD flurry of neurosis, and cause a full-blown panic attack.
My way to find snaps and give credit to books.
However, one of the benefits of my hyper active nature is my love of making copious “to-do” lists:
- Remember to change address on driver’s license.
- Switch all utilities.
- Forward mail.
- Write at least two blog posts so I am not insane each Tuesday evening or Wednesday morning for the next two weeks.
- Empty storage unit of boxes I have not opened for over eighteen years.
- Yikes !!
Telling Tales:
Like many writers I keep my first novel hidden in a dark file drawer. Parts taken from old journals, I began this book in 2007, captured her on a floppy disc, converted her to a flash drive, burned her innards onto a CD … and saved all versions, copies and note files.
I use them often … those notes I save like rare treasures.
At this stage of her undress, I dare not call her a novel. She is more a collection of short stories under the umbrella of the place where it all began … Sunset Park, Brooklyn.
I have shared snippets of her in other posts, including part of a story I wrote to my older brother, called The Harmonica Man. My dad was a dandy candy man, my mother, a dreamer.
Being of a mind that the truth may be more fun than fiction, I might take Shelley Freydont’s suggestion and tell their real story one day. Today, however, I would like to share with you two parts of my first fledgling book … Sunset Park.
Imagine if you will that these snippets are like writing exercises, prompts, short characterizations that I often clip from her saved files and use in whatever manner I so desire.
I might have the impulse to talk about a character I call Benny “The Bag Man” Longo. A man who ran numbers and did weekly collections for the local family near the Brooklyn docks.
I could tell you that in our vast configuration of fifty-seven varieties of Italians, I have found dozens of characters to use in dozens of stories.
I could tell you all of that and more, because it is my true belief that like most writers, I use every minute of my life, and all the people and places I have known as fodder for my tall tales.
Or that somehow, regardless of those dastardly genre categories, we all find ways to put “what we know” into the imaginings of “what might have been.”
The thirteen short stories (my Baker’s Dozen) in my first never-to-be-read novel were written in honor of my Italian-American heritage, my family and friends, and for Brooklyn, the fourth largest city in the United States.
The original introduction of Sunset Park …
Sunset Park is where the kids grew up. Had they grown up in small towns or villages with funny sounding names like their parents, the kids might have known they came from the wrong side of the tracks. The families in the surrounding neighborhoods knew.
These kids lived on the wrong side, below the park and heading down to the Brooklyn docks, destined to find out later in life they were underprivileged.
The park at the turn of the century
What dreams do you keep?
In her forty years, Carmela survived two world wars, the Great Depression and working in a cigar factory at the tender age of nine.
Her parents, who did not understand or speak a word of English, brought over two children and a bun in the oven from a small village outside Naples, Italy. They survived the cramped, filthy quarters of steerage to arrive at the most terrifying moment of their young Italian lives, Ellis Island.
The bun in the oven was Carmela Louisa Gambone. She grew up dirt-poor, the youngest of a sharecropper, who managed to kill himself with drink before he reached fifty. She worked on conveyor belts in a cigar factory and a machine shop to help her older brother and sister support their widowed mother.
After her marriage to Frank Gallucci she worked in the white factory buildings of Bush Terminal as a seamstress. And after the birth of her youngest and only girl, Antoinette, cooked all the hot foods for their breakfast and lunch restaurant off Second Avenue, near the Brooklyn docks.
Her work ethic was unyielding. She and her husband, a man who labored since childhood on Italian merchant ships and as a longshoremen, worked side by side to build a better life for their children.
And she would not allow her children to forget or ignore the sacrifices and hard work it takes to become successful in this great and beautiful land.
It was the winter of 1952. By midday, nothing was moving on the streets, not even the red trolley. Though major snowstorms did not always hit downstate in the five boroughs, when they did, they hit the unprepared citizens of New York City with a vengeance.
Carmela found it impossible to admit she might have to lose a week of work, have children underfoot, and spend countless hours drying the unending pile of wet clothing brought in off the streets by her two younger children.
She believed with great fervor that her duty to God and country was to mold decent, solid, law-abiding children and was not above a good “what-for” to produce the desired results. Patience could not be counted as one of her virtues.
Her patience lasted as long as it took to tell her children what to do and a half a minute for them to get their little bottoms moving.
The snow was still coming down in heavy white sheets. She stood for a moment, looking out of the third floor window of their apartment. Running down the middle of the street without a care in the world, Antoinette laughed as she slid on her bottom.
Carmela shook her head and threw open the window. “I want you up here right now, young lady.” She wore her favorite pink throw around her shoulders, her dark brown hair salted with white flakes as she leaned on the windowsill.
Play was for idle, shiftless children who didn’t know their proper duties to their parents. No child of Carmela’s wasted time playing when they could be doing chores, errands or out into the real world of work as soon as the law would allow.
Although Carmela was known to bend that particular law, farming her two boys out to work behind the counter of the grocery store, washing dishes in the local diner or in the back of the family business. Each birthday of each of her three children brought greater responsibilities, and no one escaped Carmela’s wrath if their responsibilities were neglected.
It irritated Carmela to be a captive of the snow her daughter loved. Winter was not her favorite season. She had never made a snowman, thrown a snowball or had much to do with snow, lest it be shoveled off the front steps and airy-way into the gutter. It was a luxury to play with and Carmela was not one for luxuries.
While Antoinette made her way to their third floor apartment, Carmela went to the back bedroom to finish folding her laundry.
She became distracted, looking at the snow falling in the backyard of their house and whispered, “Playing in the snow.” … (More in Part Two)
What part of you and those you have loved
find their way into your stories?
Any volunteers to help me move?
Lovely post, Florence! My characters are unique to themselves, though I do tap my reactions and emotions as well as those of people I’ve known to inform my characters’ own reactions and emotions. Thanks for the glimpse into your writing voice. I love it!
Glad to see you here, Betty and thanks so much for you kind words. Yes, it’s almost a shame if we do not tap into those we’re known and loved
I shout it out here … congrats on the agent. Now get back to work !!
Beautiful passage, Florence. Damn, you’re talented! You made me feel the icy touch of snowflakes on my skin!
Good luck with the move – SO glad I don’t live near you!
We might start a mutual love thing with each other’s work. Thanks, Laura … I’m happy you like the passage.
And if you lived near me, we’d spend more time chatting and sipping than packing and moving
‘Winter was not her favorite season.’ Carmela is my kind of heroine. Gutsy, determined, and not appreciative of the cold.
Yes, Sherry … I can imagine you’ve had your full share of snow and ice. My favorite season is autumn, but then after I moved, I gave up seasons for year round adult community heated pools
You have a beautiful prosaic way of writing, Florence. A lovely story. I look forward to Part Two.
Patti
Thanks so much, Patti. I do love the Sunset Park stories and they will always find their way into parts of my other work if not between the boards
Love your characterization of Carmela, Florence, especially this line: “It irritated Carmela to be a captive of the snow her daughter loved.”
Ugh on the move. You need a Carmela, who would have finished packing yesterday.
Appreciate your comments, Pat … Carmela would rally the troops and get the job done in half the time it is going to take me
Florence,
I love the first line of the Carmela story…totally sets the tone and portrays what’s to come.
If I was closer I’d help you move, but since I’m cross country I’ll have to settle for sending you my best wishes on a smooth change of address.
Christi Corbett
Christi, I didn’t say, but originally that first line was the opening of the book and I am still attached to it and Carmela.
Sure, if you lived close by, we’d even get the twins to haul out a few “little” things. Think good thoughts for me. By this time next week I’ll be chin deep in boxes
If I lived in your neck of the woods, I’d be first to …help by hiring some young, studly guys with strong backs. Moving is hard work–mentally and physically. take care of yourself. Have a glass of wine while packing. I loved reading Carmela’s story and look forward to part 2.
Now, that is the way to get the job done, Brinda. Actually, my friends husband … the seven foot mocha Jamaican giant is doing the heavy stuff. I’ll toast a glass your way once the job is done. Glad you liked Carmela’s story
I want more of Carmela’s story. Time and place and characters are vivid. That’s a gift. I second the recommendation of wine at moving time. Good thing about moving: fresh start. All new.
Thanks, Lindsay … you’ll get the rest of this piece next week. I do love Carmela and her tough spirit.
This is a good time for wine, song and celebration … and I’ll be starting out fresh in my own slice of heaven … and yes, the cottage is brand new
You’ve crafted a lovely story. I want more. It brings to mind my own Italian heritage and makes me wonder what was in the mind of my great-grandmother when she first came here from Italy (near Naples). I remember Queens in winter. Of course as a child I loved it, especially making snow angels. Good luck on your move. Look forward to the next installation of your story.
Cora, glad to meet another Italian from New York … Queens is close enough to Brooklyn for us to be kissing (both cheeks of course) cousins !! Made a ton of snow angels in my time. Now I make laps in a heated pool … times do change.
I so appreciate your kind words for Carmela … more to follow next week
Have done a lot of moving of late and apparently will be doing it again soon. Our rent-landlord has decided to sell…will be our 2nd move this year…am thinking I would if I could rent our storage site, everything is already there :/
Thanks for stopping by Earlene. It’s a pain to move and two times in one year is really hard. Hope you get settled soon
That’s some beautiful writing. I have an unfinished novel in a “drawer” that has some of my best writing, but it’s never going to be publishable. That’s because it’s a series of episodes instead of a real novel. More like the script for a TV sitcom. Maybe I can take one or two episodes and make short fiction of them some day.
Moving is so hard, And it’s harder the longer you’ve lived in a place. I used to think I’d like to move to a condo where I’d have less yard work and maintenance responsibility, but now I realize I’ll probably die in this house. I’m just too in love with my little cottage by the sea. And I’m that scared of moving. Congrats on taking such a big step!
Mille grazie, Anne … I am so fond of Sunset Park, but alas, I beleive she will remain in a file drawer, used only as fodder for other stories.
Is there a writer out here who doesn’t have a first novel hidden somewhere? I’d love to hear part of your story.
Moving is the closest thing to death in my nester’s opinion and although this cottage is not by the sea, she is nestled in a lovely place with flowering bushes and she’s all mine !! I love the the picture of you and your cottage … it is so “you.”
Oh Florence, that is a moving piece. And good luck with the moving. Great time to clean. And a new life adventure.
Thanks, Vicki … glad you enjoyed the piece. Yes, I’ll need lots of luck and patience
It’s also a good time to “donate” all those things we hold on to for too long.
Need I repeat myself.
another endearing post.
Thanks, Shelley … your comments prod me to tell more of their story
UGH on moving, Florence. The worst part for me? Tolerating my husband during the moving process. We hadn’t put our house on the market when his “oh, how I dread to…” musings began.
The last time we moved, I wanted to bonk him on the noggin. Hmmm. Maybe I did. I choose not to
rememberdisclose. I am a clean-it-up and keep-it-organized kind of gal when I pack. He’s cram-it-in-the box and tape it shut.I can not tell you how much I had in the charity bin that later showed up in his closet.
As for old stories, the first venture I took into writing involved vignettes about childhood pranks. Two novels joined those, and will be pulled for rewrite one day.
I love the images and voices you created for us. Can’t wait for part two.
Gloria … I love the image of you … the wonky one … being organized and the hubby cramming stuff into boxes
I always enjoy when you talk about you and your sisters … it’s great to keep them in our hearts … but much more fun to write about them !!
Failure to offer to help if only I lived closer was intentional, btw.
For all I know, you have a gazillion American Airlines miles you plan to dole out to those
suckerskind readers who said they would help if only…Any miles I might have would be used to get me on a jet plane and out’a here
I LOVE your posts–so beautiful:-) I wish I were closer to help you move! A big inspiration that made its way into my novel was the setting of Grand Haven, MI, where I spent my summers with my Dad and brother.
Appreciate your kind words about the post. Yes, if all my readers were here we could through a pizza party AFTER I am settled in of course.
I’d love to hear more about those summers, Jamie
I feel like I’ve just gotten a beautiful glimpse of your mother, Florence, and now I’m curious how much of her is in this story. Looking forward to part two next week. I hope by then you’re partially settled in your new home.
Thanks, Sheila … my mother was actually Mary, but she’s enough like Carmela to be a paesana
And yes, by next week I’ll be in my new cottage up to my eyes in boxes that need to be unpacked !!
Florence,
The parts of me that become enmeshed in my writing are my values and sometimes my observations about life. But not always.
I find it interesting that readers who know me wonder which character I am in a book but of course that doesn’t ever happen.
Yes Casey, I can read between the lines to your core values … even in your weekly blog posts
I think you might be in there in less obvious ways. Thanks for the visit !!
Oh wow I feel your moving pain! We are still not fully settled from our move last year. Oy.
But of course it’s refreshing too. And a good excuse to get rid of all that clutter.
I use real people and experiences all the time. Well, bits and pieces anyway.
Good luck with your move!
PK, I remember when you moved … TWICE … into a temp location and then into your new house !! Yes, it is a major pain, but this too shall pass and I’ll get a fresh start.
I tghink you and people you know are indeed in your lovely stories
Beautiful piece, Florence. Good luck with all those boxes!
Thanks, Laura … I enjoyed sharing the piece … not enjoying the boxes
I really enjoyed this post, Florence.
It’s difficult not to write and find parts of our loved ones in our stories, even if we do it unconsciously. They have left imprints on who we are as well.
I’ve only moved once in my lifetime, Florence. 33 years ago when I got married. It seems like an impossible chore to me. I wish you all the best.
You’re so lucky, Laura … that you only moved once in 33 years … an Italian nester’s dream !! Glad you enjoyed the piece. Yes, it is darn near impossible not to have those we have known and loved find their way into our work
Great work and wonderful characters. You know I’m already in love with them. And, you also know I really do mean it when I say–I’d help you move in a heart beat if I were close. I have the moving gig down to a science. I still get itchy feet from time to time but it goes away when I take a walk in my gardens.
Sheri, I believe you would indeed help and you are such an expert after all the moves you’ve made
Thanks for the good thoughts. I knew you would recognize the characters.
Florence,
I write to make sense of it all.
I’m like Laura in that I know bits and pieces of those I love end up somewhere in my stories. Life is fodder
I hope your move goes well, and the settling in is easy!
Yes indeed, Christi … life is fodder and how grand is it that we can use that for our stories !! Thanks so much … the move is going slowly and steadly forward. I hope by my next post I at least have the office and the kitchen in working order. My priorities food for the body and the soul
I’d help if you were closer! You remind me that I want to tell a very funny moving story on my blog in the near future:-) Good luck, and yes, bits of people I know find their way into my stories all the time!
Hi Jamie, just got reconnected after the move. Done and half unpacked. Thanks for the offer. I hope you tell your story … I love your voice
Continue to write, my friend. You do have a talent. Congrats on your new home.
Appreciate the comment, Donna. I am loving the cottage