Grandad

I met a grand father who was born in Italy and raised in Philadelphia. He told me about his uncle's speak easy and how he was raised there as he worked there after school and on weekends. It was warm, rich, extremely cozy and felt safe, even when it was packed with bodies; even with some colorful characters.

Some parts of the club were outside upstairs and out the back door, but most was downstairs in the basement of a large warehouse style building. With rich mahogany panelled walls, perfect wooden floors for flappers and jazz ballet. A huge stage for a large big band with pianos, drums, lots of brass instruments and more, the sound filled the entire warehouse most nights per week.

On Sunday mornings many of the neighborhood fathers would meet there, and after cleaning up from the big Saturday party night, they'd have steak and eggs for brunch. His uncle would cook on those Sunday mornings and provide stories from the homeland with flourish and flair, lots of hand waving, lots of laughter and lots of exaggeration. All the old guys who had gathered would laugh and add their own versions, Dad was there too.

They'd remember their grandmother's chasing them with brooms, ordering them to complete chores, pick grapes or go to town for bread. All the girls would be in the kitchen most of the time, learning the specifics of grandma's cooking style. Those that immigrated to New York had non-stop memories of how things were, whether they were from northern or southern Italy, or even Sicily.

Sometimes they would argue points and places, names and times but it was the greatest way to spend half a Sunday with the common bond of Italy, with the boys. The women that worked at the Club were not invited on Sundays. They were the waitresses and dancers, cigarette girls and bar maids. Grandad grew up around all these older entertainers and was far advanced than other boys his age when it came to talking to women.

When there were up to 100 guests and the drinks were flowing from the bar, the two cooks would pump out plates of anti-pasta, spaghetti and meatballs and when they weren't eating and drinking, those guests would be swinging to the sounds from the band. Smoke from cigarettes and cigars would fill the air and the old mans' eyes starred off in the distance while his smile shone, remembering those days.

His Father worked in construction in Philly, part of the steel workers Union, still strong today and paying out those glorious pensions. Dad was even on the Brooklyn Bridge in New York when more workers were brought in to complete the modern monster, which is still a revered honor. Changing the face of New York.

There were rumors of tunnels and caves under the roads from the bridge to the speak easy. The place he loved to be and made his school life bearable. Home was cramped with multiple siblings and constant conflict, one bathroom and so many sisters all doing their hair. So his uncle's place was the great escape. It was where he felt like he could learn to become a man, get a job in the union like his dad, or run a club like his uncle.

He would roll and stack barrels of wine, beer, hooch and whatever else his uncle could wrangle, even balsamic vinegar for salads. The guests were a collection of fancy boys to tycoons, racketeers to hookers and anyone else who could get past Lenny the doorman. Uncle did not discriminate, until the fights started, then there was major flinging of bodies to the streets. Lenny was an ex boxer who didn’t play. Stoic and huge, even before steroids, he was the Uncles’ insurance policy. The cops were afraid of him as they passed through the door. A look alone would keep most tempers from getting out of hand.

The building the club was in was known for the funnels on top, as it was under a coal plant. Supplying ships and loading docks with the black cakes that kept it all moving, while covering the city with soot. But what a amazing time to be there though, with the community spirit, everyone had good paying jobs, most of the women stayed home but there was also the village to raise the bambinos and uncles and aunts, brothers, sisters, cousins and friends everywhere. They all kept each other in check. They toed the Catholic line most of the time. The camaraderie allowed for the collective well being.

If someone drank too much, the men or women would do what is called an intervention today, as many times as needed. Their families would be taken care of. Same if someone absconded with their pay check, and left the wife and kids high and dry. The collective responsibility was awesome and kept them all alive.

If someone laid violent hands on his wife or kids, and his uncle heard about it, Lenny was sent to visit, and it was not heard about again. The uncle and all the men at the Club took these issues seriously, after all the wives were their mothers and sisters, nieces and daughters. The children; their families. Everyone was protected. Some men left town and never returned.

As the grandfather grew up, he was constantly being lectured by the boys to stay in school, become a lawyer or a doctor, help people in their neighborhood with all their needs. He saw how much Sunday mornings meant to people though, how the discussions allowed these men to talk about things they would not say in front of their wives or children, or their parents. The familiarity of those sunday gatherings, after the hustle and bustle of the work week, getting kids to school and bringing home the pay checks so everyone could eat, paying the mortgage or rents and keeping the wives and families happy was a stress in itself. These guys held their own mental health sessions every sunday, and it worked to their favor. They were much happier than others. Old faces would leave and new faces would arrive as sons aged and found value in the gatherings.

Grandfather did go on to college that was paid for by his uncle, he studied law and returned to the neighborhood to set up shop. Many of the old faces came to see him and his law firm grew with wills and divorces, estates, property purchases and on the other side criminal defense attorneys were hired to represent the charged in court. After selling the firm in his 60's, there was time for another passion, a speak easy, somewhat like his uncle had but the difference was it was now legal. Instead of being underground the new club was in a beautiful old tiled building where tables could spill onto the street and everyone would love to meet for coffee and more. Sunday mornings were no longer reserved for men only, but the steak and eggs brunch tradition continued. Stories of old and new continued to be told and there were after church sunday gatherings, his childrens and grandchildrens weddings and even some funerals held at the new club.

The old man had had enough of the story telling, he had sat too long on the hard wooden chair. He started wiggling around and I jumped up to help him. Placing my arm under his to assist in the ascent. Once he was up and had his cane where it was comfortable, he suggested we meet up again, at the same café, at the same time, because he came there every Sunday, because it reminded him of when he was younger. His uncle was gone and so was his dad. In fact all his family and those old friends were no longer around, but he could still hear the music and feel the floors bounce from all the feet dancing, just like when the old speak easy was full and my grandfather was a boy.

😊