The Marine and the Princess

Cuz was the only man that ever called me Princess.
Not that I had done anything to earn that title.

And goodness knows my scrawny build, teeth too big for my mouth, and unruly head of corkscrew curls, did not naturally command that nickname.

An unlikely little girl princess for sure!
But, to him, I was just that.

Kerry Massari was a Marvel comic book prototype;

dressed in starched Marine Dress Blues.
Strong.
Handsome.
Charming.
A master of the Martial Arts.
His New Orleans accent flavored our conversations and each of his visits to Tampa were highly anticipated and deeply treasured.
Kerry was larger than life.

And to our proud Italian family, whose only legitimate weapon was a butter-knife, Cuz was a real life super hero. Heck, his uniform even came with a saber!
From Vietnam chopper pilot to well respected land use attorney, Kerry was an authentic character.
Respected or feared he managed to evoke intense emotions; identical to those he possessed.
Brilliant, funny, loyal, compassionate, and generous.
Decent, honest, fair, and kind.
Faithful. Always faithful… Semper Fidelis
No need to waste a stamp on his Sainthood application….Catholic or otherwise.
Cuz a saint? No So much.
He was stubborn. Focused. Extreme. Calling him pig-headed would

be insulting to our foraging friends!
A shrewd businessman. A devote of fine wine, precious stones, and golf. Long before it was in vogue, Kerry practiced the healing art of meditation and deep controlled breathing. He loved to hunt and especially valued the bonding camaraderie that

occurred in the hunting camps or duck blinds.
He was a voracious learner that filed away his studious conquests in

thousands of manila file folders.
Cuz loved his fellow man, but he only really liked a few of them.

He was not a collector of friends or acquaintances. Rather, like his carefully selected and meticulously aged vino, Kerry’s inner circle was a combination of people he trusted and intimately cherished. And how we cherished him.

His relationships rooted in hours, days, even years of profound conversations.
Discussions.
Arguments.
Ruminating and refining.
Typically occurring over fine food, French bread and sweet cream butter.
Then after dinner, more wine and a smoke on the porch.
Cuz’s cigarette perched firmly in one corner of his mouth.
The corner that hung a little lower when he smiled his contagious grin. And when that smile became a laugh he released a deep, cackling roar that was part inhale, part embrace.
Kerry loved to laugh and neither illness nor infirmity had a chance in his presence. Oh, physically his body bore the scars of battles with the Viet Cong, with disease, with age. But mentally; his saber like will to live dismembered each and every assault.
And last week, when the time came, he decided that he would march,

not walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

Refusing to allow pain or cancer or Parkinson’s to define his existence.
Or his passing.
And when cowardly Parkinson’s made the simple act of swallowing his latest adversary, he refused to lay down his arms and slip quietly away. Refused to be captured. Refused to be still and silent.
Instead Kerry mounted a swift and vengeful counter attack… French bread slathered with butter. Andouille sausage. Yellow rice and chicken. Strawberry shakes.
He smoked.
He drank.
He talked.
He laughed.
He told death “I will come when I’m damn good and ready!”
And he did just that.
It wasn’t pretty, but as Cuz always preached, battles are not for the weak.

War is in fact hell. And his final fight was a classic.

A withered super-hero in a tattered recliner giving more than he was receiving.
A final hug.
An eternal kiss goodbye on the forehead.
A firm, strong, steady handshake of approval.
A wink and vintage grin.
Kerry Massari was victorious! He is now free to explore the heavens and rekindle old friendships. To sit with his Maker and ask all those questions he had been mulling over for years, and, for sure; to characteristically initiate debates with his God!
Cuz was the only man that ever called me Princess.
And his Princess will miss him.

To Debra, the hero in his life and his loving wife, and to Darren, Chris, Kendra, and little Sam; my deepest sympathy and love.

Lesson 3: Find something on your kitchen counter and write about it

$5.99 a Pound!

I bought my first bag of this season’s Bing cherries today, and before the elderly bag-boy closed the trunk lid, I rescued them. They rode home in the front seat with me;

close by for nibbling and reminiscing.
Mother and Daddy couldn’t afford cherries for seven.

It wasn’t personal; it was a simple lesson in the difference between needs and wants.

A definition that stood alone, sans prepositions or political correctness....

"Yes" or "No" were complete sentences in childhood.

The declaratory variety at that.
Summers at Nana and Nano’s house were different.
My younger siblings always invited, but always declined.

You see, our Italian grandparent’s house was old.
Nana and Nano were old.
Books and records? Also old.
Dog? Really old!
And those endless tales from the past? Oldest of old!
Year after year when my sisters cowered from the offer, I packed my book-bag and waited on the porch for Nano's Edsel's horn..
It was magical!Meals were all my favorites.
A trip to Sears meant two new outfits…that didn’t have to be part of the sale tag or the grow-into collection.
Chores…No So Much!
Television, no early bedtime, and long walks in the neighborhood where the size of my feet and the curls in my hair were discussed in three different languages.
Stories of the old country and first seeing the Lady in the Harbor from the bow of a ship were summer reruns, but Nano’s passion made them fresh and new. His damp eyes glistening in the setting sunlight made me yearn for her welcome too.
Every afternoon, about dusk, Mr. Joe’s Fresh Fish and Produce truck would crawl down the brick streets. The clanging sound of its hanging metal scale, dangling on the back of the old blue truck, would draw us to the sidewalk and there, Nana would buy me a handful of fresh Bing cherries.Up the stairs, to her porch landing I would scamper with a brown napkin full of deep red delights. I would count and savor each and every one, reassured that Mr. Joe would return again tomorrow and another handful would be mine.
Again.
And again.
Until it was time to go back home.
Every summer Bing cherries sit on my kitchen counter, in Nana’s favorite pasta bowl, an offering to all who pass by and a reminder to me of two childhood gifts; the blessings of both indulgence and necessity.

Lesson 2: Those Were the Days My Friend....

**When the only children on milk cartons were the “Pagan babies”! Yes, every Lent in Catholic elementary school we diligently saved nickels, in special little milk boxes, so our class could adopt a Pagan baby and actually name it. (Always Joseph and Mary of course)

**When your family had four daughters, and three accounted for chapel veils on Sunday morning, and you were the one wearing a bobby-pinned Kleenex on your head to Mass.

**When your family had to make sure they had the necessary money for the weekend, because you could not get cash out of a “wall” whenever you needed it.

**When your TV had three channels and one of them was in a constant state of snow-fall, and hard to see. And at midnight, they played the Star Spangled Banner and the stations went off air until tomorrow.

**When a party line had nothing to do with illegal drugs or the Electric Slide. You better not listen in!

**When you had one TV, one phone, and one bathroom in your home. When your family had one car and you were blessed.

**When the only famous people you could think of, with only one name, were Liberace and Elvis. (Charo came later!)

**When drying clothes required the sun, a line, and clothes pins.

**When you had a “gas wars” and nobody got killed. Instead you got 4 gallons of regular for a buck! (Do they even have “regular-leaded gas anymore?)

**When cars didn’t have seat belts and the most dangerous seat of all was on the hump, in the front seat, because your mother could swat you without pulling over.

**When eating out was a special treat and special treats were related to extra-ordinary behavior; not just doing well in school or behaving in church.

**When your teachers were less concerned about your self esteem and more concerned with your self -discipline. Ever spend a recess with your head on your desk because you misbehaved?

**When communists lived in Red States , not Republicans. And being green meant you were nauseous not a naturalist.

**When the Laugh In line “you bet your bippy” was the naughtiest thing you heard on TV.

*When the only one talking about sending someone into space was Jackie Gleason;”right to the moon Alice”

**When reality TV about families presented role models like Andy Griffith, Lassie, Leave It to Beaver, Bonanza, Little House on the Prairie, and The Waltons!
**When you thought 50 was really old!

**When you were supposed to listen to the voice in your head: it was your conscience.

School Days!!!

Remember when your Kindergarten teacher would hang your class work on the bulletin board?
Right there in the open, for all to see?

Little foil stars or coveted “Great Job” ink stamps, pressed into the upper corner?
My "Writing Your Memoir" coach believes that public ritual or public ridicule is the best recipe for successful memoir writing and requires we each begin a blog to post our class work.

Then, we have been instructed to email updates, or facebook the links, or tweet on twitter, each completed assignment.

In essence open our classroom door for others to see!

Sounds like an educational exercise.

Sounds simple enough....Right?....No So Much!

But, I agreed to following the syllabus and next time I will read the small print, regarding publishing your homework, more closely!

So, welcome to my class and my bulletin board!

*Some of my essays have been reworked, following mandatory guidelines, from Gifts Without Bows.