Once again that season for remembering, rejoicing, looking ahead. As you can see, in our family the young ones have grown so quickly and the older ones just grown in wisdom, age and grace. Nicholas - 2ndyear at U. Vermont; Benjamin – 17, driving HS Junior; Matilda – 10 in 5th gr. sprouting by the minute; Harrison – 9 in 4th gr. more than ready for middle school; and Homer, 2nd gr. reader loving science.
Many joyful 2023 events to remember but also many losses among the very best of friends and family. Thoughts of each one and their many gifts through years of ups and downs, their generosity more enriching than gold, are the only consolation to be found. I hope those who mourn them now are receiving the support and comfort that carries one through.
I have been kept busy with artistic endeavors, work for the curriculum committee of Lifespring, a local LLI. The effort is like that of a booking agent finding presenters to offer informative talks or a series of classes. Continue to be active at church, and in quilters guild and book group. Cannot forget the days with numerous medical appointments to satisfy the requirements of creeping decrepitude.
The need to contemplate themes of hope, light and love was deeply felt during the Advent season. Concerns for our poor old world abound not to mention those of suffering humanity. So I unite with you in focusing on the simple message of the Nativity mystery. “Peace on earth and good will to humankind.” Enjoy each moment of the season – stay well and safe. And, of course, wishing you a Happy New Year. Love, Hilda
P.S. Hope you enjoy this Christmas memory story about by grandfather Frank Milazzo, born a farmer’s son in Castellammare del Golfo, Sicily, who raised a family in spite of the hardship of the Great Depression and was an ever present loving figure in the early lives of his granddaughters.
A Christmas Memory of My Grandpa
In Bensonhurst, Brooklyn of the 1950s, it seemed to a child that all the mommies were home every day and all other adults, except the very old, ‘went to business in the city’. Those who went to business walked to the Bay Parkway Station of the elevated BMT Line overshadowing endless fruit and vegetable stands on 86th Street. Each morning, as if in synchronization, workers left closely nestled family dwellings on the cross streets and large apartment houses standing as sentinels on most corners marking the avenues. At the station, they jostled through the turnstiles or, in winter, met clustered around the potbelly stove near the token seller’s booth fortifying themselves to withstand the windswept open train platform high above the street.
My Sicilian born grandfather, Frank Milazzo, went to business in the city. Senior member of our three generation household, he rose each morning to catch the train which delivered him to what seemed in our family and neighborhood the heart of the city, Manhattan’s garment district. There he was a machine operator, one who ‘pushed the machine’ in endless piece work, always a race against time in a system where production determined the wage. An early International Ladies Garment Workers Union (ILGWU) organizer and shop foreman and, at times, persona non grata as whistle blower for corrupt union practices, many fellow factory workers respectfully addressed him as Mr. Frank.
It was difficult to picture my grandfather pushing the machine for speed and precision. He tended not to be good with tools, always ready for the effort, generous in giving time to whatever the work, but not very proficient at the task. When concentrating on details or watching a little granddaughter struggle to balance food on a fork and guide it to her mouth, he would purse his lips and draw them off to the side a bit as if facial effort could guide his hands or the child’s.
As the machine operators, pressers, pattern and sample makers, cutters and floor ladies at Debbi Dance Dress Company aged, their children grew. No sooner had great white plastic covered albums of wedding photos made their way from hand to hand than announcements of the arrival of grandchildren circulated too. By the time I was about eight years old it was decided that Christmas was to be celebrated by a party on the factory floor for the children and grandchildren of workers. Long before any thought of “Bring Your Daughter to Work Day”, I was going to see my Grandpa’s shop.
December was one of the garment industry’s slow seasons. The Palm Beach Line was long ago out the door, ready at wholesalers to hit the racks of “better dresses” at Macy’s, Gimbel’s and Saks Fifth Avenue by the first of the New Year. No better time to have youngsters of all ages and sizes, dressed in holiday best, scampering across the factory’s wooden floors newly swept of free of thread ends and fabric cuttings; its ceiling festooned with metallic garlands, embellished by lead silver tinsel. Minus the usual din of droning machines, what would have seemed a ghostly and cavernous space had been transformed into a holiday wonderland. Now children ran down the aisles between rows of machines, taps affixed to heels and toes of brand new patent leather Mary Janes clicking in boisterous joyful rhythm where fevered production was the usual daily round for a sea of garment workers.
There was candy and soda, usually forbidden at home, and presents delivered by Santa Claus himself. It is not details but the memory of an atmosphere that clings, the permitted peek into the ‘going to business’ world of adults. However, it is the very end of the day that has remained in memory most vivid in detail. After the party Grandpa and I walked up the crowded avenue, passing Gimbel’s Christmas holiday window displays, heading to Macy’s. The aroma of polished wood combined with the scent of rich perfume surrounded us as we made our way to the escalator which delivered us to the toy department where I was given the opportunity choose my Christmas present from Grandpa. What ecstasy of indecision! Thoughtful, silent pacing from one tempting display to another, weighing every factor, ever mindful of Grandpa’s patient presence. Should it be a new doll, an erector set, Lincoln Logs or something even more enticing? My ultimate choice was an art set, everything I would need to draw or crayon or paint a masterpiece of my own design in a greater variety of colors than ever before. Surely this box, held securely in my lap for the return trip home on the BMT Line, was all that heaven could be. Grandpa and I sat side by side in a double seat facing backwards bathed in the glaring light of a winter sun low in the west casting its glow over Manhattan’s skyline. As we crossed the Manhattan Bridge, sunlight seemed to click on and off with every shadow cast by steel beams of superstructure. The familiar rhythmic hum and bumpy texture of the train’s passage over venerable tracks lulled the weary and the worn. Occasionally a metallic screech punctuated our progress rousing all but the most unconscious. The back of my legs, exposed by a flared skirt buoyed by crinoline, felt the worn prickly ends of natural cane protruding from the aged woven seat. Gradually all sound and sensation receded as the brightness and warmth of the setting sun had its way with a very tired little girl. The last sight in memory was the Jehovah’s Witness Watchtower printing plant on the Brooklyn side of the East River. She fell asleep leaning securely on her Grandpa’s shoulder dreaming of that first stroke; smooth wet paint brush lightly and oh, so carefully, applied to a square of magnificent magenta or promising purple.
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