My cousin Al came to visit us this past weekend. He’s been here from New York for a few weeks and he wanted some time to pass between his travels and his visit with Mom, just for the sake of caution, but Saturday he came to the house and the five us had a good meal and shared a lot of laughs and stories, too. Essentially, it’s the thing my family loves best, and especially Mom, and it’s probably what Mom misses most these days: just sitting down at a big table groaning heavy with food and eating and laughing. Card tables with people far apart from each other is just not my mom’s style, but we do what we have to do to stay safe. Dinner with Al was wonderful all the same.
Al’s father and my father were brothers, and when Dad was looking to open an auto repair shop in Brooklyn, he asked my Uncle Al to be his partner. And so they were, for thirty years, from 1948 when they opened the shop until the day they closed it, in 1978. Al is a little older than I am, so while I spent my early summers at the beach, Al got to go in to work with his dad to earn some money. Neither Al nor I took after our dads––our combined mechanical knowledge doesn’t extend much past how a screwdriver works. But Al, at least, got to spend time at the shop, and he got to see the Cutrone Brothers doing what they did, and I envy that.
My dad was not the most patient of teachers, but I think Dad got a bit of a kick out of the things I put him through. I can remember he and I setting up my Aurora HO Thunderjet 500 slot car track on the billiard table in the basement when I was a kid. I was probably 7 or 8 years old. We worked and worked on it (well, Dad did, while I fiddled around), and when it was time to try it out, Dad told me to “give him some juice.” I went to the kitchen and poured him a glass of orange juice. That event pretty much set the stage for my mechanical abilities for the rest of our years together.
It seems my cousin Al did not fare much better; nonetheless they took him in to the shop each summer when he was a teenager, and it was pretty wonderful Saturday night to hear Al’s stories about working with the guys, including the Cutrone Brothers’ methods for tire disposal (let’s just say it was another time) and how they ended up with so much ice cream one summer that Aunt Marie felt the need to buy a new deepfreeze.
The stories were good, and the company was good. And while I did not wake up this morning planning to write about this, something about the stories reminded me about the picture in the photo album of Dad and Uncle Al in front of their shop and this is how it is to be a writer. One thing leads to another and memories start kicking around in my head, and one thing I will always remember about Al is that four years ago, in early February, Al visited my dad in his hospital room after his stroke. Dad was so animated when Al was there. It seemed like the best night he’d had in a while. A few days later, Dad was gone. It surprised all of us. And still at night before bed I turn out the lights and I say goodnight to photographs of the ones I love and very often I have to remind myself that Dad is not here, not in the same way. And maybe that’s ok. Maybe it’s good I usually feel like he is.
I remember pretty much everything about the way the 8th of February played out four years ago, from the time I left work early because I felt I needed to get to the hospital to check on Dad, to my journey, right after I arrived, walking behind his bed as he was rolled down to ICU, to the long wait while I was not allowed in, and all of the other things that led to the way things turned out in the overnight hours that followed. It is, perhaps, the day of the year I dislike most. We all have these days when we are reminded of what we would rather forget. But they, too, are part of the round of the year, and we have no choice but to take them as they come. It has been a tough time for so many, this year and last. If you’re having a rough go of it right now, I can tell you that I get it, and I can tell you that you are walking in good company. We’re all there with you. And while, when it comes to loss, things never get easier, they do change. You will always miss the ones no longer physically with you, but the way you miss them will change. Every now and then, though, a jolt will come. Expect this. It’s part of the path, and there is no right way to deal with it. You carry on. You get through.
Today, chatting with Mom, I learned some new things about the garage. Before it was Cutrone Auto Service Co., it had been a millinery, and Phyllis Caputo, the woman who set up the blind date that was my mom and dad’s first meeting, worked there making hats. Next door to the millinery, back then, was an Italian merchant who made all kinds of pasta. Records show that earlier on, the shop was another garage: the photo below is from 1915.
I look at the picture of Hawthorne Garage, and I know that at some point, in 1947 or so, Dad and Uncle Al saw that same empty garage that’s in the 1915 picture and thought, Yeah, this place has some potential. And then I look at the picture of Cutrone Auto Service Co., circa 1948. Dad and Uncle Al are smiling, their trousers are mucky… they are two men happy in their work. That shop looks like a great old building. Seth and I drive by old garages these days on Dixie Highway and sometimes we think, Now THAT would be a great place to set up a Convivio Bookworks shop. I didn’t get much mechanical knowledge from Dad, but I did get that ability to dream. And some pretty great stories, too. And even more of them now that Cousin Al has come to visit and reminisce with us.
Love to you all.
What a beautiful store of memories you have and what a wonderful way to celebrate your Dad’s life. Though it’s 4 years past, I’m sorry for your loss.
Thank you, Daria; I appreciate that.
What a joyful and loving post, John – I love it! Thanks for sharing…
Thank you, Caleb! Thanks for reading.
good story, good writing.
the old hawthorne garage, had taken its name fom one of its cross streets. the garage was located on nostrand avenue, fenimore street to hawthorne street.
as a boy in the 1960s living only 2 blocks away i walked passed that garage countless times . in 1978 when the cutrone’s moved on i turned 25 and also left the old neighborhood.
Joe, thank you for being the one to post that photo of the old Hawthorne Garage on the Pigtown* group on Facebook! You would’ve seen my dad and my uncle at work on most of your walks past the shop. I only got to visit it a few times… I could probably count them all on one hand. With the exception of some of the old clunkers that Dad would bring home from the shop, Dad’s work life seemed to me very separate from his home life.
*Book of Days Readers who are not familiar with this moniker: the neighborhood in Brooklyn where my grandparents lived and where Dad’s shop was used to be called Pigtown, because early on, in the early 1900s, there were pigs and goats about. The neighborhood has a swankier name now, one more conducive to bolstering real estate sales: I think it’s called Wingate. Anyway, Joe Collica here runs a page on Facebook devoted to that old neighborhood where my mom lived and where Dad’s shop was. The page is called “Pigtown Brooklyn New York.”
Thanks for sharing such a warm and heartfelt posting.
Thank you, Meghan, for reading and commenting!
Keep sharing your memories. They help us remember our past and remind us to celebrate the present.
Oh, thank you, Dot. You’re absolutely right. I loved hearing everyone’s stories when I was a kid, and I guess it’s my job now to keep telling them.
What a great story! I remember when my mom would park her car there then go shopping at A&S dept store. Her brothers would say “here comes the general’s wife–Charge!” She gat a kick out of that.
Hahahahaha! I love that. Aunt Mary and her brothers: what a great bunch. Did you visit the shop much, Cammie?
Thanks for writing this. My parents both died the day after their birthday, my mom at 78 and my dad at 93. Strange coincidence. So those dates are particularly bittersweet – the flavor of my life these days.
Oh that is strange coincidence. And I suppose we gather more and more of these bittersweet dates as we grow older. There are times when it seems an owners’ manual of sorts for how to deal with these things would come in handy. Wishing you good days, Pat.
One of your deepest and richest offerings ever, John. Yes, we all have days like your February 8. Mine is November 3. What a blessing it is to be reminded we are walking in good company.
Thank you, Sheri. I’ll walk with you next November 3.
This is beautiful, John. Thank you so much for writing and sharing it. This struck home with me and made me feel better. My mother died in 2006, and now and then, out of the blue, I wake up missing her terribly. That feeling hit me today, so it was very comforting to read your post and then start thinking about all of the wonderful memories I have of her. Thank you so very much. Wishing love, joy and peace unto your house.
Hi Marjorie, I get that, too. I’m glad I could help today. It’s funny, I really wasn’t planning on writing about this this year (sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t), but nonetheless I did. Seems it’s good I did. Love, joy and peace to your house, as well. Thank you.
As always, so poignant, John. The initial pain is less, but we learn to live our lives without them being in our daily existence. However, the many stories that are told, with her it is in our weekly cousin’s zoom or sitting around a table are precious. We must keep them going! I really look forward to our Sundays. Although, I’d much rather be sitting around a table with you Seth Marietta and Mom.
I have very vague recollections of the shop. I know I went there as a little girl and it smelled very greasy. Do you think that I live so close to it now, it is quite ironic. Love you cousin and sorry that your February 8th is not a happy memory. It is amazing how we remember second by second what we did and what was happening at the moment our loved ones pass on.
Thank you, Marietta. I know you certainly walk the same path, too. But the stories are great and those Cutrones and Porzios certainly offer plenty of good material, don’t they? See you next Sunday on the Cousins Zoom. What a bright spot that has been in these strange times!
Thank you, John, for sharing these stories. My mother told me that we never get over the death of a loved one, we just get through it. Our memories help us do that. Smiling while remembering is good medicine!
Sounds like your mother was a wise woman, Dee. Thank you for reading and for sharing this story, too.
Beautiful story. I really enjoyed reading it. You have so many detailed and wonderful memories of your family.
Thank you, Carol. I have a terrible short term memory, but I’m pretty good at remembering the tiniest details of things that happened decades ago.