A Boy and His Parachute
Angelo D'Elia/ 04-04-07
Cast of Characters
Nina Trotta
Nicola Trotta
Luisa (D’Elia)Trotta
Concetta (D’Elia)Trotta
Antonio Trotta
Raffaela (Trotta) D’Elia
Rosina D’Elia
Angelo D’Elia (Author)
Giuseppina (Trotta) Pallotti
Teresa (Spadafora) Trotta
Cameo Appearance/ Nick Maiorano (Who was this guy?)
It was a hot, dry afternoon in August of 1952. Earlier that summer, my Zio Nicola and Zia Luisa had visited my family where we lived in Dearborn, Michigan. Zio Nicola had ordered a light blue, four-door Dodge (suppposedly that was cheaper than buying one off the lot in California), and as it turned out Mom, Rose and I hitched a ride to vacation in California on their return home. In addition, there was a kid named Nick whose last name I think was Maiorano and he was going back to Pomona. He hitched a ride, too. Six of us in that car for four days and three nights. The fact that the car had no AC and the windows were always kept closed, together with the quality of the motels will not be discussed in this essay.
At that time, Zio Nicola, Aunt Luisa and Nina lived in their own apartment on the corner of Buena Vista and Kittridge Street. They occupied one of the two upstairs units that faced Buena Vista. The rest of the three units had tenants.
On this particular day, probably a Sunday, we had been invited over for dinner, and my recollection was that in addition to all those already mentioned, Josephine and Frank and their families were also present. Zia Concetta and Zio Antonio were there, too. Zia Concetta did not like me. I was only ten years old, but somehow I had managed to earn a reputation for misbehavior that had traveled across the entire continent from Detroit to Burbank. Thus, to my dismay, everyone had my number before I even arrived.
The heat for that afternoon was stifling, and the shade inside the upstairs apartment did not offer any significant relief. Indeed, as bad as it was outside, inside was much worse. Keep in mind that the stove was operating at full throttle. Casarolas full of water were boiling for the pasta. Pots of sauce were boiling for the pasta. Vegetables were boiling. I was boiling, and I was bored. That's a bad combination for a boy with energy, imagination and a reputation to live up to. It was just a matter of time before something had to explode.
Nina must have been about thirteen or fourteen at the time. Young, innocent and very likely undecided as to whether she was a Democrat or Republican. I saw her as the teen-aged, sophisticated, young lady she pretended to be. She probably saw me as a brat. What did she know? Boredom. Heat. A lot of old people. Too much loud talking in Calabrese and even if the television had been available one could not have heard it. I simply had to find something to do. To entertain myself. I needed to get my hands on a pair of Nina’s panties so that I could make a parachute. I found a pair in her dresser drawer.
I chose a pair that was torn, thinking she’ll never wear these. They appeared to be made out of silk and when I finished tearing them in half, I knew I was about to make the best parachute ever. In another room, I found a sewing machine that belonged to my aunt and in one of the long narrow drawers I found spools of sewing thread of many different colors. “God helps those who help themselves” and with my advanced skill at making parachutes and help from the divine up above, it was ready to go in no time. I forgot the heat, the boredom and lack of stimulation that a kid of ten has to have if he’s not going to go nuts. The apartment had a balcony and what better place to launch my vehicle than right there.
Then it hit me. The whole exercise would be lots more fun if Nina knew that the parachute was made from her very own panties, and actually got the once in a lifetime opportunity to watch it go up into the sky, waft momentarily in the arms of the waiting air, and then gently begins its downward journey toward Kittridge Street. Finally, with everyone enthralled and watching at once, the exqusitie parachute would land dramatically on the parkway between the sidewalk and the street. The whole family would be praising and shouting, “Angelo, that was beautiful. How did you make such a wonderfule parachute. Please show me how to make one.” Naturally, I would be honored and think to myself, how perfect.
Well, it didn’t quite turn out that way. As soon as I told Nina about her panties and my parachute, she reacted in a most peculiar way. She started screaming and grabbing and telling me, “Give me my panties. Who said you could go in my room? In my dresser drawers? Give them back”. Suddenly, I realized that my plan, my utterly fantastic plan was about to crumble unless I could get away from that screaming cousin who after all, being a girl, understood nothing about parachutes. I had to escape.
I ran out to the balcony with Nina chasing behind me still screaming with everyone now beginning to take notice of all the commotion, and when I got outside I looked up and with all my might threw the little panty-parachute into the air. It went up and up and up, and Nina kept screaming. The others, the older folks now came running, and the parachute opened and I said, “Look, look, it’s opening”, but no one cared and when Nina blurted out that I had made it from her panties, they all looked at me in disbelief. “What, what, what did you say?” Zia Concetta gave me a look of sheer disgust. Did I mention that she did not like me?
The wind can do strange things and it unexpectedly shoved the little parachute toward the apartment building and it landed, not quite where I had planned (little did I know then that the coming rocket age would experience similar disappointments) but on the roof of the very apartment house full of sauces smells, and baked bread, and opened up bottles of wine, and spices, and I feared in a few moments would also smell of my own blood. One might say that I felt a sense of doom as soon as Nina started yelling, “Zia Raffaela, Angelo . . . blah . . . blah . . . panties . . . parachute . . . roof”.
Soon Mom was joined by Teresa, and Josephine. A lot of screaming now. Even Nina’s incessant wailing was drowned out by my mother shouting, “Dio ne libera, ma che cos’a fatto, Angelo?” (God free us, what have you done, Angelo) Teresina pointed out, “See, I told you he was a difficult child.” Josephine appeared to be amused, while my aunt Luisa turned all the burners off and rushed over to see what it was all about. She let me know in no uncertain terms that Nina’s panties were off limits. Then, just as things started to settle down, Nina starts in with, “I want my panties down off of that roof, Angelo.” If I had to go up on the roof to stop her nagging and screaming, I would. I did.
When the others had gone back to their respective stations and occupations, I shimmied up one of the four by four posts that held the roof over the balcony, and within seconds I was on top. I could smell the tar, it was so hot. I picked up Nina’s little panties and looking down at her I said, “Here, catch,” but she missed. The little parachute opened up. It was a sight to see. All puffy and glistening with multi-colored strings coming down to the small rock I had used for a weight. This time the wind took it over Kittridge Street and Nina looked at me aghast. I said, “See, you should have left them up here on the roof. Now EVERYONE will see them in the middle of the street.”
To make certain that anyone passing by would actually see the panties and know they were Nina’s I started jumping up and down on the roof announcing, “Everyone look in the street and you will find my cousin Nina’s panties.” She looked up at me, turned around and ran out of the apartment. In a few seconds she was in the middle of Kittridge Street, retrieving her panties, which she quickly stuffed into one of the pockets in her jeans. Well, it seemed that all the excitement was about over, but I was wrong.
“Now, he’s on the roof Zia Raffaela,” the little squealer reported. Mom came running onto the balcony, looked up toward me and with that look of NOW WHAT, she said, “Scinna, scinna e quando se sciso ti mazzo.” (Get down, get down and when you get down, I’m going to kill you) Now, I’m thinking if I stay up here, I live. If I go down there, I die. It was a no brainer. Mom continued endlessly pleading for me to come cotugni
down. Teresa and Josephine joined the chorus. Zia Luisa takes Nina’s side and hopes I do fall off and end it all. The men don’t give a damn, and eventually, when all of them give up begging me to vacate the roof, I start to come down. As soon as I get down, Mom pounces on me like a Michigan wolverine. Deadly pinches that still burn whenever I think of them to this day. Slaps in the face and anywhere else she could reach. Endless future threats and promises of bodily harm and all the while Nina smiled. Such a cute girl.
Mercifully, dinner was ready, and boy was I was hungry. Zia Luisa together with Zia Concetta were good cooks, and everyone was relieved the “Angelo” thing was over. Now, all the guests could just sit down, enjoy the food, and after that some quiet conversation. The expectation for every soul was that the rest of the day would be uneventful and relaxing. Everything probably would have turned out that way too, and certainly was moving in that direction if it had not been for one small reality. Angelo was getting bored again. He went outside to the garage.
Zio Nicola kept his homemade wine in the garage, and I was exploring his mysterious cantina from one end to the other. I soon discovered that when you turned the handle on the wooden spigot, the wine in the barrel came out. Wow! I didn’t know that. You never stop learning, do you? Apparently, I also did not know that unless you CLOSED the spigot, the wine kept coming out!
(This is a true story, but all the facts and dialogue may not be exactly as occurred)
The End
The picture below is of me at ten years old and thus fits the story above. Just by the look on my face, you can see why my name is Angelo:
