Within Close Range: Whiplash Willie

Her eyes barely saw over the dashboard of the ample sedan.

Her nose and belly sat inches from the steering wheel.

Feet barely touching the pedals. 

Driving with Nonnie was always an experience which offered passengers both the usual and the unexpected.

The unexpected happened when Nonnie was out of her element, out of sorts, or in a new neighborhood.

When anxious and fearful, but forced to push onward, into the gridlock of Suburban Chicago, the car would charge forward, then turn in a last minute decision.

And I would slide to the other side of the bountiful back seat.

Now a carnival ride, but with nothing to hold onto.

Except the hope that we’d make it out alive.

The usual happened when Nonnie took on the dual tasks of driving and gossiping.

She had the particular habit of accelerating while accentuating.

When her speech became excited (Which it did. In every… single... sentence.), she’d press her size-5-foot-in-a-size-4-shoe to the gas pedal.

Causing passengers -  both big and small, in the front seat and the back - to lurch forward.

To compensate for the quick acceleration, Nonnie would then grab hold of the steering wheel, brace herself, and stretching her toes to their very tips… 

Brake.

Repeating the action with each grand inflection.

We used to call her Whiplash Willie.

She was an Italian force on four wheels.

Convulsing along the roads.

Reticent yet dogged. 

I’d watch her from the back seat.

Her Roman nose in occasional profile, as she spoke to whoever called “Dibs on the front seat!” first.

Pitching forward and pulling myself back.

Smiling at its dependability.

Its absurdity.

At Family.

Within Close Range: Stanley

One lazy afternoon, after having had enough of Florida’s winter fun and sun, I was sitting in front of the television in Nonnie and Papa’s 18th story living room, when the doorbell rang.

Papa was back at his store in Chicago and Nonnie was in the kitchen making lunch, so I shuffled to the large double-doors.

And there, on the other side, stood a tall, slender figure with short, blonde hair and frosted highlights; impeccably dressed in a pastel pink shirt, a flowered, silk kerchief, and crisp, white linen pants.

The stranger asked if Lenore was in.

I turned toward the kitchen and hollered, "Nonnie, there's some lady here to see you!”, before scrambling back to the television. 

That was the first time I met Stanley, Nonnie’s friend (and hairdresser), who also happened to live in the same building with his boyfriend, Roger.

I would have felt embarrassed after learning of my mistake, but according to Nonnie, he was never more complimented. 

Not only was Stanley Nonnie’s most colorful and lively companion - by far - but he could make her giggle more than anyone (besides my great aunts) I’d ever seen.

Even more intriguing was that Nonnie unreservedly gave Stanley center stage. 

It was hard not to.

In return for stepping back from the preferred spotlight, Stanley showered Nonnie with adulation for her fashion sense, culinary skills, and interior design flare.

It was a match made in heaven.

Even though Nonnie had to whisper a lot when it came to talking about her new friend.

The next day, at Stanley’s invitation, we visited their little slice of beach-side paradise two floors up. It had the same exact layout as Nonnie and Papa’s, but flip-flopped.

That wasn’t what disoriented me.

It was the feeling that I had just entered another dimension where Nonnie's alter ego was given free reign.

Where, with unimpaired power, Nonnie’s better dressed doppleganger adorned every nook and cranny, every floor and piece of furniture, with textile and tactile expanses of purples, lilacs and lavenders.

With chintz and animal prints.

Golden cupids and satin pillows.

Velvet loveseats and silk bed sheets.

And endless yards of draped chiffon.

Where opulent silk flower arrangements sat on every gilded credenza and a colorful porcelain dog, cat, or bird resided around every corner.

As if we had just walked onto the living room set of “The Liberace Show.”

(Being Nonnie’s all-time favorite performer, I was all too well-acquainted with “Mr. Showmanship” because he was - through the miracle of television and the wonder of the 8-track tape - an integral part of the time we spent together - a wildly flamboyant, inarguably talented, inexricablly audiovisual part of our bond.)

As Stanley swept from room to room with measured grace and exaggerated ease, Roger - a dark, quiet man (who left a wife and kids, and a lie, behind) - stood in the background, smiling contentedly. 

Proud of his plush and private Shangri-la.

Where he and Stanley were completely free.

Even though, for me, Stanley seemed as free as he could be. 

Floating ahead of us into the newly wall-papered kitchen.

As I stepped in behind Nonnie, I thought the effect of the sun streaking through the large bay window overlooking the Atlantic was playing tricks on my eyes, until I realized the walls  had recently erupted in make-believe flowers of reds and yellows, oranges, pinks and whites, floating against a dark purple sky. 

As if Easter - or maybe even the Easter Bunny - had exploded.

It was glorious.

Stanley was glorious.

Within Close Range - The Great Chicken Debate

Whether going out or eating in, food either consumed Nonnie’s thoughts or busied her hands for hours each day — and for the latter, I'll be forever grateful. 

Meals at Nonnie’s were often laborious feats and four-course, Italian feasts. Piping hot servings of handmade manicotti or tender, breaded cutlets, lemony, garlicky vegetables, hot rolls, vinegary salads and sweet desserts.

Second helpings were always encouraged and praise for the cook, expected.

As well as a little too vehemently rejected. 

The three greatest mis-steps at this Italian table? 

One: Cutting spaghetti. Either twist it on a spoon, or prepare for a gentle cuff on the back of the head from Papa. 

Two:  If all diners are not seated at the table while the food is still visibly scalding… Nonnie will burst several blood vessels.

And three:  Never…EVER… say you’re not hungry.

Utter blasphemy.

I loved the impromptu meals at Nonnie’s best.

Rattling her with an unexpected visit and the usual ravenous appetites. 

She’d forage through the refrigerator and freeezer, brimming with outwardly unidentifiable, but doubtlessly delicious leftovers, sealed inside ancient Tupperware and old Cool Whip containers - happy to see us, but perceptibly agitated that she could only offer what she saw as barely acceptable fare.

Each serving dished up with a generous dollop of misgiving.

I ‘ve never known anyone as good at cooking as Nonnie, who complained about it more.

So it’s little wonder that while visiting her in Florida during winter breaks, the moment Papa announced we were having dinner out, a palpable - near frenetic - excitement would  electrify the apartment.

Nonnie would spend most of the day (between meals) in her dressing gown, in a walk-run, making sure our dress clothes (I was usually there with a cousin) were pressed precisely, her hair was maintaining its proper "do" beneath a sea green hair net, our snack intake was severely monitored, and her sisters Camille and Rose were consulted and updated (via long distance) on EVERYTHING. 

For Nonnie, dining out seemed the equivalent to an audience with the Pope. 

For me, such an event proved far more predictable than papal.

More "Holy Cow” than Holy Spirit.

And it nearly always meant Italian (not that I was complaining) and a lengthy car ride to get there. 

Much of my early views of Florida were seen above a sea of car upholstery, through tightly sealed windows, where the only things visible were the tops of Palm trees and passing trucks, condos and clouds, and Nonnie and Papa's heads hovering over a wide expanse of leather stretched across the latest Cadillac's cavernous front seat.

Where conversations were muffled, and occasionally in broken Italian, so young ears couldn’t possibly understand.

And elevator music-versions of Rock ’n Roll songs played softly.

Where Papa's cautious, half-mile-to-execute lane changes regularly caused the turn signal to remain blinking. 

It must have been an audio-visual black hole for Papa. He was oblivious to both the flashing green light and the constant clicking for miles on end; the sound of which often lulled me into a trance, until Nonnie finally noticed the signal of perpetual motion and snapped at Papa to turn it off, or an accompanying cousin brought me back to reality with an innocent elbow nudge, tongue extension…

or hair burning.

There sat John, with the car's backseat cigarette lighter in his hand, a smug yet sorrowful look on his face, and the smell of flaming follicles slowly wafting through the well-sealed compartment. 

Once the sulfurous smell finally drifted to the front seat, things got lively.

And loud.

Nonnie shreiked, “What’s burning?! Something’s burning! Jimmy, something’s on fire!”

Papa pitched the lumbering Caddy to an empty parking lot at the side of the road, unrolled the windows, and ordered everyone out of the car; while Nonnie stood there mumbling and grumbling and shaking her head.  

After making absolutely sure nothing else had been set on fire - and throwing John one, last incredulous look - Papa ordered everyone back in the car before signaling his return to the road; where, for the final miles to the restaurant, I lost myself in the click and glow of the sedan’s left blinker. 

Eventually Nonnie’s aggravated murmurs receded, even though the smell of John’s burnt locks had not.

No matter how frayed nerves became on the journey to food, temporary calm would always be restored when opening the door to these Old World restaurants of times past — to the enticing smells and curtained nooks, smartly dressed waiters with thick accents, and an animated maitre d' who greeted everyone like family. 

Past trompe l'oeil walls of rural Tuscan scenes; rich, red fabrics draping doorways, and rolling dessert carts of cannoli and tiramisu. 

From well below the mouthwatering chaos, I’d watch the loaded serving trays — piled high with pastas and soups, roasted chickens and fresh seafood — pass deftly overhead, with a "Scuza, Signorina!”, until a hand on my shoulder gently guided me out of the busy traffic and into a chair in front of a round table covered in linens and complex table settings. 

A fast-moving figure from behind would cast a well-aimed cascade of ice water into one of the two stemmed glasses set at eye-level before me. 

Tempted and tormented by baskets of breadsticks and freshly baked rolls, my hand would be gently spanked away from a second helping.

 "You'll spoil your dinner,” Nonnie would scold. (When what she secretly had in mind was a bakery heist for tomorrow's breakfast.)

Excitement would rise again with the arrival of the menu which ignited imaginations and appetites. But burdened with such choices sometimes meant questionable judgement, such as Mary’s foolhardy decision to order a NON-Italian dish at this favorite Italian restaurant.

Which also happened to be the "market price" Surf and Turf.

Papa was speechless.

Nonnie was not.

It was a mistake Mary would not make again.

But the inexplicable regularity with which Nonnie ordered veal when presented with an abundance of choices was enough to make family members cringe and Papa's blood boil. 

Not because baby cow meat was one of Nonnie's favorite things to eat. 

But because every time she ordered veal (whether Marsala or Picante, upscale joint or neighborhood favorite) Nonnie would often only take two bites.

One for eternal optimism.

The other, raging cynicism.

Then she’d raise her head from her plate and - wearing utter disappointment as a mourning veil - complain meekly but unmistakably.

"This doesn't taste like veal. It's tastes like chicken. I'm sure this veal is chicken."

Thus another battle in Nonnie’s tireless crusade to unmask poultry dressed in calves' clothing would begin; prompting children to slip lower in their seats and adults to start commenting about the day's weather. 

Papa would bow his head and sigh with exasperated disbelief. Then he and his wife would begin a short-lived, but emotionally escalating and frustrating exchange that would end with Papa vowing to never take Nonnie out to a restaurant again.

And Nonnie looking self-righteously miserable, as she rummaged through her dinner-roll-filled-handbag looking for tissue. 

The drive home on these evenings was what I imagined floating in space would be like.

Silent.

Solitary.

Dark.

Except for the flashing, green light emanating from the dashboard that let me know other life forms still existed.

A few days would pass.

Then Papa would announce we were going out to dinner.

And Nonnie’s excitement would rise anew.

Until she decided to order the veal that night.

And Papa would end up swearing that it was the very last time he would ever take her out to dinner - a vow he would repeat until the day he died.

Nonnie would work tirelessly in her quest to find real veal for decades more.

Within Close Range - Florida Days: the Early Years

The earliest days I spent in Florida with Nonnie and Papa are the first I knew of my independence; made particularly visual due to this peculiar land of tropical scents and strikingly unfamiliar sights.

Far removed from the only place I knew, home.

The first apartment Nonnie and Papa kept there to escape Chicago's meanest of seasons was in Hallandale, on Florida’s east coast. It was a small, but airy, two bedroom built at the corner of an inland canal; brightly decorated in yellows, greens, blues and whites.

Yet perpetually shaded from the Sunshine State. 

Put to bed well before the sun sank, I used to lay in the back sitting room-turned-bedroom for hours on end, tossing and turning on the fold-out sofabed. 

Poked by every relentless lump and coil.

I’d listen intensely to the unfamiliar sounds of apartment living, made especially audible by the glass-vented door in my room that opened onto the building's exterior hallways.

My slatted portals to the outside world.

Sounds of the apartment people returning from the pool, the shops, the grocers. 

Of doorbells ringing and little feet skipping.

Hugs and kisses being exchanged.

Marvelling at how laughter bounced against the cement walls of the nearby stairwell and happy voices disappeared instantly with the slam of a heavy car door. 

I’d breath in the ladies' perfumes as they strolled past the open vents.

With the ocean winds, came the scent of orange blossoms and creeping jasmine, algae, brine and fresh oiled asphalt.

Inside, the muffled voices of the television in the living room regularly added to my apartment-living symphony.

Its familiar sounds and flickering lights leaking through the bottom of the door, casting strange figures on the thickly carpeted, recently vacuumed floor, offered great comfort.

As did the vision of Papa in the room next door.

In his chair.

Feet up.

Arms folded high across his belly, 

A large RC Cola at his side. 

Grinning at Clem Kadiddlehopper or growling at the Chicago Bears. 

I’d watch the skies grow dark through the opaque door, as the lights of the apartment complex grew bright. And when all was quiet, I'd lay very, very still, in that unfamiliar dark, to hear the inland water's slow, buoyant motion.

Then I'd sleep.

Deeply.

And wake to the day creeping through the vents; lingering on the lumpy mattress, listening to the apartment people as they began their day.

Wooed by the sounds of those stirring, I’d soon stretch toward the clanking of kitchen utensils and the smells of breakfast cooking on the other side of the wall.

Oh these, my Florida days.

Of sand slipping away beneath my feet at the edge of the ocean.

Seashell hunts as the sun dipped low.

Nonnie's bunioned toes and skinny legs (strikingly similar to the surrounding seagulls) dipping into the foamy waves.

Never getting in past her ankles.

Never a creature of the sea.

These early days of sunset walks along a stretch of beach that led to a lighthouse and a tottering, creaky wharf where Papa liked to walk.

And I liked to walk with him.

Where fishing boats had funny names and a tiny gift shop, in a weather-beaten shanty, sold orange gumballs packed in little, wooden orange crates. 

Oh these, my early years.

Of bright, green lizards skittering across pastel walls, pats on the head by terri-cloth clad men playing cards in the shade of umbrellas, and a kidney-shaped pool where suntanned women with ever-blossoming bathing caps, great bosoms and sagging arms, forever wade in the shallow end.