MEMORIES, Chapter Two - Danny

LOOKING BACK

Danny became a memory many years ago.

My Aunt Ellie, his mom, had a shrine of her children's' pictures atop the television. There's one of Danny -a hand tinted photo of him when he turned three. That’s the Danny I'll always remember. A photo that captures an innocent and beautiful child - red curly hair - pleated yellow short pants - a white shirt - and a grin so wide, you could almost hear him laughing. The photographer got it right! He captured Danny perfectly—his eyes radiating humor, warmth, mischief and stubbornness - all concealed by his beautiful round face.

That photo. It awakens memories of those first years we shared together. Early childhood – we were four or five years old. Childhood - when every day was a new adventure. Like two sprites, Danny and I explored the new world - together - leaving behind a few crayon marks, bronzed baby shoes, and family photos - souvenirs for the future - to prove that we had been there - together.

My father had two brothers, Ralph and Junie - both younger. After marrying, all except Junie returned back home to live with my grandmother and grandfather. "Home" was the living quarters above the family business -the bakery. Mom and dad had been married three years when I was born in 1944. Danny arrived on the scene the following year.

"Upstairs" above the bakery, each family had its own bedroom—sharing one bath and a common living room. My father's youngest brother, Junie, lived about two blocks away with his new wife. Aunt Mildred - I never really knew her well. Her dark softly curled hair framed a face with faultless complexion giving her the appearance of a movie star. She was also very loud - she always seemed to be on the verge of shouting. Sometimes it was more than just annoying - it was piercing. I hear her calling "JIPPIE!!!" (uncle Junies' nickname) -with a shrillness that still rings in my ears!

Grandma's and Grandpa's bedroom was at the rear of the upstairs - a long screened-in porch overlooking a small yard behind the Bakery. On hot summer days, the Gulf breezes melted through the window screens. And when the air was still, an overhead fan with five white paddles shimmied in the center of the room - stirring up the humid air. The currents wandered about the room caressing everything – causing the plants lining the window sills to tremble.

My Aunt Ellie and Uncle Ralph's room was off the north side of the central living room. It was rather small - the space consumed by massive art deco furniture and Danny's baby bed in the corner. A single window looked outwards across the bakery roof - gravel covered tar paper - beyond were the houses along Washington Street.

Mom and Dad's room was off the west side of the living room. From the South window you could see the intersection of Lameuse and Howard Avenue of downtown Biloxi. The windows on Lameuse street faced the Fallo house. The Fallo house was a large single story white clapboard structure with a gray corrugated tin roof and a windowed cupola facing the street. It was plain -graced only by a wrap-around porch -no yard. A wide cement stairway with three steps ascended directly from the sidewalk to the porch. Grey concrete urns filled with sand flanked the steps. The Taranto's lived in one half of the house, but the porch belonged to everyone, the family, the neighborhood kids, and visitors alike.

Late in the afternoon, there was a recurring ballet that played outside this window. Act one, began with my grandfather - appearing on the sidewalk in front of the bakery - carefully balancing a long slender pipe - a metal crank that was easily twice his height. With care and precision he raised it upwards - guiding the looped end onto a hook high above that hung from the folded canvas awning. He began cranking - slowly - then with ever increasing rhythm. A dark green awning gradually descended above the sidewalk windows - stretching and arching further and further out over the sidewalk.

Once fully opened, the green and white striped awning looked like some alien creature's eyelid - half closed over the front of the building. The Gulf breezes tickled the scalloped edge causing it to wave and ripple. The coarse canvas sucked up the blistering rays of the white- hot afternoon sun - sparing the delicately iced cakes in the window display.

Within the hour following the awning's descent, the side door of the Fallo house opened slowly. Like an invalid escaping for the evening, old Mr. Fallo hobbled out and then moved down to the front of the porch where he took command position - always in the same dark blue rocking chair with the high caned back. There, tottering back and forth, with unbroken rhythm, he surveyed the view -craning his neck when an unfamiliar car passed by. Pedestrians wandered by on the sidewalk. He nodded silently and politely. Few paused to chat with him, but everyone acknowledged his greeting with a smile and an occasional kind word.

I remember seeing old Mr. Fallo up close only once. I remember how ancient he looked - the wrinkles, spots, and moles reminded me a bit of the ogres' pictures in my Grimm's book. He was the oldest person I had ever seen. He made me feel uneasy, and the fact that he spoke an broken English didn’t help my uneasiness.

Often Mr. Taranto (Cottie, the adults called him) would join old Mr. Fallo. There they sat together talking, laughing - their hands waving about in some strange dialect that only they understood. As they nodded and grimaced - sometimes near shouting in an animated disagreement, the white-hot sun descended behind the First National Bank building - slowly, transforming gradually into an enormous orange ball that sank downward into a sea of yellow and pink cloud-swirls.

I wonder now, what they talked about. Was it the same every evening - politics, family, money, the good old times? Or was fresh material brought before this two man tribunal each and every day. No one will ever know, and it really makes no difference. But this was an event - a small bit of history - passing before my eyes. And the same scenario was being played out all up and down Lameuse Street – maybe all of Biloxi! Little did I know this social custom would disappear in a few years – destroyed by a one eyed monster called television.

The gray shadows of early evening approach, and the two men's' voices continue, rising and falling. A lone sparrow calls out on its final flight home, and a chorus of crickets joins the men's dying conversation. Invisible crickets - hidden by the moist darkness that gradually envelopes everything. The conversational pauses become more frequent, until finally Mr. Cottie leaves the scene. He returns to the beauty parlor where his wife is finishing the last patron of the day. With little else to do, he arranges the chairs and shepherds the magazines back to their proper resting spots.

A moment passes, as old Mr. Fallo gathers his strength, and rises from the chair, clutching both arm rests, straining, until at last he is free. The chair bangs against the house siding as if applauding his successful escape. He falters onward - around the corner of the porch - aiming for a patch of yellow light cast by a single hanging bulb from within his destination. As he slips inside, the screen door bangs faintly shut. The glow from the bulb disappears. The closing act of the ballet concludes the performance.

Now - Mr. Cottie looked something like a short little wrestler - being as wide as he was tall. His deep tanned rounded face was topped by gray and black curly hair. His trademark, a short cigar stub, hung as if permanently attached to the left side of his mouth.

Mr. Cottie's wife, Verna, was a beautician. Her beauty parlor in the front two rooms of the Fallo house, was marked only by a small neatly lettered sign that hung on the wooden pillar atop the stairs. All during the day women arrived wearing scarfs or hats, their heads cast downward. Much later, the same ladies - now "beautiful" exited - with glinting red polished nails -their heads held high displaying their curled and sculpted hair styles -their old head gear discretely stowed in a shopping bag.

Ms. Verna and Mr. Cottie had one son - Tommy, I think. Yes, Tommy was his name. He was a few years older than Danny and I. We never really knew Tommy - we moved away before he had a chance to grow up. His life was claimed by cancer when he was barely fifteen. Mom said that Tommy's death killed Mr. Cottie - he suffered a heart attack and joined Tommy not long afterwards.

One day, I overheard mama and grandma talking quietly - they said something strange -- that old Mr. Fallo had passed. As they stood behind the bakery showcases looking across the street, a long black car arrived. Small white letters on the side read - "Bradford Funeral Home". I began with the questions, but was soon escorted upstairs for an afternoon nap. While mama was hanging up my clothes, I looked out the window across the street. The long black car was departing. People on the porch were crying. Respectfully, all traffic on the street had stopped -yielding to the black car. Men, black and white -stood on the sidewalk - their hats off, heads lowered, silent, expressionless. The car turned left onto Howard Avenue. Mama called me away from the window.

The ballet was over.

Forever.