California comin' home

We recently returned from a trip to Miami. Michael's extended family lives there and some of my relatives have bought vacation homes in Florida. I was born in Miami. My father decided to move us all back to his hometown of New Haven, CT when I was 6. I was ripped away from my granny and can vividly remember her crying uncontrollably as I peered out the rear window of my parents' car as we drove away. After a few months in CT, I became very close with my other grandmother, the Italian "Nonie." My security was short-lived.

Once again, my father decided he wanted to return to Miami. I was only 9 and found the move rather traumatic. My granny had moved back to West Virginia and the only family left was my aunt and uncle. Mind you, I loved my aunt, but her husband, my mom's brother, was another story. If you've ever seen the Great Santini, well, that was my uncle,

Michael's aunt was celebrating her 97th birthday. Florida is where the Jews and Italians go to retire. They all live in these gated communities - all the houses look very much the same. We arrived at his cousin's house and were practically frisked and handcuffed. These security guards take their jobs very seriously. One actually chased us down because we hadn't shown our picture ID's. We asked why they're so strict and the answer was simple: terrorism. Yeah, the Al Qaeda has their eye on a Jewish retirement village in Fort Lauderdale.

Michael's aunt stands about 4 feet tall, white teased hair and all dressed up. She was warm and sweet. We looked at photo albums of this big Jewish family filled with children and I wondered why there weren't any photos of my husband and his brother. Oh, I forgot, his mom put them in an orphanage followed by foster homes. Michael was 5, Ritchie 2. The thing I can't figure out is how this big Jewish family of aunts and uncles could let this happen. As the old lady sat in a daze, caught up in her cheese blintz..."Oh my Gawd, these are so creeeemy," I wanted say, "Hey, lady, why did you let your nephews sit in shelters and foster homes? Michael and I left clueless, as he's been his whole life. No one talks about this. They would rather deny the truth. If they don't talk about it, it never happened. Not the case in my family. I was happy to let Michael share my big dose of reality as we left for Miami Beach.

It's funny how childhood memories get filed into the brain. When I was in Miami Beach, it was the be all end all. I spent six years there, ages 9-15, and formed some very strong bonds with friends. This is the age of puberty, where the boobs start poking out and hair is growing in places where there was no hair before. You start noticing the opposite sex. I spent most of my time in a bikini, lying on our dock on the water, belly button filled with a reserve of baby oil. Standing on the little bridge in my old neighborhood, looking at the dock with Michael holding my hand, I started having flashbacks. Not the kind that are accompanied by Barbara Streisand's "Memories," but more like Vietnam flashbacks.

I remembered my father and the ceramic logs he threw out the front door, splattering into a million pieces. I remembered my mother falling off a stool and knocking herself unconscious (She was combing my dad's hair, as she did every day). I remembered my first boyfriend, Michael, a direct relative of Al Capone, who would pick me up on my dock in his boat. I wasn't allowed to date, yet my father allowed me to hang with this kid. I remembered the first guy I really went nuts over. His name was Randy Beech. He sang in an oldies band. I was 14, attending an all-girl Catholic school. My father wouldn't allow me to date so I snuck around behind his back. Randy called me one day. I always tried to be home when he called so my dad wouldn't answer the phone. This time, I missed the call and dad answered. "Who the fuck are you? If you ever call here again I'll break your fucking legs." That was the end of Randy Beech. I remembered coming home and finding three of the Four Seasons sitting at the dinner table. My father liked to bring guests home to dinner and my mother had to be prepared at a moment's notice. I remembered him yelling at her once because someone asked for a cigarette. "Peg, whats da matter with you? Why don't we have any cigarettes in the house? I could see my mother muttering things under her breath ("because no one smokes").

The bad news came at 15 when my father, after breaking the jaw of the Miami chief of police (he was bodyguard to Frank Sinatra at the time and the chief showed up drunk at Frank's door and called Frank a WOP - needless to say, my father wopped him but good.) Finding out you're moving to California at 15, well, it sucks. I went on a rebellion. I stopped doing my schoolwork and dated a Cuban drug dealer, just to get back at my parents. I've never done drugs so dating someone with big bottles of Quaaludes in the back seat of his car was a bit disturbing. I knew if my father caught me he'd kill me, and him, and truthfully, I didn't care. Memories...

Michael and I sat in a Cuban restaurant where I once ate at with my dad and I remembered how I never really felt like my dad was with me. Sure, he could be sitting across from me or in the driver's seat of the car, but he was always somewhere else. He was either looking over his shoulder or waiting for someone to arrive. In other words, he was pre-occupied. Sure, he'd throw in the occasional, "So, Tone, how's school?" or "Nice shirt," but no deep conversations with my dad. He made it very clear what we couldn't do- "If I ever catch you smoking you won't have to worry about every smoking again cuz' I'll break your hands so you won't be able to hold a cigarette," or my favorite, "If I ever find out you're acting like a hooower, I'll break your fucking legs," but typical father-daughter conversations didn't exist. I never took up smoking or promiscuous sex.

It was our last night in Florida so Michael and I headed off to a restaurant called Yuca on the Lincoln Road Mall where I used to shop with my girlfriends. All of the little art deco stores have been replaced by The Gap and Victoria's Secret and Urban Outfitters and Starbucks. We drank our second cocktail and looked at each other with a big smile. "Nice trip, huh honey." Yeah, let's do this again!"

We woke up the next morning eager to leave Florida and back to California. I remembered my first thoughts on California; how I dreaded coming here and how much I hated it when I arrived in beautiful Downtown Burbank, but I can't imagine life if I had stayed in Miami. My father settled down in California (by settling down I mean he didn't want to move again) and I'm glad we stayed. California began a whole new set of adventures, like getting beat up by a group of Mexican chicks in my first week of school, but that's another story...

"I want to see the folks I dig, I'll even kiss a Sunset pig, California comin' home." - Joni Mitchell