Prelude

Prelude



I was told January 31, 1948 was my first initiation into the world and not a second before or after the dial hit twelve on the coo- coo clock, the little birdie sang and I slipped out of the dark at midnight hour.
At the first sight of light I looked multicolored and shocked. Cut loose, speechless and dazed holding my breath, the mid wife slapped my behind gingerly and in response I shed my first tear crying out loud.

I was born at home. No birth certificate was issued or medical records of my height, weight, footprints or a birthmark. Not even a photo was taken while I was still naked and open to view. I only received standing ovation by the females who were present, including my maternal grandmother attesting with a script of emotions to my encounter with the real world, as she described it to me witnessing the moment of my birth.
A compromise was reached by the onlooker females when the subject aired in reference to my face, hair, and the color of my eyes and all agreed I resembled a postmark of my parents.
In succession I was scrubbed, washed then folded in a blanket, handed to my mother smelling sweet and slate clean and in mirth and spirited exuberance in receiving the fruit of her labor I was breastfed my first meal. Savoring my first appetizer, stimulated, appeased and smiling my dimples appeared.
Being paraded greeted and fed and due the straining circumstances of giving birth mother was exhausted and lightheartedly fell asleep.
When mother woke up to check on me after the first feeding, it was pitch black and it seems the ladies were gone, my grandma was asleep, the light was out and my eyes were wide open.
Presuming reincarnation is an occurrence! It is possible I was a cat in the previous life. But that is a miscalculation knowing I don’t posses nine lives and I don’t purr or scratch.

My mother said the day I was born I had twinkling eyes, someone said I have a penetrable look; I might consider that an option to be true, wondering why sometimes I feel piercing deep into my soul. Others superficially aforementioned not to worry the day I loose my hair, for no one will recognize I’m bold headed due to the distracting magnetic power of my eyes. Well so far I’m glad to admit that I still have bushy hair, other than that my left eye now has an artificial lens, accessibly I see the partial of my soul, that’s the good half and what a revealing graceful sight.

In regards to the general public and official interest I’m not able to produce a legitimate birth certificate. The only record and concrete evidence of my birth was scribbled in black numerals by my father on the inside door of an armoire.
Through the years that old piece of furniture still exist and now it sit in my old bedroom covered with dust at the old house and I believe it is older than me. It is not a rare piece of antique or carved by a master carpenter, it is one of those cabinet that you keep in your attic or basement to store things that you don’t use any anymore and on top it has a disadvantage standing out among the new custom made furniture throughout our house and probably will fit perfectly in a kitchen of a Chinese restaurant or a pizza parlor. Through the years when my father was alive it was scraped, sanded down and painted by its original color on the outside in dark chocolate brown for a face lift and still looked ugly and lonely.
The directory included the birth dates of my two brothers and two sisters. I’m the first born male and second in line. The numerals under my scripted birth date was tinted over with a black marker and evidently it was the birth dates of my twin sisters deceased duly to complications of immature birth.
With my eyes closed, looking back as far my memory takes me and in review it transfers me to the earliest period of my life reproducing in details actual simulcast.
I believe I was two years old, as I recall I was in my parent’s bedroom, sticking my head between a crib’s split splinters standing inches tall above the level of the mattress watching two babies side by side tucked up under the arms and their heads protectively covered with white cottony hoods. One was looking at the ceiling and the other one lopsided watching me with her faded eyes sensing my presence.

The twins survived by the minutes and didn’t hang around to learn a few words. They had no role to play, tossed by destiny into thin ice plunging in obit.
In the end I had the chance to peek at them, in a short encounter while in their deduced journey on the verge to be taken away from the road to life. I never asked their designated names, forgotten with time I imagine how painful their passing, it must have been bruising to my parent’s hearts.

Mother only saw her twin daughters the second they breathed into this earthly world then she collapsed unconscious and was transported to a hospital.
Two weeks later the twin died while mother lay in a hospital bed fraught and vulnerable.
Few days after the twins had been laid to rest mother regained conscience and father was at her bed side. She opened her eyes, looked around and the first thing she asked if the twins survived.
Father had no choice but to tell her the twins are fine. He kept mother in the dark only to tell her after she recuperate and back on her feet.
But mother kept insisting, she wanted to see the babies and hold them in her arms.
Again my father was concerned for mother’s health and how sorrow she’ll be if he told the truth and to comfort her assured that he had taken me, my older sister and the twins in the care of her sister.
When mother was released from the hospital my father brought her home. Stepping through the front door she stormed into the bedroom and there were no one there. Father sat her down and delivered the coup de grace the twins encountered. Crestfallen mother’s heart was broken and her emotions escalated. Stricken with grief she let out and screamed in pain and whimpered to exhaustion and heartache.
Sometimes I wonder why people say it is god’s will when a life is offered in a narrow stretch, in a short walkway of a glorious morning and by a blink surprise before one reaches the road to sunset death ambush the light. It appears to me that god has no constructive theory making a decision. Fore most, it boggles me how ill misfortune an innocent life is dissolved. If I had such power I’ll stop it and grant every child a second chance. I sense my human heart speaking and not being instructed with the reasons from a higher authority, I wish God shed more light!

Being a child and by virtue of innocence one day my youngest sister questioned my mother what parents do to bring a baby into this world.
When one is young and immature, lacking in reason and knowledge accepts the fact of adult’s imagination masking the truth about conception. In this case mother harmlessly accommodated and surmised,
“It is a gift from god, thereupon god reward good parents by sending the baby to a doctor who is kind enough to deliver the baby in his medical handbag”.
However, that day mother was feeling repulsed by my irresponsible conduct for something I did earlier, divulged a conspiracy knowing I was listening. Denying me as her child as she implied,
“But Johnny was the only baby the doctor didn’t deliver, he was kidnapped from his real parents and a gypsy woman sold him to us for a price of a couple gold coins”
With a notable smile enthralled I was some how proud, exaggeratedly told my mother,
“I guess you deserve to have a son worthy of gold”
Mother conjectured,
“If you keep misbehaving you’ll only fetch a price of metal scraps, tin and the kind.”
She had a smirk when spoke, then she obliged and changed the subjects when she noticed I was surprised.

Being kidnapped by a gypsy woman, it’s a faltering reference without logic. I reckon it was a feeling and a renouncement of displeasure towards my childish disorder. If mother witnessed what I saw how a child could be exploited in a gypsy society. Literally would’ve chosen a substitute colorful expression. Back then I felt I was an outsider and incertitude.
Mislead by mother’s pseudo, as a boy I was concerned and told my friend Shibly I was kidnapped from my real parents and warned him to be on the lookout for the gypsy entourage who pitch their tents in the public pine park close to our neighborhood, in a novice they are children snatchers.

On a Sunday morning Shibly stood on his balcony waiting for me to appear, but I was waiting for my father to give me my Sunday allowance.
Shibly counted from one to a hundred and it seemed the time was dragging and finally he couldn’t wait no more and hollered my name. Mother heard him and went out to our balcony asking,
“Shibly what you want from Johnny and what kind of mischief you’re up to today?”
Mother suspicion was roused and suspected something up our sleeves, as my parent dreaded when me and Shibly adventured, the devil appeared as we drifted and dugout trouble.
The last thing my parents didn’t notice, is how we had rehearsed and carried out not to appear misleading.
Shibly put on a Christian face and cordially hinted,
“I just want to know if Johnny wants to go church to pray”
Mother felt how proper being ministered by the words of god, was glad to hear such paragon response, walked back to the kitchen and asked my father to give my allowance with an extra quarter then turned towards me and commanded,
“Johnny, the added quarter you getting you must give it when they pass the offering basket”.
“Sure mother!”
I Left to meet up with Shibly thinking this quarter ain’t going into god’s pocket, planned to spend it on cotton candy instead. Anyhow I was taught god created the universe and magically could create his own quarters, since I was lacking such power performing a miraculous trick, that’s why I wasn’t going to fulfill my mother’s wishes.
We went to church but we didn’t know how to pray, instead we were checking out the girls from our neighborhood and when I spotted a girl I liked Shibley said,
“You can’t have her, she’s mine since I saw her first”
And when he picked another girl I said,
“This one is mine you can’t have her because she smiled at me first”
By the time the mass was over Shibly and I fairly enough had all the girls evenly divided to our lists without even having a single word with any of them but we were satisfied and had many choices to pick our future wives from our harem’s rosters, and by the time the offering basket was passed I changed my mind and gave a nickel just in case god was watching!

After mass was over the church street was crowded with vendors who took advantage of selling their goods and mostly all the things a child want to spend his money on.
Right then and without hesitation I got me a cotton candy and since I had that extra change that god was suppose to get, instead I bought a candied apple while Shibley was in line for an ice cream. Suddenly a gypsy man appeared with a red hanker wrapped around his head, two gold rings hanging from his ears started to shout and ask gatherers to give him space waving his hands drawing attention. He was followed by three young girls dressed for the traditional gipsy hula dance and a young gipsy boy controlling a monkey on a leach.
The crowd gathered forming a circle and the girls started to shake their tambourines while the gipsy man began conducting the dance, clapping his hand and singing,
“hirry, hirry, hirry” (shake, shake, shake)
Then pick up his violin and started to play.
The girls began moving their hips performing with a steady pulse, throbbing, pulsating in tempo, tapping their feet in synchronized fashion and the monkey followed behind doing somersaults.
However I was feeling fancied standing right at the front taking a bite out of the candied apple then turned my head and took another bite of a cotton candy. Jubilant, amused and distracted and in split second the monkey snatched the apple from my hand.
Not feeling guilty the monkey turned and sat on his butt happy licking on my apple. Feeling the pain angry and unyielding I grabbed his tale and pulled it. The monkey got ticked disturbed, turned around gripping the apple in both hands stock his teeth at me making threatening sounds. Promptly I moved back and the monkey jumped and landed on his handler shoulder and I watched the rascal munching on my apple. I guess every monkey has his glory day.

After the dance, the young girls passed their tambourines for collection. Some people shrugged and dispersed not giving a dirty penny. Some gave. The show was over and the gypsies swiftly moved on.
Shibly and I followed them from distance and shouted taunting,
“Baby robbers, kidnappers”, pelting rocks at them.
The gypsy man looked back cursing at us, but as we kept throwing rocks at them he dropped his guard and commanded his troop to pick up speed and in such a plight all ran faster zipping through buzzing cars and crossed the highway to another neighborhood.
Remembering my mother’s words, childishly I could have been that gipsy boy with a monkey on my back, kidnapped from his real parents to become a monkey handler.

At that stage I had no idea what is fictitious or actual. Only when by coincidence it happened in real when seeing what a gypsy woman did when she was caught stealing an item from the general store.
Another incident that placed me to observe, asking myself what if I really was in the hands of gypsies and my destiny have been reversed and my life could have taking another turn.
That day unfold a remembrance, I was playing in the street in my neighborhood with kids my age. Suddenly hearing loud screams I looked and saw a woman running disturbed and a man carrying a stick trying to catch her.
The woman held a baby in her arms, scared by the store owner who chased after her. Scuffling, terrified and exhausted made a complete stop, turned around and retrieved a knife from her pocket, pointed it at the baby’s chest and shouted,
“I will kill this baby if you touch me and his blood spilled will be a curse on your family”.
The store owner became concerned what the gypsy might do with a weapon in her hand. Afraid for the baby’s safety, screeched and pleaded,
“For God’s sake women no one is going to harm you”
Reluctant for a minute, the gypsy waved the knife in a stabbing mode, screaming,
“Stay back, stay back”.
Preventing a tragedy from occurrence, the man passively threw the stick on the ground in submission, turned around and walked back to his store. Added that she was free from danger, lifted the knife from above the baby’s heart, walked away slowly, looking backward almost tripping on her long dress covering her feet. In hurdles scrammed towards the olive grove and disappeared.
Fifty years have passed. My photographic memory comes alive. I still see the gypsy woman fearful eyes and pigmented tattooed face, holding the baby tightly to her chest.
I realized it was a ploy how she reacted to get out of a jam. I doubt if she really would inflict harm on a baby, but who knows what a gypsy might do if the baby wasn’t her own child!
Fallaciously I could’ve been that baby too, used as a scapegoat if I were to believe my mother that I was disposable.

In reference to the old saying,
“Tell me who you hang around with, I will tell you who you are”.
I wonder, what a de facto I be today if I had been kidnapped by gypsies.
My pedigree and distinguishable characteristics would have been mutated to a subclass and a social outcast, traveling aimlessly as a nomad, speaking a different language, looking in a crystal ball and wheeling dealing in fortune telling. Recognizable to my cozen cronies by the tattoos and golden teeth.

Some people by prejudice and false pretenses wear masks society gives them according to their demeanor, association, race or religion. That is the nature of the human beast. Deficient in palaver and a condemning deliberate.

Again as a reminder when I acted naughtily disturbing the peace at home, in need for a tranquilizer to subdue my recalcitrant behavior, while kicking and fuming, mother felt wigged by my frequent hostile intervals.
In those moments when I got under mother’s skin, she felt frustrated remembering the tenseness at the time of my birth. Quoting with disparaging burst,
“Johnny the day you were born, you brought the war with your face”.
Retrieving her feelings to a time of war was not to shame me personally. It was an expression free of gloating. Mother’s memory of war turmoil was upsetting her state of mind at the time of my birth. Maybe she was tormented by a physical transition through pregnancy and that caused a psychic unrest, and that indeed assured me that I was a legitimate child, not adopted or sold and my faith was restored.
Knowing I was born in turbulent wartime is acceptable to me and by the grace of conception it was meant to be. I had nothing to do with it, only being rewarded with the breath of life during a troubled epoch.