What My Eyes Have Seen
Dante A Cinelli
© Copyright 2023 by Dante A. Cinelli
Photo by Chris F at Pexels.
My friends, come with me to a great tangled forest of coruscating
vignettes, some fading quickly into oblivion forever.
The venue, my memories; the driving force, the bitter-sweet taste of nostalgia,
sprinkled with passion and wonderment.
I have stood high on a hilltop beneath a voluminous blue canopy with magnificent
green orange billows of gray edged clouds.
I stood transfixed, motionless like a victim of the once-beautiful Medusa
until my ancient spine begged for relief.
I gained ease by sitting atop a boulder until the sunset radiated
before me in glorious orange and flame streaks.
My friends, my eyes have looked down the bow of a fast
moving ship in convoy slicing
silently through a vast Pacific, cutting a green glowing swath of algae and minutiae.
I felt the presence of God looking at a million stars in the darkening indigo night, the
Southern Cross above my brow, forcing my spirit to cower in this scenario.
I needed no syllogisms, no great words to lift me, but to remind me at night to be on my
knees in reverence, no higher than the lowest beggar in a Persian
mosque, praying to the same God but by a different name.
I have stood at attention, saluting flag-draped coffins of companions
killed on duty after WWII was over, and a Korean truce in effect.
I stood atop a silent Mount Suribachi where valiant enemies gave
their lives fighting for their countries. I stood where the second
American flag was ordered to be posted.
I stood where the then-Lieutenant Schrier commanding the
flag raising squad, later in life to be my Commanding Officer.
So perhaps, this little four year old immigrant boy and his
older brother, Emilio, paid a small payment on that
September day in 1936 when my father, a simple, but proud man
called his family to America by sacrificing his life, his comfort,
his living a normal life by saving nickels and dimes, working
at two jobs and running a cobbler’s shop, sleeping in
the hoveled back of the store to save rent, to bring us
closer to America’s shore. This was no mean laborious
goal, but the sacrifice of a human life for the sake of
uniting a family in the land of Oz. And it continued on
for decades; with the help of our mother, we stood
on their shoulders as they lifted us up in this glorious
land. We slowly through the years began to understand
the meaning of the word “sacrifice”, but never the full
meaning until they passed from this life, too late to
know, too late to kneel before them in humility.
But I must say my older brother morphed much sooner
than I:
Follow me, dear reader, about twenty five years after
World War II was over, Emil had fought in the south Pacific
as a an army medical assistant in combat, attending
wounded soldiers and Marines on Okinawa, being bayoneted
slightly in the side of his torso, surviving, and killing his
attacker with a knife. Luckily his wound was minimal
and missed his intestinal tract. I saw the scar myself.
However, in the vortex of war, in the complexities of
survival, in the need for water and sleep which is more
precious than platinum, he never received nor put in for,
a Purple Heart. This might be hard to believe, my friends,
but it’s true. You would have had to have known, my brother,
a “turk” if there ever was one. When he passed on, I drove
to a New Jersey flea market just to buy a Purple Heart for
$75 and place it with him. It would have been an impossible
red-taped monumental task to have it awarded to him.
Beside the fact that he never sought one.
OK, back to the scene, in upstate New York, twenty-five years later.
On the front lawn, someone from my now married sister’s
family threatened to hit the cobbler’s head
( I’ll name him Gepetto for now,…my father)…….
with the barrel of a .22 rifle in the presence
of Emil, the turk. It took three or
four grown men to try to restrain him in reaching
the aggressor.
The way I heard it( for I was not present), bodies were
tossed aside, legs and knees
bleeding from scraping giant slate slabs on the walk,
the aggressor, my brother-in-law, had
jumped into his car and disappeared, while three men
held the turk down.
Neighbors had called the State police, but no arrests were made.
Then I come down from the mountain, where I took my two
young nephews to shoot 22 rifles safely in an enclosed ravine.
That was the milieu which ignited the argument on a warm sunny
afternoon in the Catskill mountains.
That poor, poor bastard was lucky to escape with
his life, but wait, there is more, much more….but
for another time, another place,….the same
brother- in-law, …….but a different turk, ………………..me.
But, I, like Sherharazade, will tell a new tale of my family,
for my family which aspires to know some of their roots,
some of their tendencies, some of their foibles,
one, maybe two of their weaknesses, but mostly,
I pray, to be aware of their genes of goodness and
empathy for the downtrodden.
When we sailed by a beautiful, silent French Lady,
encrusted with green copper sulfate,
holding a torch, we didn’t know what was in our
future then, what laughter, smiles,
travails and tears were awaiting along
the paths we were to take……who was the hero
waiting for us on the dock?;his heart beating
in his chest, waiting to embrace his wife, his
sixteen year old daughter, his fifteen year old
turk; and I, four years old. He never saw
me before. I never saw him before either,
but he grabbed my hand gently.
I remember I told him that I hadn’t seen my
grey and white rocking horse.
He chuckled and laughed while he
said, “ I think it swam back to Italy.”
I must have thought, “Oh, well!…….but who is this guy?”
That’s what these eyes have seen.
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