"A Patch of Paradise"
By Carl Jr.

I wish I could say that my father was in the diplomatic corps, or perhaps on military assignments--and that's why we lived in 5 different cities before I entered the 7^th grade (and 9^th school). The truth, however, is that my father worked for the same company (Borden's Ice Cream), in the same place (New York City), doing the same thing (driving a delivery truck) for nearly 30 years. How then did we move from:

2311 NW 140 Street, Opa-Locka, Florida

in 7 years?!!

Well, to answer that, I have to share a bit of my family history with you.

You all know that my mother is Tia Rafaela. What you may not know is that Tia Rafaela was a "mail order bride" to my father (Carl Sr.) and 21 years his junior. Well, this created some interesting familial relationships. My half-brother was the same age as my mother and many of my nieces and nephews were older than me. Bizarre!

Now even though my mother was 26 years of age, in 1943, when she married my father, she was totally ill equipped, psychologically, socially, or intellectually for the marriage. She had to cope with the move from Santurce to the Bronx, integrating into a very different family culture and separation from her family. Now, the latter must have been very difficult for her. She never spoke of her life in Santurce, but I have surmised that it was a life devoid of love or attention.

I tell you this so that you will have some sense of the peculiar relationship that she had with her older-by-one-year sister, Tia Iris. They maintained a life-long "love-hate" relationship if there ever was one! And part of that relationship was that "wherever Iris went, Rafaela was sure to follow..." Until they had a spat. Then Tia Rafaela would move away. Until the next time! Now, running towards and away from Tia Iris wasn't the only reason we moved. There were always problems with the neighbors ("vulgar, not my kind of people"), the conflicts with my father's family ("those dirty Sicilians") or the schools, or the weather, or...

My father had little control over this. This may surprise you. Being 21 years older than my mother, you would think that he might be a "father figure" to her. Well, that might have been the case were it not for Tia Rafaela's, well, "emotional problems." When faced with a difficult situation, like, for example, being given "no" for an answer, she would erupt into a fury of yelling, screaming, grabbing, throwing, contorting and even farting! And what lungs! For a woman barely 4' 8" tall, she could easily fill the Metropolitan Opera with her screams. It was hell.

My father soon learned that resistance was futile. He would bring home those old ice cream shipping boxes and I knew that we were on the move again!

Now, my father was born in Sicily, in 1896, and immigrated to the United States as an eight-year-old boy. In 1904, eight-year-old kids from Sicily didn't go to school; they worked in the coal mines. So, my father had no formal education (perhaps that's why the Tia's regarded him with such contempt). But he did have a "genetic memory" of life in, as he called it, "the Old Country."

Part of that "genetic memory" was his enormous love for his garden. Flowers and fruits, flowers and fruits, ever time we moved from one house to another, he planted those flowers and fruits. (I remember, as a small child, that our house in Hackensack appeared in the local newspaper because of my father's garden.) And every time we moved, he would have to give up his garden and start all over again in a new place.

In 1956 (I think) Tia Iris' husband, Frank, died. Iris moved, with Frankie and Ginger, to Coral Gables, Florida. My father and I shuddered. We knew what would happen next. Well, it took almost a year of "campaigning" on the part of my mother, but eventually we moved from New Jersey to Opa-Locka Florida. But this move wasn't so easy. My father would have to stay behind, living in a series of "furnished rooms," until his retirement four years later. In the mean time, my father visited our home in Opa-Locka two or three times a year. And, whenever he did, it was flowers and fruits, flowers and fruits...

In 1995, long after my father's death, I had occasion to visit Miami, Florida. I rented a car and drove north along NW 27^th avenue. As I traveled nearer, and nearer to Opa-Locka the years seemed to roll back--but I might as well have been on a different planet! Gone were the ubiquitous Royal Castle restaurants. The Kwik Chek store at the corner of 27^th avenue and 139^th street was boarded up and, Oh my God! Opa-locka had become a slum! As I turned into 139^th street I saw my old neighborhood as I could never have imagined it! Houses with barred windows, graffiti everywhere, I didn't feel safe just driving down the street.

I turned a quick left, then right, and headed down 140^th street. There, off in the distance, was something I didn't recognize. There seemed to be a stand of palm trees at the end of the block. Perhaps they've turned that vacant lot into a park, I thought. But as I got closer and closer to our old house, I could see what it was. All of my father's flowers and fruits, flowers and fruits had matured into a jungle! Palms and shrubs towered over that little single-story house. At first, I couldn't even see the house! You'd have to walk through a tunnel of foliage to get to the front door!

It was magnificent--like a piece of a rain forest had been transplanted into Opa-Locka.

And so, in the middle of this filthy, vile slum, my father had left something behind for me to see. A patch of paradise. Thank you Daddy.