Bruno and Son: An Italian-American Memoir

BOOK DESCRIPTION Perhaps you grew up in an Italian-American family. Or, maybe you were friendly with such a family. Or, maybe you just enjoy a glimpse into the way other ethnicities survive and thrive in the United States. In any case, you will almost certainly enjoy Bruno and Son. The book is a memoir about my childhood and adolescence during the Great Depression and World War II. Both born in Italy, my parents met in America. My father was twenty-nine and nicknamed Valentino by his paisani on North Broadway in Los Angeles. This was because he slicked his hair down with pomade and frequented a walk-up dance hall. My mother, raised in an Italian convent until she was nine, fancied herself a “modern girl.” She identified with Clara Bow, the “it” girl. My father told me in a disparaging way, “When I met your mother, she wore dresses above the belly button.” My father was serious, intelligent, ambitious, and bossy. He had to have his own way. He had a realistic way of looking at life. For example, when I was five years old, I asked him if there was a Santa Claus. He said, “No, it’s just a lot of baloney the department stores made up to make money.” (The actual word he used was stronger than “baloney.”) My mother was fun loving, vivacious, loved to read, and also bossy. She too had to have her own way. As you can imagine, this led to many a clash and conflict. In spite of this, they remained a devoted couple for almost seventy years. Divorce was unthinkable. My father confided to me, “In Italy they say the way God sends you your wife and children, that’s the way you gotta take them.” During the time period covered in Bruno and Son, my parents had a succession of businesses. These included the Civic Center Café in downtown Los Angeles, a liquor store, various fruit stands in Italian markets, a wholesale produce route, and the purchase of such crops as olives, apricots, and grapes. My father thought nothing of twelve to sixteen-hour workdays. He looked down on having a “good time.” He used to say, “What do you have to show for it?” The goal was to save money, buy land, and plant grapes. This he was able to accomplish by the age of forty-four, an impressive accomplishment for a man who had had almost no formal education. In the memoir you will meet a succession of colorful characters. Here are a few examples: Elmer, an aeronautical engineer and a skid row alcoholic. He became a busboy and dishwasher in the Civic Center Café. The Great Cosmo, my father’s first cousin and an expansive, compulsive gambler. He played craps in the alley of the Los Angeles Wholesale Produce Market while his “American” wife ran his open-air fruit stand in Buena Park. Professore Carlo Fiore, the dandyish Italian-trained piano teacher who taught me only classical music. He used to say of popular music, “That’s junk, my boy. Junk, I tell you.” Mario Tartaglia, a baby-furniture salesman and would-be opera singer. When I played the piano for him, he couldn’t get the timing right. Shirley Temple, the famous child actress. I had a “date” with her when she was about eight years old. Sally, a down-on-her luck young waitress. She lived in our home for a while. She had the nerve to flirt with my father. My mother got rid of her fast. Lia, a thirteen-year old sexpot. She explained the facts of life in unforgettable, graphic language. The joining of the traditional Italian culture with the “American” one was often like putting the square peg into the round hole. The experiences growing up in an Italian-American family are often funny, frequently meaningful, and unforgettable.