FAMILY RHYMES

            Some more rhymes coming up.  Now, it’s the rest of our family’s turn to be   introduced in rhyme.  We’ll start with our older son, Patrick, who managed to escape my poetical penchant until he showed up here in Vicenza just as I was leaving the hospital last December.  I think there may be other rhymes about him somewhere “out  there” – maybe he has some in his possession – but this is the only one I have.  It’s fitting, however, because it tells the tale of the help he gave Barbara and me when things looked pretty bleak.

His name is Patrick Bigfoot.                                                                  

He came riding into town                                                                 

When my lungs were full of dirty soot                                              

And I was really down.

His computer and a cell-phone                                                            

In a bag across  his back,                                                                            

He came flying back to our home                                                 

When the “C” made its attack.

Patrick helped us really understand                                                  

What the doctors had to say.                                                       

And then he offered us his hand                                                           

To guide us through the day.

With his help we made it through that week                             

Of worrying and wonder.                                                            

We saw that things were not so bleak;                                         

 I wasn’t going under.

So then, Bigfoot rode back out of town,                                        

Another job well done,                                                               

Another sign of his renown                                                       

From Patrick, our dear son.

Two months after Patrick’s stay with us my brothers, Bob and Tom, came over from Florida.  They were with us for five days, and it was a marvelous reunion full of storytelling, laughing, and crying. I wrote the following rhyme a few days after they left. The “boom-a-lay” I refer to here was inspired by the scene in the movie “Ali”, when the great boxer, played by Will Smith, is in Zaire for his “Rumble in the Jungle” fight with George Foreman.  Ali/Smith, running in the streets, is greeted by cheers of “Ali…Boom Ah Ay” and, when he asks someone what that means, he’s told it roughly translates to “Ali…Knock him out.”  Well, “boom-a-lay” is my knockout punch, which I felt I had lost until Bob and Tom came and assured me I still had it.

My brothers came a-visiting                                                                                   

Like they’d never been away.                                                                                          

They came to see me dithering                                                      

With a broken boom-a-lay.

I don’t know what that means.  Do you?                                               

I guess I don’t want to know.                                                                   

I’m hoping that it doesn’t mean

That it’s time for me to go.

But if it’s really meant to mean                                                     

That I’ll fall apart real soon,                                                                    

I’ll just pick up my boom-a-lay                                                      

And move to a different room.

I ain’t gonna let them run me off                                                      

With my broken boom-a-lay                                                                 

‘Cause my brothers came a-visiting                                              

And I’d like for them to stay.

Okay, I see they’re done visiting;                                                             

No more laughing, no more crying.                                                  

But I still need time to figure out                                                               

Why I don’t feel like I’m dying.                                                                       

I think I’ll use my boom-a-lay                                                             

To keep on, keep on trying.

            Time now for a couple of rhymes for our other son, Marty.  The true Italian in our family – born in Vicenza and, except for four college years in the U.S. at Notre Dame, always living here – we call him Martino as much as Marty.  He’s a salesman representing several leather companies; but his true calling, I think, is as a singer-songwriter, as I allude to in the first rhyme. 

When you’re only forty-four,                                                                                          

You still have time to explore                                                              

Dreams that often seem afar,                                                              

Like recording hits with your guitar                                                                                                                                                                                                          So, don’t give up those dreams too fast;                               .

They’ll help to make your life last                                          

Longer than it might otherwise.                                                       

And – who knows? – maybe you’ll surprise                                    

Yourself with that guitar                                                                        

And wind up as a real Rock Star.

            This next rhyme, for Marty’s 46^th birthday, was simply a note on a card, attached to a bottle of wine and accompanied by his favorite dessert (baked by his mother, of course):

Some cheesecake and a bottle of Vino                                                       

For our 46-year-old Bambino.                                                       

Seems like just yesterday                                                                  

That you bounced our way                                                                      

And became our beloved Martino.

            We have six grandsons. Patrick and Gillian gave us Joey, Rordan,  and Oliver.  Marty and Giovanna produced David, Jason, and Benjamin.   

            Joey, the first of our grandsons, got the first rhyme on his first birthday while he and his parents still lived in Qatar.  I can’t remember what the “diploma” was that we sent along with our birthday/Christmas greetings, but it’s not that important; probably not a diploma at all, but just my way of making things rhyme.

There’s a dear boy in Qatar named Joey,                                                       

Whose grandparents would like him to know he                      

Gets this diploma                                                                           

From his Grampa and Oma                                                                

‘Cause he’s sweet from his head to his toey.

           

Joey’s now eleven-years-old, living in Florida, and just graduated from Weston’s Indian Trace Elementary School as the president of the student council. 

            Our first Italian grandson, David (sometimes called D-J because his second name is Jonathan), is nine-years-old and a star on the Vicenza suburb of Creazzo’s Under-Ten soccer team.  But his first rhyme from Grampa came when he was eight and very fluent in English, as well as Italian; so he did pretty much understand that the encyclopedia we gave him would help him in the future.

David’s just another guy                                                            

Who has a birthday in July.                                                            

But wait a minute! We’ve been told                                                  

This birthday makes him eight-years-old,                                

And that’s a most important age                                                           

To start becoming a wise old sage.                                            

So, to help him reach that knowledge nook                                           

We offer D-J this big book,                                                                

And hope for him in every way                                                                               

A very happy eighth birthday.

           

Next in line, Rordan, a Gaelic name meaning “poet of the king” (as a salute to his mother Gillian’s family name, King).  Rordan’s also nine-years-old, born in Qatar about seven months after David was born in Italy.  And he is, indeed, a poet, writing lots of crazy and creative poems in the style of Shel Silverstein and others whose poetry features made-up words and imaginary creatures.  Rordan could now do a much better job than his Grampa did in marking his seventh birthday.

Roses are red. 

Violets are blue.                                                               

You’re seven-years-old.                                                                        

Now, what can you do?

You can do all your homework                                                                   

And get way ahead.                                                                            

Then spend the next year                                                                                         

Just lying in bed.

You can jump in a boat                                                                

And go fish in a lake                                                                                   

Or just stay at home                                                                              

And eat nothing but cake.

You can hop on your bike                                                                                  

And ride to the park;

Just play there and stay there                                                           

Until it gets dark.           

Whatever you do,                                                                           

We just want to say                                                                                           

That we love you                                                                                  

And wish you Happy Birthday!

           

I wrote this next rhyme just this year for five-year-old Jason, who has strongly resisted all our efforts to get him to understand and speak English.  His father, Marty, speaks to him mostly in English; but his brother, David, translates for him and he responds to Marty in Italian.  When his grandmother, Barbara, once asked him in Italian why he doesn’t speak English he replied, “Sono Italiano; parlo solo in Italiano” (I’m Italian; so I speak only Italian).  I’m sure he’ll speak English as well as his brother one day.  I’m just a little anxious he won’t speak it in time for me to hear it, but he did listen closely to me as I read the rhyme at the dinner table to the whole family; so I’m hoping he’ll start talking English by his sixth birthday (sesto compleanno; you probably noticed I speak a little Italian myself) in August 2013.

Talk to me in English ‘fore I die.                                                                                   

C’mon, speak English with me, please, Little Guy.                                       

I know that you’re Italian,                                                                         

But you’ll win Grampa’s  medallion                                                          

If you talk to me in English ‘fore I die.

Please, speak my language soon, Jason Dear.                                     

Let’s palaver in American this year.                                            

By your sesto compleanno                                                                           

Let’s begin pian piano                                                                                       

To speak the language I can truly hear.

I know it’s hard for you to understand                                    

Why I want you to follow this demand.                                          

I just hope that you’ll capito                                                                 

That, before I go finito,                                                                                

I would like to see your language skills expand.

So, Jason, let’s start talking, you and I,                                           

In the language where we’re really “guy to guy”.                                   

Like your father and your mother                                                              

And especially your big brother                                                          

Talk to me in English ‘fore I die.

           

And the grandson rhymes now bring us to Oliver, who’s five-years-old and in the final lap of his pre-school race.  It’s into kindergarten for him next fall (2013); but his size and his smarts make you believe he’s much more advanced.  Well, he is.  He’s just playing it cool, so he can pretty much run the show in school as time goes on (the way his brother Joey has been running it for several years and the way his brother Rordan excels by steering clear of that kind of stuff).  Oliver displayed the ability to combine his brothers’ talents into one, BIG boy when he was only three-years-old.  You’ll probably notice I stole my nickname for him from a Dr. Seuss poem.

Here’s Oliver Boliver Butt,                                                                                                

A truly sweet little nut:                                                                          

He pretends he’s a fool,                                                                                  

But he’s really Joe Cool                                                                          

And also…uhm…I don’t know what.

Now, he’s been around for three years,                                       

Bringing lots of smiles and some tears.                                                     

But most of the time                                                                                  

He’s been quite sublime.                                                                              

And, for that, we give him three cheers.

            That brings us to Benjamin.  Before Giovanna and Marty found out he’d be a boy, he was his grandmother’s last hope to have a grand-daughter.  (I sort of liked the idea of six grandsons: a hockey or volleyball team; better yet, a basketball team with a substitute.)  As you’d expect, however, Oma (her grandsons have all learned to speak that German word) loves Benjamin just as much as she would a little girl, and he sure loves her.  At two-years-old now, Benjamin has earned the following:

Now, here’s a rhyme about Benjamin,                                                                            

The last of Oma’s six boys,                                                                     

The one who thinks that our telephone’s                                               

Just another one of his toys.                                                              

And, when we ask him to put it down,                                                          

He makes a hell of a noise.

Oma knows how to quiet Ben                                                       

With a cookie or two, maybe three.                                                  

Then he sneaks back into the kitchen                                                             

And, just between you and me,                                                            

He eats several more of the cookies                                                         

Hoping Oma’s too busy to see.

But Benny’s not just up to mischief;                                                   

He can keep us entertained for a while                                                    

By dancing around to some music                                                        

And prancing around “Gangnam Style”.                                     

He applauds himself in approval                                                  

And rewards all of us with his smile.

We can’t have “Family Rhymes” without saluting our wonderful daughters-in-law.  Not only have they provided us with six sweetheart grandsons, but they’ve also supported and sustained our beloved sons (in whom we are well pleased).

We find it really quite thrilly-in’,

When we think of our lovely Gillian,

That she takes care of her guys

While she does Jazzercise.

She’s really one in a million.

And here’s a rhyme for Giovanna,

Who gets a resounding Hosanna

For letting her boys

Make all that noise

And do whatever they wanna.

Finally, here’s a rhyme for Christmas with the family as we were quite a few years ago: Barbara and I, Marty and Giovanna, and Patrick when he was still working out of Paris for a civil engineering firm that sent him all over Africa and Europe (including Cyprus, where he finally left them, started his own consultant company, and met and married Gilllian).  My apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, who wrote the original “’Twas the Night Before Christmas”.

‘Tis the night before Christmas at Mimose 13,                                     

And we’ve gathered together for our yearly routine.                                  

There’s Barbara and Patrick, Marty, Giovanna,                                    

And I in a state approaching Nirvana.                                                        

We’ve completed the task of tree decoration                                                  

And lighted some candles for illumination.                                             

We’ve munched a few cookies and sipped some fine wine;                          

It’s clear to the world we’re all feeling fine.                                                        

Next comes the moment of anticipation,                                                              

When we honor each other with gift presentation.                    

Forgive me, my dears, for delaying that time                                    

With my presentation of the year’s final rhyme.                                  

It’s my gift to you, dear wife, sons, and daughter,                                

Despite making you feel like lambs led to slaughter.                             

Just give me some more undivided attention                                              

(It’s the least you can do for a guy on a pension),                                                       

And I’ll get to my point without further delay,                                                  

So we can get on with the plan of the day.                                                         

I just want to say – and I know it sounds trite –                                

That I love you all.  Merry Christmas.  Good night.