Grandpa Was a Music Lover
During my teens, I had this band that played some blues, country, and rock. We usually rehearsed at someone’s house, often in a basement or garage. One day, when I was about sixteen, the group came over to my house. It was a beautiful summer day, so we decided to set up in my backyard.
We hauled all our equipment outside—drums, microphones, guitars, basses, and towering amplifiers. We knew it was going to be loud. But it was midday, and besides, there was a fire siren literally up the block that went off probably two or three times a week. It was much louder than our rock band would ever be, so I figured we’d be okay.
Or so I thought.
Around this time, my grandfather was visiting us from Queens. He was a short Italian man in his 80s, always nattily dressed in a suit, a black homburg hat with a red feather, and never without his cane. He was very distinguished and debonair.
In the middle of our first song, my grandfather came out into the backyard. He set up a folding chair directly in front of the speakers, sat down, placed his hat and cane on his lap, and smiled as he listened to the music.
I immediately motioned to the band to stop playing.
“Grandpa,” I said, “don’t you want to move the chair back a little? I’m afraid we’re going to knock you over.”
He just answered in his Italian accent, “Nah, nah, everything fine. Go ahead, keep playing for your Grandfada.”
We shrugged and resumed playing. With each piercing guitar note, I watched my grandfather’s face, worried I’d hurt his ears. But he seemed perfectly content, his eyes closed, smiling and tapping his foot to the beat.
We weren't playing more than 30 minutes when suddenly a cop entered the backyard. Someone in the neighborhood must have called the police. The cop walked toward us, waving a flat hand back and forth under his chin as if to say, Stop playing.
Then he said, “Hey, I don’t know what you kids think you’re doing. We’re getting complaints from all over the place. Stop making this racket right now. That’s an order.”
Since it was my backyard, I spoke up.
“But sir, we’re not any louder than that fire siren that goes off all the time,” I said, gesturing toward the siren tower three houses up.
The cop was unmoved. As far as he was concerned, we were breaking the law, and our long hair, bell-bottoms, and surly looks weren’t helping our case.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, my grandfather had gotten out of his chair and was slowly ambling his way toward the cop.
“Escuse-ah me,” he said.
The cop turned around. Standing inches away from him was this little old Italian man, waving the butt end of his cane in his face.
“Whodoyoutink you are, telling-ah my grandson—my grandson—to stop-ah playing? If-ah my grandson wants music, den by God he can play his music. You gotta no right-ah to tell-ah him to stop-ah his playing!”
He punctuated every syllable with his cane, stabbing at the air.
The cop was annoyed, but not stupid. He could clearly see the veins slowly rising on my grandfather’s forehead. And I figured the last thing this cop needed was an 80-year-old man dropping dead of a heart attack right in front of him. He knew he wasn’t going to win an argument with a feisty, angry Italian grandfather. My heart raced, torn between dread and admiration for my grandfather’s defiance.
“All right, all right,” the cop said, inching away. He sounded a bit defeated.
He turned to us.
“Just turn it down a little, okay?”
After one last sidelong glance at my grandfather, he skulked back to his patrol car.
I’ll never forget what my grandfather did next. With a quiet dignity, he walked back to his chair, sat down, placed his hat and cane on his knee, then stretched out his arms in a grand, dramatic sweep, his eyes shining with pride.
In a voice full of triumph and love, he declared, “Okeh. Play!”
But then he did something that surprised us. He gave us a thumbs-up, raising his thumb toward the air as if gesturing for us to make it louder, and winked at us.
Then he yelled: “Fangula polizia! Fangula polizia!”
Did I mention my grandfather was from Sicily? And he hated the police?
We all looked at each other and started to giggle a little bit. As we raised the volume on our amplifiers, I gave the count:
“One, two, three, four!”
And off we went.
This time, Grandpa sat directly in front of the speakers, smiling like he owned the place.
During my teens, I had this band that played some blues, country, and rock. We usually rehearsed at someone’s house, often in a basement or garage. One day, when I was about sixteen, the group came over to my house. It was a beautiful summer day, so we decided to set up in my backyard.
We hauled all our equipment outside—drums, microphones, guitars, basses, and towering amplifiers. We knew it was going to be loud. But it was midday, and besides, there was a fire siren literally up the block that went off probably two or three times a week. It was much louder than our rock band would ever be, so I figured we’d be okay.
Or so I thought.
Around this time, my grandfather was visiting us from Queens. He was a short Italian man in his 80s, always nattily dressed in a suit, a black homburg hat with a red feather, and never without his cane. He was very distinguished and debonair.
In the middle of our first song, my grandfather came out into the backyard. He set up a folding chair directly in front of the speakers, sat down, placed his hat and cane on his lap, and smiled as he listened to the music.
I immediately motioned to the band to stop playing.
“Grandpa,” I said, “don’t you want to move the chair back a little? I’m afraid we’re going to knock you over.”
He just answered in his Italian accent, “Nah, nah, everything fine. Go ahead, keep playing for your Grandfada.”
We shrugged and resumed playing. With each piercing guitar note, I watched my grandfather’s face, worried I’d hurt his ears. But he seemed perfectly content, his eyes closed, smiling and tapping his foot to the beat.
We weren't playing more than 30 minutes when suddenly a cop entered the backyard. Someone in the neighborhood must have called the police. The cop walked toward us, waving a flat hand back and forth under his chin as if to say, Stop playing.
Then he said, “Hey, I don’t know what you kids think you’re doing. We’re getting complaints from all over the place. Stop making this racket right now. That’s an order.”
Since it was my backyard, I spoke up.
“But sir, we’re not any louder than that fire siren that goes off all the time,” I said, gesturing toward the siren tower three houses up.
The cop was unmoved. As far as he was concerned, we were breaking the law, and our long hair, bell-bottoms, and surly looks weren’t helping our case.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, my grandfather had gotten out of his chair and was slowly ambling his way toward the cop.
“Escuse-ah me,” he said.
The cop turned around. Standing inches away from him was this little old Italian man, waving the butt end of his cane in his face.
“Whodoyoutink you are, telling-ah my grandson—my grandson—to stop-ah playing? If-ah my grandson wants music, den by God he can play his music. You gotta no right-ah to tell-ah him to stop-ah his playing!”
He punctuated every syllable with his cane, stabbing at the air.
The cop was annoyed, but not stupid. He could clearly see the veins slowly rising on my grandfather’s forehead. And I figured the last thing this cop needed was an 80-year-old man dropping dead of a heart attack right in front of him. He knew he wasn’t going to win an argument with a feisty, angry Italian grandfather. My heart raced, torn between dread and admiration for my grandfather’s defiance.
“All right, all right,” the cop said, inching away. He sounded a bit defeated.
He turned to us.
“Just turn it down a little, okay?”
After one last sidelong glance at my grandfather, he skulked back to his patrol car.
I’ll never forget what my grandfather did next. With a quiet dignity, he walked back to his chair, sat down, placed his hat and cane on his knee, then stretched out his arms in a grand, dramatic sweep, his eyes shining with pride.
In a voice full of triumph and love, he declared, “Okeh. Play!”
But then he did something that surprised us. He gave us a thumbs-up, raising his thumb toward the air as if gesturing for us to make it louder, and winked at us.
Then he yelled: “Fangula polizia! Fangula polizia!”
Did I mention my grandfather was from Sicily? And he hated the police?
We all looked at each other and started to giggle a little bit. As we raised the volume on our amplifiers, I gave the count:
“One, two, three, four!”
And off we went.
This time, Grandpa sat directly in front of the speakers, smiling like he owned the place.
My Sicilian grandpa, Christmas, 1964.
