It was a surreal scene. The smoke cloud cut a wide swath in the sky, completely dividing the city into light and dark. From my porch, I saw Downtown, which was still enjoying a nice, sunny morning. A little over a mile north, the rest of the city, starting from Middletown, as far up to La Jolla, was blanketed in a heavy red darkness. Ash was neatly piling up in the gutter next to my porch. The odd thing was that there was no smell of smoke. I knew something was burning, and from the looks of it was big. I called my folks to find out if there was a fire in Mission Hills. My mother had been watching the news, and told me that the fire had been burning since last night, up near Ramona, but had rapidly spread down to Lakeside and Santee.

Ulysses S. Grant Elementary didn’t know it yet, but in the fall of 1983, it would lose a gaggle of young students to St. Charles Borromeo Catholic School. That year, my parents decided to yank us out of “evil” public school and send my sisters and I to get “a better education”. It was a sign of the times. Also, if all the Italian families in the neighborhood were doing it, then our family was going along for the ride, too.

I order a couple of slices for myself, watching a girl mouth the words “Pepperoni” and “Mushroom” to her boyfriend, who stands behind me. The line is out the door. Loud conversations die off at the roar of the clerk, “Slices! Two! Ricotta!” The ‘Girl from Ipanema’ is playing on the radio, and the guy in the kitchen sings along as he shoves another pizza in. The fans are on full blast, because of the heat from the ovens. I notice how the cheese melts on the pies in the display case.

I grab my slices and snag a table. I’m lucky, because it’s usually a zoo in there. I scan the walls, which are decorated with pictures of boxers and Italian-American actors. DeNiro, Pacino, Marciano…it reminds me a bit of the pizzeria in Do the Right Thing. You know, the whole Wall of Fame thing. It’s funny, I feel like I’m in the Bronx, and I’ve never been there. The sign in the window says, “Let us box you a pizza”, with two boxing gloves hanging underneath the letters. The owner is an ex-boxer. He came out to San Diego and opened up Bronx about five years ago.

Quite a bit has happened this past year, both in the world and I would assume in our personal lives as well. I referred to last year as a year of transition, but this year was also one of transition, but for the better, I think, despite all the negative things we may have seen and heard of. I'd like to wish happy holidays to everybody, especially those that are far away from family in this time (a few of my students are far, far away and will not be back for a year).

Stay safe and enjoy, and let's make 2004 a great one.

Happy New Year
Merry Christmas
Happy Hanukah

Ciao,
salvatore

First it was Frankie, my next door neighbor, diving off the brick stoop and bellyflopping onto the wet, slippery concrete. Trying to outdo each other, each dive became quicker and more brazen, until my turn came up for the last time.

I had misjudged the edge of the stoop, slipping and falling backward on an invisible banana peel (picture a Warner Bros. cartoon...). Well, my skull didn't misjudge the stoop, made of those red bricks with nice sharp edges.

Wham! Stars, blinding pain, darkness, then me howling. Oh, and blood, lots of it.

Frankie's mom drove me to the hospital with my dad. I had somewhat calmed down until I saw the sign. It said HOSPITAL. Then they said "Doctor." I said, hell no. Howling and bleeding, I locked them out of the car :)

Eventually, I did get those stitches. I still don't remember how they got me out of that car...

Of the day, the hours and the minutes and the thousands of seconds, there is measure. Of the moment there is no measure, it is elusive and infinite. It is exquisite.

I sat once as a child in a field of whispering wheat swaying. This, among so many countless, was such a moment. It captured for me the essence of life.