On Tuesday, February 26, 2008, Margaret Corino Luglio went home to her eternal reward. Today, March 1, friends, family, and other relatives from the old neighborhoods are streaming to Wildwood, New Jersey, to escort this special lady to her peaceful resting place.
They’re flying in from West Palm Beach, driving down from Boston, and Belleville and Nutley are emptying onto the Garden State Parkway in the early morning hours. If you could look close at the faces of these respectful travelers you’ll notice a special phenomenon—they’ll all be shedding a tear and smiling at the same time.
“Hey, Aunt Maggie, I can smell your gravy!”
Margaret Corino was the first of eight children of Carmine and Maria (Capalbo) Corino. Her parents survived the trip from the shores of Calabria in Southern Italy to settle in Belleville, New Jersey.
Grandpa Corino and his friends and boys built the houses they raised their families in. They were right on the Belleville-Nutley line—some of their bedrooms in Nutley, the rest in Belleville.
“Where ya from?”
“The Belleville-Nutley line—Big Tree section.”
Those were Aunt Margaret’s roots. She quickly became the proverbial big sister, but as time would pass, Aunt Maggie became a second mother to her siblings, their best friend, a confidant, a business advisor, … and eventually, the matriarch of the Corino’s from the Big Tree section of Belleville.
To so many of us—her nieces and nephews, and other relatives and friends from the old day, Margaret Corino became that daring beauty who would be the first to leave her town for the opportunity at the Jersey Shore. Her handsome husband Bob Luglio from across the river in Lyndhurst encouraged her to take the first step.
Yes, she would leave the blue collar cocoon of King Street, St. Mary’s Place, Carmer Avenue, and the connecting roads to Holy Family Church and St. Mary’s Church, but so had her brothers back in the forties and fifties.
They, with the exception of Tony and Frankie, went off to war—Angelo and Jimmy to Europe, and Tommie to Korea. Her sister Rosie would head over to New York with Uncle Joe Scotto, but Aunt Jo would become a Biondi, moving a couple of feet into Nutley with Uncle Jimmie.
So daring was Aunt Maggie. But, she’d never forget—the scadaul and beans (escarole and beans), eggs in the gravy with peas, pasta, Zinacola bread, tripe, potato and eggs, and the many other depression meals she cooked with her mother and sisters during the tough years of her youth when her father and brothers were building an excavation business.
Yes, she left the neighborhood, but the neighborhood never left her heart.
“Hey, Aunt Maggie, I can smell your gravy.”
It was in Wildwood where Margaret bloomed. Her two wonderful daughters Judy and Barbara blessed her and Uncle Bob with respect and youthful beauty as they assisted in building the family motel business. It wasn’t long before some of the other transplants from the Italian American enclaves of New York City and Northern Jersey got to know their new Wildwood neighbor.
How could they not notice her? Her businesses were growing, her home was always open to them, she was always in the kitchen preparing food even for strangers, and when it was time to celebrate, no one was more grateful than “Aunt Maggie Jiggs.”
Jiggs? Yep, she’d always be dancing with her husband, her sisters, her daughters, strangers… not the Jig, but more like the donandell (tarantella). Food, drink, and a big hug would always welcome you at her home—no matter who you were.
My first memory of my Aunt Maggie, my wife’s eldest aunt? I was invited to stay “overnight” in one of her motels back in the early sixties. Yea, I’d have to share the mattresses on the kitchen floor with my future brother-in-law Angelo, and his double cousins (sisters married brothers) Jimmie, Carl, and Mark.
No complaints from me, … it was my first overnight at the Jersey Shore—my father’s take home pay and my mother’s check from the grave yard shift assured great summer days in our backyard in Belleville, but an overnight at the Shore? Not quite.
And so I saw the legend of Aunt Maggie unfold. It is still so real in my heart right now. Her love for her family, her appreciation for the moment, her ability to listen, her generosity, … and her spiritual and personal strength—yea, she reminded me of my mother a bit, but she was ever so unique.
“Hey, Aunt Maggie, I can smell your gravy.”
Every year my wife Maria would make sure Wildwood would be a destination for me and our daughters Tina and Corrine. Judy married Police Chief Bob Davenport, and Barbara wed accountant Nick Terenik. Aunt Maggie’s grandkids came—Patrick, Michelle, and Michael for Judy, and Thea, a blessing for Barbara. So, lots of reasons to head to Wildwood, but none better than to just be with Aunt Maggie.
My fictionalized memoir Bad News on the Doorstep has lots of characters, lots of ethnic situations, and unbelievable anecdotes. But what was the most popular chapter according to my readers, no matter where they called home? Always, the answer is the same: “Wildwood Days.” And all because of the character, Aunt Maggie.
Well, she and her husband build a mini-motel dynasty in the Wildwoods, sharing it with her children and grandchildren, showing them how to gain wealth, and teaching them about their roots. The depression meals would sometimes be featured in her home to remind us all where we came from. But in spite of the circumstance, Aunt Maggie would be smiling, laughing, serving, listening, … and dancing.
And we were all learning from her just how to live. She stayed humble, she learned that in her Roman Catholic Church, and she thrilled to see her daughters come to know the Lord in a personal way, just like her.
In the end, her spirit lives on. Her son-in-law Bobbie, a noble veteran of Vietnam, respected former Top Cop in Wildwood, just smiles when he thinks of her. His first grandson Gavin is special. When Bob calls him at home in Wildwood from his stately winter home in Marisol in Palm Beach Gardens, it has gone like this:
“Hi, Gavin, it’s Poppie.”
“Hi, Poppie.”
“What are you doing, Gavin?”
“Poppie, I’m talking to YOU!”
Yea, I can smell Maggie’s gravy—her great grandson, focusing on the moment with his hero of a grandfather, nothing else mattering at the time… just like his great grandma Maggie! For Aunt Maggie, it was all about the joy of the moment… no matter what!
Margaret Corino Luglio took a little trip about ten years ago. Alzheimer’s arrived and she strolled off to another place. Oh, my God… the trips for all of us continued to Wildwood as her daughters would find places for us to sleep. But all had to wait until we visited Aunt Maggie at her nursing home. She looked great, we laughed with her, she ate our chocolates, the sparkle was in her eyes. Oh, some things had changed, … but it seemed they were always making gravy at that nursing home… Aunt Maggie’s gravy.
One time when we visited, Judy reintroduced us—me, my wife Maria, and my father-in-law Angelo Corino (Maggie’s brother). When asked how she was, she replied, “I feel like I’m lost and can’t find my way home.” Later that visit she informed us she speaks with Sally, my mother-in-law who had passed on. We laughed and cried with her.
On Tuesday, February 26, the call came down to Judy and Barbara in Florida that they best return to Wildwood quickly. They did. But as they were in flight, Patrick Davenport, Margaret’s oldest grandchild, was at her side. She was just outside the Gates of Heaven. Time was quickly approaching.
But Patrick was an outstanding high school basketball player at Wildwood Catholic, received his degree from Villanova, his Dad fought the enemy hand-to-hand in another land, and Pat’s now his Dad’s partner in the Biscayne Motel. He knows a little about life. And he knows his grandmother. He encouraged her to hang in: “The girls are coming, Judy and Barbara, just wait for them, Nanny.”
He wasn’t pleading. He was respectfully suggesting. He was confidant she would not leave yet.
Well, Aunt Maggie waited. The girls arrived. They sang and danced around her. Moments later, their devoted mother finally found her way home… to the arms of a loving, smiling, and tearful Creator. He finally had one of His greatest of creations all to himself. And I bet Aunt Maggie convinced Him to dance!!
And so, if you are so fortunate to have known Margaret Corino Luglio, next time you’re in Wildwood or the Crest, and it’s Sunday afternoon, and you're making your way off the beach, … stop. Get into the moment, … at first you’ll hear the cawing of the seagulls, then the clickity sound of the roller coaster, the menagerie of sounds from the thousands on the beach, the aroma of sausage and peppers wafting in from the boardwalk, maybe popcorn, cotton candy, … the yelps of the barkers at the board games. Your senses will be assaulted.
But, if you knew Aunt Maggie, and you really get into that moment with the sun beating down on you, take a whiff of the Jersey Shore air. You won’t smell the salt from the ocean, … you’ll smell Aunt Maggie’s Sunday gravy. It’s waiting for you, just as her example of how to live, love, and pass on this blessing of life to others. I’m down in West Palm Beach right now, … and ya know what?
“Hey, Aunt Maggie, I can smell your gravy.”
One final note, God has a sense of humor and a perfect plan: Patrick and his beautiful wife Jennifer just brought a healthy baby girl into the world. Her name is Maggie. So, Maggie’s back in town. Yea, Maggie’s back in town, never to leave, no matter where we or she is.
Rest in peace, Aunt Maggie, keep on dancing, … we’ll see you when the Lord picks the time.
Nephew Joe in West Palm, enjoying the smell of Aunt Maggie’s gravy.
PS: For those of you who have the time, and want to get to know Aunt Maggie better, or perhaps you knew her, and don’t want to forget her? Well, below is Chapter 21 of Bad News on the Doorstep. It will always be Aunt Maggie’s chapter. And then there’s a short Epilogue. Enjoy. But remember—it’s fiction; but not the Maggie part—couldn’t touch that. You can’t make a masterpiece better.
CHAPTER 21
“WILDWOOD DAYS”
Copyright 2004, Joseph Rocco Cervasio, all rights reserved.
The summer of ’59 was hot and humid in northern New Jersey. Frank was getting into the best football shape of his life, not playing summer baseball for the first time since he was nine. Shock over the double suicide at the Profetta house was still high. Its effect on Jo-Jo was profound, having witnessed the clash between the old man and Gary Gubitosi, but also finding the stack of twenties. On the other hand, the thirteen year old still had not decided what to do with his evidence that was now snugly nestled between his underwear and the 1959 edition of Street and Smith’s College Football Magazine. To make sure his older brother did not go fishing for the college football predictions bible, Jo-Jo bought him his own copy. He had still not yet decided what to do with the stash, and had not even asked for prayerful guidance. In fact, he seemed paralyzed by the whole set of circumstances.
Surprisingly, that summer Marietta seemed to be forgetting about the counterfeit situation. Not only had Pete dodged his name being on the suspects’ list, but she also could not be more grateful that Frank’s education at Cornell was being covered totally by scholarship, financial aid, and a part-time job. And, if he needed extra, her brother assured her Sneaks Babula had given the OK to tap into his “gift.” The pressure was off, at least for now. She seemed to seize on any bit of good news around the household, and give it life far beyond its worth. Frank and Maria’s impending visit to the Giardina relatives at the Jersey Shore was an example.
On this morning of vacation planning, Rocky was already at work, Donna still sleeping, and Marietta had just arrived home from her graveyard shift. Jo-Jo joined her and his brother at the kitchen table.
“Frankie, when does Maria want to take you down to Wildwood?” asked his mother.
“Oh, Ma, I forgot to tell you. It’ll be next weekend, and she said her mother and father want me to invite Jo-Jo and one of his friends to stay over, too.”
“Did you tell your brother yet?” asked Marietta with a sly smile, as Jo-Jo’s eyes instantly bulged with delight. Marietta felt that, too. This would give Jo-Jo his first time on vacation for more than a one-day trip, as well as take pressure off her and Rocky to supply their own version of a mini-holiday.
No longer waiting for his brother’s formal announcement, Jo-Jo exclaimed, “I’ll come. I’ll come!”
Frank was also looking forward to his first trip to one of the state’s southern most resort areas. The summer phenomenon of Wildwood was often referred to on American Bandstand. Also, the Giardinas and their relatives there were not only generous people, but with so many sisters marrying brothers from the same paese, anytime they saw a potential betrothal brewing, they would do anything to solidify it, and make the relationship grow. Inviting Frank’s little brother was simply part of the process.
The idea of staying at the Jersey Shore was giving Jo-Jo a feeling in his stomach that resembled his initial reaction to his first kiss with Rosemarie Masino. Was he also fantasizing about the Bandstand girls he might meet on the Wildwood boardwalk? Maybe he was looking at another first time experience which could never match its anticipation. That would not be the case for the Bonaducci boys this time.
The plan was for Frank to drive Uncle Jimmy Quinn’s ’56 Chevy, leaving the last Friday in July, returning Monday morning to their summertime jobs, … Maria as a playground director at Belleville’s Recreation House, and Frank with the town’s Public Works Department. Jo-Jo would tag along with his guest, whomever he might choose.
After Jo-Jo revealed his choice for his traveling companion, Frank asked, “Why Russell Giardella? You could ask the guys from around here like Gerald or Roger. What’s up with Russell?” In Frank’s mind, the near-sighted paperboy had been somewhat of a paper-tossing pest over the years.
“He’s like me,” answered his brother.
“Oh, he’ll be just like you even more when he sets his four eyes on the Philly girls on the boardwalk.”
“Frankie, forget that,” said Jo-Jo. “Not Russell.”
“I know, Jo-Jo. But I’m curious, and so will Maria be when I tell her. After all, she knows all your buddies. I mean this kid is going to be sleeping at one of her Aunt Maggie’s places. It’s important.”
“Well, Russell’s like me,” Jo-Jo repeated.
“Yes, you said that already. Be more specific, little brother.”
“Well, he never stayed anywhere overnight, … just like me.”
Frank was surprised. “Really, Jo-Jo? Never once?”
“Frank, they got another kid on the way! Mr. Giardella just works his head off with Wonder Bread, comes home, ties all the kids to their chairs, except Russell, kisses Mrs. Giardella, feeds his family, goes to sleep, then goes back to work. You know what?” asked Jo-Jo, without waiting for a response. “With Russell coming, it’ll be Mr. Giardella who’ll be delivering The Ledger. They don’t know what the word ‘vacation’ means. None of the kids complain like we always do to Mommy and Daddy.” Now Jo-Jo was worried Frank might not give Russell his approval.
“I know one other thing Mr. and Mrs. Giardella do do,” said Frank. “They must go to mass every day.” His subtle sarcasm of Catholic commitment to no birth control caught both Jo-Jo and Marietta by surprise. “You’re a good man, Joseph Bonaducci,” Frank relented, kissing Jo-Jo’s head and squeezing his cheeks. “You have Mommy’s heart and Daddy’s loyalty. Russell’s got a good friend.”
Jo-Jo could not sleep the night before the day of the trip. Marietta had been busy making eggs, pepper, and pepperoni sandwiches on fresh Giordano hard rolls she got Pete to buy the day before. From after dinner that night to right before Uncle Nick Durso picked her up for work at 11:45 PM in Norma Desmond, Marietta dutifully prepared the feast, artfully wrapping the sandwiches in wax paper to prevent the moist flavors of butter, olive oil, onions, green peppers, and the freshest and hottest pepperoni Charlie Buccino from Silver Lake could find, dripping inside Jimmy Quinn’s car. Eighteen sandwiches in total had been created, with Marietta envisioning all of Maria’s cousins and other family members tasting her very wet and tantalizing Bloomfield Avenue sandwich specialties. Burning smoke from her excessive use of oil and butter so engulfed the entire house with appetizing scents that Jo-Jo quickly devoured one of the eighteen soon after his mother left for work.
Marietta had silently enjoyed the sandwich making, because it let her mind drift back to trips to Coney Island she remembered, back in the thirties, before her father died. She also appreciated the fact that Frank was getting closer to the Giardina family, who like her Bonaducci in-laws, looked for any excuse to enjoy life and be festive. She had missed that in her own childhood. She thanked God her children were surely gravitating to a lifestyle full of more hope than the worry that had filled hers.
Wildwood would be a new world for Jo-Jo and Russell. The trip took three and a half hours. It was only noon, as Frank pulled the car into the open space in front of Aunt Maggie Corino’s brick porch home on Surf Avenue in the northern part of Wildwood. While it was only noon on this last Friday in July, the four eyes, four ears, and four nostrils that belonged to Jo-Jo and Russell were working overtime already. The temperature was heading for ninety according to the Philadelphia DJs who provided the radio music on the ride down.
As Frank and Maria prepared to exit the vehicle, their two thirteen year old guests sat, almost paralyzed in the cramped back seat by the smell of sun tan lotion coming from people strolling by, … possibly a potion of baby oil and iodine, with a sweet, tropical, and fruity trace. It was a telltale sign they must be near, for their first time, the legendary, expansive … Wildwood Beach.
Jo-Jo and Russell also got their first whiff of ocean air rolling in over the boardwalk, across the hot asphalt street, and meandering through the heavily-leafed trees dotting Surf Avenue. And it was not just any ocean air in their minds. This came from the spray of the mighty Atlantic Ocean that they’d only read about in schoolbooks. While its foamy waves were caressing the sandy shore just a quarter of a mile away, its invisible aroma was already beckoning Jo-Jo and Russell to head quickly to the beach to behold its majesty.
The caw of seagulls had joined in titillating the imagination of the two who had never stayed overnight. These gray-headed airborne creatures were welcoming the visitors from the sweltering neighborhoods of northern New Jersey, simultaneously soliciting some delectable handouts to be spread by human fingers.
The two boys were tattooed further into the leather seats, which had moistened the backs of their Levi dungarees. Their ears were now being provoked by a familiar sound, not unlike the endless, slow-moving freight trains behind Smallwood Avenue back in Belleville, … a clickity-clack staccato they would be able to recall for all their lives. But this metal on metal concert was without clacks; it was only the clickities … of roller coaster cars as they labored to the zenith of their routes, about to require human screams to complete their score, officially welcoming the boys to the Jersey Shore destination. It was clearly the dominant noise of the moment, with spinning of wheels of fortune and calls of barkers only faint in the boardwalk background.
While the aroma of Mrs. Bonaducci’s peppers, pepperoni, onions, and eggs was exuding from the trunk of the ’56 Chevy, totally having escorted any of Jimmy Quinn’s favorite pine smell away by the Perth Amboy Bridge, even those flavorful temptations had met their true match. A final scented tidal wave of banquet table proportions overwhelmed Russell and Jo-Jo in the form of boardwalk popcorn, French fries, pizza, and sausage, now making their own bid to capture the smelling pleasure of the two teens. Indeed, while it was only twelve noon at the Jersey Shore, the sights, sounds, and smells of Wildwood at its best had already seduced both infant travelers!
Maria’s Aunt Margaret was the oldest of her dad’s four brothers and three sisters. Known to all from the Big Tree and Avondale sections of Nutley and Belleville as “Maggie,” she had followed her husband, Armando Corino, to Wildwood after he was discharged from the Army. She and her sisters had watched their father, Ernesto Giardina, build a modest excavation company with her younger brothers. Originally when she relocated to Wildwood to buy a small ten-unit motel, many thought it would have been Maggie as the one who should have succeeded her shrewd, hardworking father as head of the family’s profitable dirt moving enterprise. Her brothers would also have agreed.
As much a good businesswoman as she might be, Maggie was even more well known for her warm hospitality, twenty-four hour kitchen, and her drive to enjoy each, and everyday, as a gift from God. She had sported broad shoulders and a tiny waist as the bride of her husband from the Nutley side of King Street. Cocoa brown hair, contrasted well with olive skin, stemming from her family roots in Calabria. A tiny bump at the top of her nose that made her, her mother’s daughter, only accentuated the warmth and childlike faith that projected out of her closely set brown eyes. The years in Wildwood, helping Armand lug mattresses and dressers up and down motel stairs, not only aged her, but also strained her back into a slight right tilt. Always sampling her own cooking, and never allowing leftovers to go uneaten, her short stature gave her body a sturdy look. Her perpetually worn apron reminded everyone that glamour was not her style, but rather hard work and commitment to her family. Naturally, her motel business was a success and destined to grow in the future. Two daughters and two sons worshiped the ground Maggie walked on.
“Maria, Maria, my brother’s daughter. Come, come.” Maggie, reached to hug her neice as she walked up the front steps. “And I finally get the football star to visit us. Frank Bonaducci!” She kissed and hugged him as if she had known Frank since childhood. “And these two must be our special guests.”
With her arms opened, Maggie expected hugs from Jo-Jo and Russell. The boys did not hesitate. After all, Maria’s aunt was the reason they were on their first overnight vacation.
Unloading the luggage on the porch, it was impossible for the guests not to see the ferris wheel, roller coaster, and countless food and game stands that dominated the nearby boardwalk. “Mrs. Corino, my mom asked me to give you this,” said Frank, “… as a thanks for having us all down this weekend.”
Ushering them all into her kitchen, Maggie’s two boys took the luggage around the corner to the Wellington Apartments where their male guests would be sleeping, while her daughters set the table for coffee and cake. As Maggie sat down and slowly opened the daintily wrapped package, her eyes lit up. “Oh my, oh my, … the portrait of the ‘Sacred Heart of Jesus’. So thoughtful; our blessed Jesus. Thanks to you and your mother, Frankie.” Maggie hugged the framed picture and turned again to her niece’s boyfriend. “Frank, your mother’s Marietta, right?” He had met Maggie on several occasions at the assortment of wakes and Communion, Confirmation, Marriage and Baptism celebrations that sometimes seem to dominate the every social hour of a large Italian American family. But she had never sat down to speak with him. “You know, I know her. You know how?”
Frank shook his head. “Nope.”
Jo-Jo was quiet as a church mouse. Maria also tuned in. All Russell was thinking about was devouring the beckoning crumb cake.
“You have an Aunt Bella,” Maggie continued. “She and I, and a bunch of girls, used to get together to go out dancin’ Saturday nights, … down the First Ward of Newark, before the War. We were all single. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, … when we walked into the room, all eyes would go to Bella, …such a beauty. And she would tell us all about her family, especially her brothers fighting overseas, and how one of them was gonna marry this beautiful girl from Bloomfield Avenue. I mean we weren’t that close, because there was so many of us. But who could forget Bella, … or your mother’s name, … ‘Marietta’? I mentioned it to my brother, Ang, when he told me about Frankie. But you know your father, Maria … always forgets. So, I do know the Bonaducci family a little bit. So, Frankie, give your mother a kiss for me, and make sure she knows to come down and visit.”
“Gee, I didn’t know,” was all Frank could say.
As always, Maggie was in motion, not only talking with her hands in between words, but also helping her daughters set the table and cut the cake, all at the same time. She continued. “And you know what? Your Aunt Bella comes down every time Louie Prima shows up at the Riptide. She’s always with her husband and a couple of other couples. Well, guess who’s in Wildwood this weekend? Mr. Prima! So, maybe Bella will show up.”
Small world, thought Frank.
Maggie’s sons returned to tell Frank that he and the boys were all set up in the small rooming house around the corner. Over the last twelve years, Maggie and her husband had made the Sonata Suites into such a favorite motel for the goomods and goombods from Newark, Belleville, Lyndhurst, and Nutley that they had just acquired the Wellington as their second property. Every time she had vacancies, Maggie would make the call north to invite whoever could make it down. This weekend most of her nieces and nephews were coming to town to cash in on her generosity, as, of course, there would be no charge. On the other hand, all guests were required to be at Maggie’s crowded home on Friday nights for fresh fish and “olyule” with the “allige”; then again on Sunday afternoon, … after the beach, for macaronis with the red gravy, sausage, meatballs, and pork. No one would ever dishonor this commandment.
That Friday the sun could not have been hotter and the Atlantic Ocean more refreshing for the visitors from Belleville. Jo-Jo could not believe the vastness of the Wildwood Beach, compared to the eroding shorelines at Sandy Hook, Long Branch, Asbury Park, and Belmar, … locations just within the “daytrip” limits of his father’s ailing ’49 Chevy. Russell’s freedom from his seven other brothers and sisters seemed to be revealing a different side to the underweight and nervous thirteen year old. Finally he had time for himself, so he didn’t know what to do first; just sit in the sand, stare at the blue-green ocean water, or wait for someone to say he had to return home to deliver The Ledger and strap all his brothers and sisters in for dinner. Frank was playing touch football on the beach with Maria’s other cousins, down for the week with their parents, several of whom had played freshman ball at Belleville High last year, and were relishing tangling with the college-bound running back.
Maria, who was strolling the beach with Maggie’s daughters, Judy and Barbara, stopped in amazement at seeing a statuesque woman with deeply suntanned bronze body and gigantic floppy white hat with red ribbon. Her stylish black bathing suit accentuated every natural curve the Good Lord had bestowed on her. Aunt Maggie really was prophetic. Maria announced to her cousins, “God, it’s Frank’s Aunt Bella. She’s here, just like your mother predicted.”
Standing in the middle of a circle of beach chairs, full of others her age, Bella was being her normal, expressive center of attraction. As Maria surveyed Bella’s audience, there were five other ladies and two men. Uncle Emil Bruno was not there.
“Aunt Bella, it’s me, Maria Giardina!”
Bella reacted, “Mother Mary, it’s my handsome nephew’s beautiful girlfriend! Maria, come, … come meet my friends.” And noticing Maria’s cousins, she added, “And who are these two Italian beauties?”
Maria made introductions, and then Bella went around the circle. “Darlings, I want you to meet my nephew’s future wife, … we hope. You all know Frank, Rocky’s kid. Well, this is his girlfriend, Maria, and her two cousins.” Bella turned back to the three teenagers. “Now meet my friends.” After announcing each woman in her entourage, she focused on the “special” guests. “And now, these handsome gentlemen, … my dashing cousin, Carmine Bonaducci from Brooklyn, and his associate, an old friend, … and ‘enemy’ of all of us girls, …Benny Badalamenti from New York, too.”
Every one in Bella’s circle laughed, except the three teens. What did Aunt Bella’s “enemy” label on Mr. Badalamenti mean? Maria wondered. She was biting her lip, figuring out what she would say to Frank. Indeed, she knew he would love seeing his Aunt Bella, and even the chance to talk to his second cousin, Carmine. But after Frank’s winter encounter with Badalamenti on the rescue mission to find Gino, and now his being on the list of counterfeit indictees, perhaps her boyfriend would rather stay clear of him this particular weekend.
Carmine Bonaducci was just as gracious as all the male Bonaduccis that Maria had met. Slowly raising his sculptured body from the chair, his furry chest reminded her of Frank’s father, although his full head of black hair was more like her boyfriend’s than Rocky’s receding hairline. He reached for her right hand. “My dear, you are as beautiful as your intended father-in-law describes you. And with my young cousin Frank, you make a dashing couple.” He then slowly turned towards Judy and Barbara. “I am pleased also to make your acquaintances.”
By now, Badalamenti was on his feet, and in just the manner Maria expected, greeted them. “Youse kids from the Lake?”
“No, Mr. Badalamenti,” answered Maria. “We are not from the Silver Lake section of Belleville. I’m from King Street on the Belleville-Nutley line, and my cousins are from here in Wildwood.”
“Great,” said Badalamenti, now with disinterest. Not only were the girls too young for Bad Boy, but the relationship to the Bonaduccis put them totally off limits.
Maria shared chitchat with Bella about their plans for the weekend, as well as the coincidental mentioning of her name by Aunt Maggie.
Addressing all three girls, Bella affectionately recalled her dancing days. “Ladies, those were so special,” she reflected. “And your mother, Margaret, so beautiful. I remember she was engaged to your dad, so she didn’t dance too much. But guys loved her. Could she talk about anything? No wonder she and your father are so successful down here. You know, I see her once in a while at Louie Prima shows. Tell her we’re going tomorrow night.”
Later that afternoon, Maria told Frank about the chance meeting. His father’s cousin’s presence peaked his interest. But with Badalamenti in tow, Frank had a sick feeling in his stomach.
At dinner that night, Aunt Maggie only slightly helped Frank put his concerns at ease, because after raving about glamorous Aunt Bella, her daughters mentioned talking to a gentlemanly … “Mr. Bonaducci”! After the fresh fish feast, which had been supplied by Armand from his day’s fishing on Thursday, the house full of relatives and guests scattered to the front porch and eventually to the boardwalk.
Maggie insisted on a little anisette for everyone to cut the fat and oil of the meal. Even Jo-Jo and Russell had their own tiny shot glasses, which made them feel they’d died and gone to heaven. They looked at Maggie in disbelief as she poured. “You’re both on vacation. I’ll talk to your parents.” The boys smiled at each other as if they had just gotten away with the crime of the century.
As the girls did the dishes, Maggie sat in her big rocker next to Frank on the porch. A cool sea breeze began to pick up. “So, Frank, Carmine Bonaducci is your father’s cousin?”
“Yes.”
“You know, I like him very much,” Maggie continued. “I know him from Chamber of Commerce meetings this winter. He’s quite a gentleman, and an even better businessman.”
“You know him that well?”
“Well, he’s a big player, and we have mostly small operators down here. He stands out. Bought a couple of motels, he tells me, after bailing out of Cuba. Had a chance to go to Vegas, but wanted to get involved in the family market down here. He’s done a beautiful job with the Beachcomber, the Chandelier, and the Casa Mia. You know, he loves the music business, too. And with all of the groups and individual talent that comes down here, he’s going to parlay that, too.”
“Honestly, Aunt Maggie, I’ve met him only a couple of times. He seems a great guy, but my father worries he’s mixed in with the wrong people sometimes, and could embarrass the family name if he doesn’t watch out.”
“I don’t know anything about wrong people, but right now, he’s putting money into Wildwood, and he’s helping our cause. We have a great history here, and want the future to be even better.” Maggie was all business. Judgments came later. Then she added, “But listen, Frank. What somebody else does should not affect your life. Just because you have the same last name doesn’t mean your fortunes depend on anyone else’s behavior.”
Almost in disbelief of Maggie’s lucid advice, Frank nodded in agreement. “I think my father gets bothered by it more than anyone.”
“My brother Ang tells me what a good man your father is. Listen, you make sure he visits Aunt Maggie this summer, and we’ll sit.” Maggie smiled, waiting for Frank’s reaction. He smiled back.
In the next half hour, the forty-four year old Maggie Corino, the grammar school graduate, educated Frank on how she and her husband came to Wildwood with little money, but lots of dreams and courage to take risk. Now the resort town was growing along with her business. When she originally arrived from Belleville, Wildwood was quiet. She fondly recalled Vaughn Monroe and Woody Herman at the Hunt family’s Starlight Ballroom. Then she paused for a time that seemed interminable for Frank, given Maggie’s penchant to fill every moment in life either with a generous deed or a meaningful flow of words. Continuing, she said, “But you know what, Frank? That’s changed. Rock ‘n’ roll has become more profitable, so the acts are changing. Me and Uncle Armand don’t mind, as long as the Jersey and Philly kids don’t go crazy. Yea, it’s changing. And the only constant in life is … change.”
“But it’s still amazing how all of the old big names have come through Wildwood.” Frank was enjoying this time with his girlfriend’s aunt, and her appreciation of music and the entertainment business.
“Yes, Frank, the big bands and the old big names still come through. Just up the street, ya know, is where the Manor Supper Club used to be. I’m going back now. Tony Bennett, The 4 Aces, Pat Boone, Peggy Lee, Rosemary Clooney, and even Ella Fitzgerald would always be showing up. They still appear from time to time, … especially Boone. And as your Aunt Bella knows, Louie Prima and Keely Smith are at the Riptide this weekend; Julie LaRosa’s at the Club Avalon. Then the rock ‘n’ rollers, … Bill Haley and the Comets are at the Starlight, and this Chubby Checker guy, at the Hofbrau House. Tommie, my younger brother, has been bringing down this kid, Marty DeRose from Newark, to try out in the different clubs. My Lord, he sings all the Italian stuff. Yes, we know all the owners. They get us good seats. It’s still a small town. I have to know which stars are here so I can tell my guests.” Maggie loved the vitality of her Wildwood. It was a long way from digging foundations in Belleville and Nutley.
“Have Dion and the Belmonts been through, Aunt Maggie?”
“Don’t think so, but as I said, rock ‘n’ roll dominates now, all because of American Bandstand. That’s why your cousin’s putting his money here. Even though it’s a short season, there’s money in real estate and music, and he sees it.”
Another person’s perception of Carmine Bonaducci was far from that of Frank’s father. “Very interesting,” was Frank’s reaction.
“Looking at it honestly though, Frank, it’s all timing.” Maggie’s enthusiasm level was changing. “It all started quietly in the late forties and early fifties. Then the high point had to be when the American Bandstand people came in. They started record hops at the Starlight back in ’56 with this DJ who later got in trouble back in Philly. Then Dick Clark shows up the following summer, … and the rest is history.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll never forget it. On August 5th that year, they somehow broadcast the record hop that had now been named American Bandstand. I mean Dick Clark stands up and says, ‘Live on ABC-TV, it’s American Bandstand from the Starlight Ballroom in Wildwood, New Jersey.’ Wow, it made us all proud. Uncle Armand and I figured we made it to the right place at the right time.”
Maggie stared at the boardwalk, alive with music and lights as the crowds passed right in front of her house.
“Gee, Aunt Maggie, good foresight, huh?
“Well, yes, Frank, but I think it’s changing again.”
“Why?”
“The fifties is an era that’s ending. That Buddy Holly crash? Took the heart out of this rock ‘n’ roll thing.”
“But Aunt Maggie, as much as that affected all of us kids, you’ve been telling me how it’s a good time in Wildwood.”
“It is now, Frank, but things change. Yea, things are always changing. The real test of whether Uncle Armand and I can really run a business is if these crowds go elsewhere.”
“So what about my cousin, Carmine? You said he has an eye for big business opportunities.”
“He does. That’s why he’s interested in music,” said Maggie, not backing off of her admiration for the Brooklyn Bonaducci.
“But, you said there may be a change going on. So won’t he get hurt, too?”
“You get into real estate for the long haul. You need staying power, and he has it. As far as the music thing, if he gets involved, it just won’t be here. Music is universal.”
“Got it, Aunt Maggie.”
“Frank, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Plus my sister-in-law, Santina, tells me you’re a good boy. But, don’t judge other men. Jesus didn’t. Look for the best in them. And if you have faith in God, take some risks like your cousin, Carmine. Look at what he does. Learn something. You don’t have to like it all. Just eat the meat, … and spit out the bones.” Maggie looked directly at him. “Capice?” (understand)
For Frank, Maria, Jo-Jo and Russell, the weekend proceeded at breakneck speed. The weather was totally cooperative, so the grateful, younger vacationers had to deal with a sunburn problem by Saturday night. It seemed a small price to pay.
That night it seemed all of North Newark, Belleville, and Nutley was on the boardwalk. Mickey Geltrudi and a contingent of Nutley footballers were doing their strut up and down the boards, until they saw Frank. Then, as if beholding a righteous prince who had given them glory at his own expense, they slowed up and crossed over in front of the passing tram to shake his hand and talk about football and the girls from Philly. Then noticing Maria at his side, they changed the subject back to football only. Jo-Jo and Russell were impressed and proud of the respect the Maroon Raiders gave Frank.
Buying tickets on Hunt’s Pier, Frank was startled by a tap on the back. Hunched over slightly to minimize the weight on his left hip was Vinnie Giampietro, Belleville’s faithful bus driver and one of the surprise names amongst the counterfeit indictees.
Nonetheless, Frank was pleased. “Vinnie, long time no see, Cuz.”
“Miss ya, man,” said Vinnie with a hug and eyes filled with tears.
The crippled, overweight ex-Bellboy’s liquored breath caught Frank by surprise, and triggered an obligation to help in some way. “Vin, what are you upset about?” Maria watched her boyfriend’s compassion as his younger brother and Russell were already off to the rides. Frank continued, “It’s the indictment thing, right?”
“Frankie, I’m sick about it. If my parents were alive, they’d be shattered.”
Then Frank noticed a small group lingering in the shadows behind the ticket booth. Each appeared to have had too much to drink as well, being even more loud and boisterous than the emotional Vinnie. He saw “Crazy Louie” Montana who’d also been indicted. It was the worst of the Bloomfield Avenue crowd … young, brash, violent, and out of control.
Frank pulled Vinnie aside. “What are you doing with those hoods, Cuz? You’re better than that.”
“Frankie, they’re on my annual fishin’ trip. Ya know, I sponsor it, and some of the boys from the North Ward and Bloomfield Avenue show up. I can’t stop ‘em. I mean I also got Father Giambalvo from St. Francis wit me, too. It’s a mixed crowd.” Then, adding soberly, “And we caught a lot of fish today, too.”
“All right, Vin. But go have one of those Philadelphia cheese steaks or something to get rid of your booze breath. You know, Cuz, get some onions going for
"In case you meet some New Jersey State Police down here, and they start asking questions.”
“Hey, Frankie. I ain’t never done anything wrong. Yea, some of the guys get on my bus and hand me these big bills over the months. I cash ‘em. But what was I supposed to do. How’d I know they were bad?”
Frank stared into the bus driver’s sad eyes and cupped his fat face in his hands. “Listen, my mother and I have been praying for you, Craigie Francello, Two Tones, Greenie, Costello from the candy store, and the rest of the good guys. I mean Henry Davidson and Matte are already dead, Lord rest their souls. Listen to your attorneys and be honest. It’ll work out.”
They embraced one more time, and parted; the loud screams of amusement ride customers, the sounds of the carnival music, and the sizzling of a nearby sausage and peppers stand seemingly absorbing all the emotion of the chance encounter into the vacuum of life on Wildwood’s boardwalk.
Frankie turned to Maria. “He needs big help.”
She nodded agreement.
After church on Sunday morning, Aunt Maggie’s house was once again overflowing with people. Judy and Barbara were frying dozens of eggs, bacon was sizzling in the frying pan, and the aroma of freshly percolated coffee was drifting out the front door and beckoning to all within range to enter into the Corino abode. Between bites of the breakfast buffet, Russell and Jo-Jo glanced at each other. Their looks reflected that there was only one day left before the ride home, early Monday morning, to avoid the weekend traffic chaos.
Aunt Maggie called out to Frank who was on the porch with her sons, Nick and Bobby. “Hey, I saw your Aunt Bella last night.”
That news sent Frank into the house to find a seat at the kitchen table, overflowing with breakfast buns, Italian bread, and fruit.
“Yes, she’s as glamorous as ever. And your Uncle Emil will be down tonight to spend a few days off from his pharmacy job.”
“You saw her at the Louie Prima thing?” Frank asked.
“Bella was the star. Somehow, she got on stage and took over for Keely Smith. They all had a good time, … like Louie and Keely knew her. And your cousin Carmine was there with his business associates taking all kinds of pictures. Good clean fun.”
“No kidding,” marveled Frank.
Then, Maggie sat next to Frank, speaking in a lower tone so only he could hear. And she told him how she had spoken with Carmine Bonaducci and learned how he was putting up all of these rock ‘n’ roll stars with their managers and agents in his motels … for free; how this was part of his business arrangement with them.
As she spoke, Frank was figuring Badalamenti had to be present because he was probably one of Carmine’s “associates.” Then he flashed to the “backstage Johnnies’” night in Brooklyn, and how Bad Boy was right in the middle of the activities.
That’s it, thought Frank to himself. Cousin Carmine must be deep into the pockets of some of these stars and their managers. God knows he’s in with the disc jockeys, too. Legal or not, Frank knew his cousin was not getting involved just for the fun of it. Could Carmine be the mastermind in this Essex County counterfeit thing as well, with Badalamenti his main man in Newark?
Frank started to eat his eggs and said nothing. Aunt Maggie headed back to the stove where her gravy for dinner that night was already simmering. Maria stood next to her as she stirred the pot and barked directions for Judy to get some “basinigole” (basil).
“Aunt Maggie, I must ask this question,” said Maria. “What is the difference between sauce and gravy?”
“Maria, I get that question all the time, especially from my Amedigan friends down here,” said Maggie, taking a deep breath as if to recite the definition for the millionth time. She turned around to everyone in her crowded kitchen. “All right. The Amedigans have brown gravy, but the Italians have red sauce. The Amedigans never call it ‘brown sauce’, right? Now, the Italian gravy has the juices of the meats in it, … the pork necks, sausage, meatball, etc. It’ll have the onions, garlic, basil, and that stuff, too, but the thing is the taste of the meat. Now, the sauce is just the tomato sauce, onions, garlic and such, and no meat, ... but we Italians call everything … gravy.”
The whole room had been listening--her children, cousins from Belleville and Nutley, her husband, and some local friends who’d stopped by for coffee and … As they all waited further explanation, Maggie had already returned to her stove to test her concoction. She sensed the baffled silence, and turned around again. “That’s it. We call it all gravy. We start with the sauce, but regardless, once it goes on the macaroni, it’s gravy, whether it’s got the meat in it, … or not.”
The subject was closed. Maria smiled and hugged her aunt.
On their short walk back from the beach late that afternoon, Jo-Jo asked Russell, “What do you think, Russell?” Both were shuffling along in wet and sand-caked black sneakers, looking down at the sidewalk, just beyond the boardwalk and a short distance from Aunt Maggie’s Sunday afternoon macaroni.
“Bout what?”
“Our first overnight vacation.”
“Don’t want to go home,” said Russell, as serious as he had ever been. “I bet I could make some money down here. More than my Ledger route.”
Jo-Jo said nothing else, but wondered what a whole week would be like in Wildwood; surely enough time to meet some Philadelphia girls. I bet all of ‘em danced on American Bandstand at least once, and they probably even met The Dell Vikings and The Belmonts. Worst thing about the weekend was his sunburn. Running in the sand and playing touch football with some of the Nutley guys was great. Imagine a whole summer of running in the sand. I’d get faster than Frank and Gino!
Jo-Jo whipped his neck skyward.
“What’s wrong?” asked Russell.
Jo-Jo took a deep breath. His sensitive nostrils could smell the intoxicating gravy, as it flowed out of Maggie’s kitchen, past her porch, and now heading oceanward, colliding with his senses and mind. The salt sea air that had risen from the deep blue Atlantic had met its match as the two scents faced off just where the trees started on Surf Avenue. The onshore breeze was not strong enough to overcome the sausage, pork, and meatball essence of the gravy that had escaped the black pot sitting on Maggie’s stove, … a huge black cauldron-like pot that had simmered its first guest of gravy back in ’46 on a pot belly on Saint Mary’s Place in Belleville, … right on the Nutley line. The huge industrial fan rumbling on the front porch of the Wildwood house gave the red tomato potion its unfair advantage over the slight wind off the water. The clash of the ocean and the gravy was happening deep with Jo-Jo’s very bosom. Russell, nursing a runny nose, was oblivious. Jo-Jo was in a trance. The Jersey Shore and Aunt Maggie’s gravy stimulated his young mind to make two conclusions: Frank had found the right family to marry into, and someday Jo-Jo would take a week’s vacation in Wildwood.
On the way back to northern Jersey next morning, Jo-Jo’s desires were split between his dream of a high school football career like his brother’s, and at least spending more overnights in Wildwood in the future. As Frank sped his uncle’s Chevy closer to Essex County, the Newark exit signs affected both brothers the same way--thoughts of the trial coming up, the deaths, and how close it all had come. Jo-Jo remembered the twenties he still had. Now he knew what to do with them.
EPILOGUE
“The Rest of the Story”
… many summers later
Although Megan was raised in Newport, during the early years of their marriage Jo-Jo would make sure his family spent at least a few summer days in Wildwood, New Jersey. Their two boys and one girl would hear the story of their father’s first vacation at the Jersey Shore resort, over and over again. Jo-Jo would go into every detail, … from the sounds of the rides to the cawing seagulls, to that enticing aroma of Aunt Maggie Corino’s gravy clashing with the scent of sizzling sausage and peppers and the salt air rolling in from the direction of the boardwalk.
“Can you smell it kids? Did it make it to your nostrils yet?” Jo-Jo would ask his children at a young age, as the family walked off the beach on a hot summer day.
Megan would smile. Their oldest boy, William, would question, “Gee, Dad, first of all, Aunt Maggie lives down by Wildwood Crest now. How can we be smelling her gravy?”
Rocco, his younger son, was once quoted as coming back at his brother, “Oh, William, Daddy’s right. Just stop for a minute, picture Aunt Maggie, and you can smell the gravy mixed with the salt air.”
“What can we expect from a kid with a name like … Rocco?” was William’s response.
Before Jo-Jo could react, his younger son retaliated, “Oh yea? You should talk with that Amedigan name. So, not too many kids are named Rocco, but it’s Grandpa Rocky’s name, and he stormed the beaches at Eniwetoc! I don’t care what you say, William, I can smell the gravy!”
In loving memory of Margaret Corino Luglio
Comments