A friend, his backyard party, his tractor.
YESTERDAY'S ATTRACTION.
I'll ramble on here about a party held each summer in the backyard of my former student, Dave Procaccini, and his father Lennie. But let me document Dave first. He is the quintessence of "great guy," and I have known this ever since I had him in my Italian classes at La Salle in the early 90s. He is now 31. He graduated in 1993 and we have, to some extent, maintained contact since he graduated. We used to do day trips and overnight trips together after that, including the Metropolitan Opera (Otello, Aïda, Don Giovanni) and some shows in New York (Showboat, Tony and Tina's Italian Comedy Wedding), the BSO at Tanglewood. We've often chatted about our common Italian heritage, we've dined all over, including Providence's legendary Al Forno. Though Dave is only part Italian, he treasures that part of himself. His father's ancestors came from the same Pugliese village of Panni, near Foggia, just like my parents. In fact my father and mother were very close friends and compaesani of Dave's grandparents and great grandparents, whom I can still remember from a half-century ago. Dave is also partly English, on his mother's side. I took a picture of him and his mother.
When I arrived at the Johnston party yesterday, some un-partyish music was playing, the Mozart Requiem. I said it reminded me of ten years ago when he, La Salle teacher Bro. Richard Lalime and I went to an evening concert at Tanglewood when the Mozart piece was featured. That evening we had a picnic-table repast in a secluded space and laughed a lot. Dave had a bald head that year. I remember the Australian wines we had that night, since I had just returned from Oz. Wines were plentiful yesterday too, and an ocean of hard booze like my friendly nemesis Stolichnaya. Dave's father has a real bar too with tall stools in the living room, and it is better supplied than many restaurants and lounges. For the first time in two years I recklessly abandoned my diet and ate and drank with, well, reckless abandon. In today's atonement I shall become gaunt with starvation.
Dave used to visit often after he graduated high school, popping up unannounced at odd hours when I was already pajamafied. He'd stay to talk until late. He has an interest in everything, but especially history, local culture, personalities, lore. His degree from Providence College is in history. His favorite movie is Lawrence of Arabia. For a stretch Dave used to raise chickens and plant a garden. When I still taught, he would bring me his fresh eggs. The carton would be left, with my name, near the office sign-in book. Mrs. Maureen Starkey would get one too. He is an amateur trumpet player, though I've heard him play only once and that was at his high school graduation party thirteen years ago, same yard. In my homemade Italian textbook, Ecco Tutto, I included a silly tribute to Dave in the form of a cartoonish in-joke of a guy trumpeting two overgrown chickens!
I think what I love most about Dave is that he never has a secondary agenda. He is constitutionally incapable of being a phony. He just enjoys talking with and seeing people. He used to make his "rounds", visiting former teachers, a favorite aunt by the name of Connie, other relatives, his trumpet teacher Julio Tancredi, classmates and local friends. To him friendship is a devotion and once you are in his circle, he won't abandon you. One of his friends present yesterday, Ken De Marco, was also in a class of mine and we chatted at length. Dave's marvelous girlfriend Gina was on hand too. They've traveled to Ireland together.
At the party people partook of sausage and peppers, ham, roast beef, a moist broccoli-bit corn bread whose creator should be canonized forthwith, as should Charlotte for her genuine rhubarb pie. New guests arrived, some departed. People swam in the pool. Political candidates Joe Accetturo and Steve Ucci (another former student of mine) made appearances. Another former La Salle teacher was there, Barbara Silliman. A Procaccini party is an allegory of life on earth, beginning in the youth of early afternoon and ending in the hearty old age of midnight when it becomes lighted by a small open fire.
I meandered about the peaceful acreage surrounding Dave's father's Pine Hill Road farmhouse. The house goes back to the 19th Century and can be seen on historic maps of Johnston. I peeked into an abandoned chicken coop here, a shed there, a ghostly tennis court out of Antonioni's Blow Up, all part of a fertile landscape of memory. Dave showed me his tractor he acquired a while ago, and I photographed him on it. I had to promise not to tell his girl about it because she might get mad, and it was hidden in a secluded path in the land behind the house. I was reminded of "boy, girl, tractor" films of the Stalinist era in Russia. If you Google "Dave Procaccini", you might find some references to his love of tractors or his winning a contest in which a mystery tractor had to be identified.
There need to be some references to his love of life, and his love of people. If Google grabs this blog, there certainly will be.
Dave and his mom.
Dave's dad, right.
Dave and his girl Gina.
Ken, right.
Historic farmhouse residence on Pine Hill Road.
Chicken-coop of yore.
Partiers.
GD & DP
A cozy summer-evening fire.
I'll ramble on here about a party held each summer in the backyard of my former student, Dave Procaccini, and his father Lennie. But let me document Dave first. He is the quintessence of "great guy," and I have known this ever since I had him in my Italian classes at La Salle in the early 90s. He is now 31. He graduated in 1993 and we have, to some extent, maintained contact since he graduated. We used to do day trips and overnight trips together after that, including the Metropolitan Opera (Otello, Aïda, Don Giovanni) and some shows in New York (Showboat, Tony and Tina's Italian Comedy Wedding), the BSO at Tanglewood. We've often chatted about our common Italian heritage, we've dined all over, including Providence's legendary Al Forno. Though Dave is only part Italian, he treasures that part of himself. His father's ancestors came from the same Pugliese village of Panni, near Foggia, just like my parents. In fact my father and mother were very close friends and compaesani of Dave's grandparents and great grandparents, whom I can still remember from a half-century ago. Dave is also partly English, on his mother's side. I took a picture of him and his mother.
When I arrived at the Johnston party yesterday, some un-partyish music was playing, the Mozart Requiem. I said it reminded me of ten years ago when he, La Salle teacher Bro. Richard Lalime and I went to an evening concert at Tanglewood when the Mozart piece was featured. That evening we had a picnic-table repast in a secluded space and laughed a lot. Dave had a bald head that year. I remember the Australian wines we had that night, since I had just returned from Oz. Wines were plentiful yesterday too, and an ocean of hard booze like my friendly nemesis Stolichnaya. Dave's father has a real bar too with tall stools in the living room, and it is better supplied than many restaurants and lounges. For the first time in two years I recklessly abandoned my diet and ate and drank with, well, reckless abandon. In today's atonement I shall become gaunt with starvation.
Dave used to visit often after he graduated high school, popping up unannounced at odd hours when I was already pajamafied. He'd stay to talk until late. He has an interest in everything, but especially history, local culture, personalities, lore. His degree from Providence College is in history. His favorite movie is Lawrence of Arabia. For a stretch Dave used to raise chickens and plant a garden. When I still taught, he would bring me his fresh eggs. The carton would be left, with my name, near the office sign-in book. Mrs. Maureen Starkey would get one too. He is an amateur trumpet player, though I've heard him play only once and that was at his high school graduation party thirteen years ago, same yard. In my homemade Italian textbook, Ecco Tutto, I included a silly tribute to Dave in the form of a cartoonish in-joke of a guy trumpeting two overgrown chickens!
I think what I love most about Dave is that he never has a secondary agenda. He is constitutionally incapable of being a phony. He just enjoys talking with and seeing people. He used to make his "rounds", visiting former teachers, a favorite aunt by the name of Connie, other relatives, his trumpet teacher Julio Tancredi, classmates and local friends. To him friendship is a devotion and once you are in his circle, he won't abandon you. One of his friends present yesterday, Ken De Marco, was also in a class of mine and we chatted at length. Dave's marvelous girlfriend Gina was on hand too. They've traveled to Ireland together.
At the party people partook of sausage and peppers, ham, roast beef, a moist broccoli-bit corn bread whose creator should be canonized forthwith, as should Charlotte for her genuine rhubarb pie. New guests arrived, some departed. People swam in the pool. Political candidates Joe Accetturo and Steve Ucci (another former student of mine) made appearances. Another former La Salle teacher was there, Barbara Silliman. A Procaccini party is an allegory of life on earth, beginning in the youth of early afternoon and ending in the hearty old age of midnight when it becomes lighted by a small open fire.
I meandered about the peaceful acreage surrounding Dave's father's Pine Hill Road farmhouse. The house goes back to the 19th Century and can be seen on historic maps of Johnston. I peeked into an abandoned chicken coop here, a shed there, a ghostly tennis court out of Antonioni's Blow Up, all part of a fertile landscape of memory. Dave showed me his tractor he acquired a while ago, and I photographed him on it. I had to promise not to tell his girl about it because she might get mad, and it was hidden in a secluded path in the land behind the house. I was reminded of "boy, girl, tractor" films of the Stalinist era in Russia. If you Google "Dave Procaccini", you might find some references to his love of tractors or his winning a contest in which a mystery tractor had to be identified.
There need to be some references to his love of life, and his love of people. If Google grabs this blog, there certainly will be.
Dave and his mom.
Dave's dad, right.
Dave and his girl Gina.
Ken, right.
Historic farmhouse residence on Pine Hill Road.
Chicken-coop of yore.
Partiers.
GD & DP
A cozy summer-evening fire.