my grandpa tony would have been 92 today; he died a little over two years ago on september 12, 2004. here is a story i wrote in a college writing for children class shortly after:
When the Mandolin Man was very very old and very very sick, people came from near and far to visit him. His family gathered around his bedside to remember his life. His friends brought him fresh figs and sweet pastries. And every day there was music in his bedroom.
But long before the Mandolin Man was the Mandolin Man, he was a little boy called Antonio. He was born in a tiny Mediterranean village on the island of Sicily. Every day he danced while his sister Pia played her mandolin and chased his brother Guiseppe along the seashore, like little brothers do. Every day he hugged his mama and missed his papa.
Antonio’s papa was a fisherman and his dream was to take his family to America. He worked very hard to make enough money for the journey. One day his papa left on a fishing boat bound for Alaska and did not return for almost four years. When he returned he scooped Antonio up into his arms and told him: “We’re going to America!”
The next winter the great ship, Asia left for Ellis Island. Antonio and his family were on board. The boat was meant to carry cattle and smelled of hay and dung. The sea rolled angrily. The trip took many days and many nights. In New York they boarded a train. It passed through farm after farm, city after city. The trip to San Francisco took many days and many nights.
San Francisco was bustling and exciting place for a six year old boy. Still, Antonio was lonely; he had no one but his family and they were so busy. His papa mended nets at the wharf but Antonio was too young to tag along. His mama cleaned homes in the wealthy neighborhoods and had little time for him. His brother Guiseppe was all grown up and was no longer interested in playing children’s games.
Antonio begged his sister Pia to teach him to play mandolin. So she did. And day by day he learned the tarantellas, the mazurkas, and the waltzes of his homeland. The day came when he was better than Pia and she told him: “One day, Tony, you will be the Mandolin Man.” Antonio was less lonely now. And everyday there was music in his fingers.
Time passed quickly and Antonio became a handsome and athletic young man. One day he spotted a beautiful young woman scrubbing the marble stoop of her parents’ home. He called out to her and asked her name. “Lucretia,” she said. And he was in love. Soon they were married: she cooked and he played his mandolin for her. And every day there was music in their lives.
Before long Antonio and Lucretia welcomed a baby girl into their lives. Then there followed a boy, a girl, a boy, and one more girl until they were seven in all. They moved to the mountains where there was always fresh milk from the goat and sweet honey from the hive. The children learned to sing and play instruments. And every day there was music in their home.
Antonio worked hard at a factory and his children grew and grew. They were never too poor to eat. They were never too cold to sleep. And they were never too tired to dance. It seemed that there was always something to celebrate. The children began to marry and have children of their own. And every day there was music in their families.
Years became decades and Antonio was suddenly quite old. But his grandchildren knew him as the Mandolin Man and believed he would live forever. And maybe he would have but he was suddenly quite sick. There was nothing to do but hope. And when there was no hope left, there was nothing for him to do but play his mandolin.
Soon it was apparent that the Mandolin Man would not get well. Now he was too sick to play his mandolin. So Lucretia sat by his bed and held his hand so he would not feel scared. And his sons slept on the floor of his room so he would never be alone. His daughters cooled his forehead with damp cloths. His grandchildren read to him from his favorite book.
The Mandolin Man could no longer eat or speak and he was in very much pain. Family and friends and famous musicians came to play music for him. They played all day and into the night. When he slept there was song. The music was his food and drink. The music was his medicine. And every day there was music in his ears.
During the night the Mandolin Man passed away. His room was silent for the first time since he was a boy. His family wept because they missed him. They laughed because his life was good. They took comfort because there would always be music in their hearts.