"He Was My Best Friend."

Pasquale Cuccia

It was the end of May 1999. I was at Nan's bedside at The Jewish Home on 106th Street between Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues. She'd just passed her fourth anniversary in Room Frank 510 - we didn't celebrate.

What's today?"

"Sunday."

"No, the date?"

"May 30th"

Nan, my Dad’s mother, turned her head towards the window.

"What's a matter?"

She didn't answer. 

I tried again.

"Nan, what's bothering you?"

"Pasquale."

"Pasquale?"

"My cousin."

Your cousin, who?"

"My older cousin."

"Pasquale, your older cousin?"

"He died."

"OK, where did he die?"

"France."

"When?"

"1918."

 "We're you guys close?"

Giovanna Cuccia, my great grandmother

 Nan turned her had back to me, her tearing eyes milky white from macular degeneration. 

Anna Cuccia @ 1917

"He was my best friend."

She was 12 in 1918. Her family lived at 1403 on Avenue A right off 75th Street. Nan told me Pasquale lived around the corner and walked her to school when he wasn't working in the cigar factory on 69th Street.

"I was a tomboy; he'd played catch with me and skate with me.  Pasquale got me out of trouble with my mother ~ she loved him. He was tall and always stepped in when she was ready to give me a whack. He'd pick Mom up and spin her round. She'd forget all about me."

81 years later, my grandmother, Ann Pryor Rode, formerly, Anna Cuccia, 93, was remembering her cousin, Pasquale, with love. He died for his adopted country.

Years ago, Memorial Day always fell on May 30th. It was a somber day. No fireworks, honor guard honoring the flag, and later a long moment of silence at the ball game remembering those who died for their country.

Thomas E. Pryor Jr. @1945

Robert A. Pryor with cousins on 84th St @1946

500 block 84 St. Flag Dedication @1942

Anna Cuccia @ Ann Pryor on 511 stoop @1942

84 St @1942

@1942

Tommy & Nan Rode at her District Leadership retirement
party at Tavern on The Green @1995

Another Park, Another Sunday

My neck and back feel like they’ve been whacked by Lizzy Borden's sturdy axe. I need fresh air. I'm out of here.

Off to the park on the bike, I cycle through the Engineer's Gate at 90^th Street across the street from the Church of the Heavenly Rest, and put my music on ~ first song is " Another Park, Another Sunday" Doobie Brothers.

.

This song goes through me starting deep in my tummy. It's sad, and melodically beautiful. It's OK the lyrics get me down. It's good to be reminded of loss. Weigh where I am,  how I feel, give me a gauge. Central Park is an ideal location for me to do that. I've burrowed through its 843 acres for thousand of hours. Inside my warren, I've climbed, ran, biked, swam, made out, slept, laughed, played, lost a balloon, made promises, tore muscles, watched people endlessly, lots of sex, cried, sealed friendships, some forever, fell in love, got high, got too high, got lost, felt helpless, fought, made up, said things to people I love that I can never take back. Ever. Central Park is organically connected to all my senses.

I did three loops but cheated, using the 102nd Street transverse to get to the Westside. I rarely do the hill from hell at the north end of the park. I have no problem with the hill, but I don't like the long coast down.

I lost my recklessness twenty summers ago, when I took a piece of meat out of my forehead over my left eye. I fell off my bike going down a hill  and waited three hours in Lenox Hill to get stitches. A perp on another bike was at fault.

Ate the emergency room ran into Ronny Hanerfeld and his family. Later, Nicky Bowen from 87th Street walked in with his gang. Each had a kid that needed medical assistance. We had a reunion. It was 92 degrees outside that Saturday. I had a rag over my eye covering the wound, no shirt on, too bloody, the nurse threw it away. My Patagonia running shorts crept up the crack of my ass. So, with me just shy of nude, we reminisced.

Another Park, Another Sunday  
(The Doobie Brothers)

As I was sittin' in my room, starin' out my window
And wonder where you've gone
Thinking back on the happy hours
Just before the dawn

Outside the wind is blowin'
It seems to call your name again
Where have you gone?

City streets and lonely highways
I travel down
My car is empty and the radio just seems to
Bring me down

I'm just tryin' to find me
A pretty smile that I can get into
It's true, I'm lost without you

Another lonely park, another Sunday
Why is it life turns out that way?
Just when you think you got a good thing
It seems to slip away

It's warm outside, no clouds are in the sky
But I need myself place to go and hide
I keep it to myself, I don't want nobody else
To see me cryin' all those tears in my eyes

Another lonely park, another Sunday
Why is it life turns out that way?
Just when you think you got a good thing
It seems to slip away, yeah yeah

Another park, another Sunday
It's dark and empty thanks to you
I got to get myself together
But it's hard to do

Another park, another Sunday
Why is it life turns out that way?
Just when you think you got a good thing
It seems to slip away, yeah yeah

Another park, another Sunday
It's dark and empty thanks to you
I got to get myself together
But it's hard to do, yeah