Ramblings, rumblings, grumblings, and rambling grumbly rumblings.

Carl lived in this neighborhood a bit longer than I have. My family moved here in 1971 when I was five.  I used to go over to his house across the street when I was little and play with one of his many grandsons, Chris. We were friendly, but never friends.

The Ragusa's were Italian. I remember his house, especially the kitchen, being thick with the smell of garlic, oregano, and the homemade wine he use to make from his fruit trees, usually pear. His wife, Therese, was Old Country, and spoke clear, but accented English. She called me "Williams", in spite of my many attempts to correct her. The last time I was at his house as a child - I must have been ten years old - he still walked me to the end of his long driveway to see me safely across the street.

( Courtesy snip... )

Our across-the-street neighbor, Carl Ragusa, has died.  He had to be ninety years old, at least, living alone after his wife died several years ago. He died with his children around him. The funeral home van just pulled away; we watched them load the gurney with Carl's body on it, draped in a gray blanket.

While I am ambivalent about the man, I am not about what his passing represents.

There's a lot to say, just not right now.