This Is What I Think

Posted on

Walk the Talk

There is a modern-day taunt to those that speak with empty words to “walk the talk!” In my age, we would say that one should “put their money where their mouth is.” Using the thought behind these two phrases, I would like to discuss Conservative activism. We hear the chant repeatedly, “I am a Conservative.” But it begs the question, “Are you walking the talk?”

To most, the meaning of conservatism is one of a common sense emotion rather than principled statements like those contained in our U.S. Constitution. In many ways, that’s not all bad and can be illustrated by how we follow our culture in everyday living. Culture is the act of development by education. Education not necessarily “higher education” but, civilization handed down. As a young child, I was constantly reminded by my immigrant parents to “trust your culture.” Not words like that, but an exact quote!

Culture is similar to “averaging” in mathematics. My electric bill goes up and down from month to month. But having lived in my home for such a long period of time, I can predict what my next month’s bill will be. An outcome of averaging. But, what if my electric bill next month has doubled? Quick answer is that I find out why, and attempt to remedy the situation.

We have about 400 years of culture in America. Until recently, our citizens could arise in the morning and know what to expect. Oh yes, unfortunate things happened, and there were social adjustments along the way, even wars, but generally, we are a positive attitude nation and live on the expectation that “the sun will come up tomorrow.” There existed a sort of “cultural average” that we lived with and expected.

However, as I illustrated with my utility bill, Americans have now arisen to find that there has been a “spike” of cultural change in our country during the past twenty years. The problem is that the “vast majority” (my use) recognize the spiked change, don’t like the changes involved, and want to reverse most of them. Still, there will be those that will quickly use my utility bill illustration against any cultural remedy, by stating, “Perhaps the reason your electric bill was so high was that you left the air conditioner at 68 degrees and went off for a month vacation.” In other words, “It’s your entire fault.” If facts reveal that it was indeed my fault in leaving the air conditioner on while away, I accept the responsibility of my action. But what if not, and it had something to do beyond my responsibility. What then? Accept, or fight back?

It is my contention that most reasonably enlightened Americans understand that changes will occur, and that our national cultural average will rise and fall slightly over time, given the nature of averaging. Where the ordinary citizens become enraged and overcome with frustration is in believing that they have been left out of the averaging equation. Frustration and controlled rage are emotions, and can be good motivational drivers to initiate action. But, again, even with an emotional assist, what attempt by direct action do most make to reverse an unwanted change? Unfortunately, not much. Too often the response about inaction is that it is beyond the capacity of the individual.

Not so. If we really believe that conservatism revolves around the individual, then, remedies to unwanted changes also revolve around the individual. However, the rub is too many individuals in today’s society have been “schooled” in the idea that all societal change falls in the “Sacrament of National Government.” I would like, here, to postulate three simple rules of activism, there are many more, that are available to all at the individual level.

1. Written Criticism

Any complaint or criticism, even when made in person, should be evidenced in writing whenever possible. Never phone. Politicians and public servants get real nervous when anything in writing can become part of the record.

2. Identify your accuser

Article VI of the U.S. Constitution says, in part, “…to be confronted with the witness against him;” That concept has real meaning at the individual’s level beyond its normally held judicial use. Let me give you an illustration. About a year ago, I received a notice from my City public works department demanding that I cut the grass on a vacant commercial lot I own. The city ordinances permit vacant lots to have grass higher than what you might expect in a residential neighborhood. Knowing something was fishy; I took a photograph of a yardstick stuck in the grass at my lot, and then went “downtown.” I asked to meet the inspector that issued the notice. The reply was, “Oh that complaint was phoned in by a neighbor. We didn’t inspect it.” “In other words” I replied, after showing the photograph, “your department issued an official notice to cut grass, over the signature of an inspector making a false statement.” Never heard about the matter again!

I simply use this illustration to recommend that any notice you receive over the signature of a public servant, insist that you deal with that person, face-to-face and/or in writing.

3. Make your own donations

In my opinion, one of the greatest community failures in recent history has been in the area of non-profit organizations. If one delves into the controlling management structure of many, they will be found to be managed by corporate type individuals, and not the volunteer type of past. Dollars become important, while mission becomes less important. Do not give to “omnibus” charities. Make your own charitable decisions. If you are pro-life, why would you donate to a United Givers campaign only to have the agency grant funds to an abortion clinic? In one stroke of a decision, you have made a meaningful pro-life difference. And it was done at the local level without any necessity of “permission” by a legislative body.

I can go on, but I will not. You have been kind when you made it this far with me. I thank you. Please remember that common sense actions accomplished by just one individual, when multiplied by others, can make a difference in restoring our “cultural average.”

Posted on

Not Bailout, Bankruptcy

Yesterday, the United States House of Representatives voted down the 700 billion dollar financial bailout of financial institutions that are on their way to default.

Regarding this current financial mess, on September 25th I posted on the American Conservative Party website, www.americanconservativeparty.org, that, “There is only one equitable resolution to the current problem, Chapter 11 Bankruptcy.” Frankly, for some time I felt that my opinion must be of no value because it was not validated by others. But, come today I see that Jeffrey A. Miron, a senior lecturer in economics at Harvard University had this to say, in part;

“The obvious alternative to a bailout is letting troubled financial institutions declare bankruptcy. Bankruptcy means that shareholders typically get wiped out and the creditors own the company.

Bankruptcy does not mean the company disappears; it is just owned by someone new (as has occurred with several airlines). Bankruptcy punishes those who took excessive risks while preserving those aspects of a businesses that remain profitable.”

I feel better now…

Posted on

Gustav, I see it coming

When the levees failed during Hurricane Katrina, the Corp of Engineers estimated it would take until at least the year 2010 before restoration and improvement would be accomplished. I am watching television, 10:30 A.M. Baton Rouge, as I write and the TV picture shows one canal levee “over-topping.” We have several more hours to go before the winds die down. If the levees should fail again, it will be President Bush to blame by the Democrats. I see it coming.

Posted on

Conservative? Show them.

There is a modern-day taunt to those that speak with empty words to “walk the talk!” In my age, we would say that one should “put their money where their mouth is.” Using the thought behind these two phrases, I would like to discuss Conservative activism.

We hear the chant repeatedly, “I am a Conservative.” But it begs the question, “Are you walking the talk?” To most, the meaning of conservatism is one of a common sense emotion rather than principled statements like those contained in our U.S. Constitution. In many ways, that’s not all bad and can be illustrated by how we follow our culture in everyday living. Culture is the act of development by education. Education not necessarily “higher education” but, civilization handed down. As a young child, I was constantly reminded by my immigrant parents to “trust your culture.” Not words like that, but an exact quote!

Culture is similar to “averaging” in mathematics. My electric bill goes up and down from month to month. But having lived in my home for such a long period of time, I can predict what my next month’s bill will be. An outcome of averaging. But, what if my electric bill next month has doubled? Quick answer is that I find out why, and attempt to remedy the situation.

We have about 400 years of culture in America. Until recently, our citizens could arise in the morning and know what to expect. Oh yes, unfortunate things happened, and there were social adjustments along the way, even wars, but generally, we are a positive attitude nation and live on the expectation that “the sun will come up tomorrow.” There existed a sort of “cultural average” that we lived with and expected.

However, as I illustrated with my utility bill, Americans have now arisen to find that there has been a “spike” of cultural change in our country during the past twenty years. The problem is that the “vast majority” (my use) recognize the spiked change, don’t like the changes involved, and want to reverse most of them. Still, there will be those that will quickly use my utility bill illustration against any cultural remedy, by stating, “Perhaps the reason your electric bill was so high was that you left the air conditioner at 68 degrees and went off for a month vacation.” In other words, “It’s your entire fault.” If facts reveal that it was indeed my fault in leaving the air conditioner on while away, I accept the responsibility of my action. But what if not, and it had something to do beyond my responsibility. What then? Accept, or fight back?

It is my contention that most reasonably enlightened Americans understand that changes will occur, and that our national cultural average will rise and fall slightly over time, given the nature of averaging. Where the ordinary citizens become enraged and overcome with frustration is in believing that they have been left out of the averaging equation. Frustration and controlled rage are emotions, and can be good motivational drivers to initiate action. But, again, even with an emotional assist, what attempt by direct action do most make to reverse an unwanted change? Unfortunately, not much. Too often the response about inaction is that it is beyond the capacity of the individual.

Not so. If we really believe that conservatism revolves around the individual, then, remedies to unwanted changes also revolve around the individual. However, the rub is too many individuals in today’s society have been “schooled” in the idea that all societal change falls in the “Sacrament of National Government.” I would like, here, to postulate three simple rules of activism, there are many more, that are available to all at the individual level.

1. Written Criticism

Any complaint or criticism, even when made in person, should be evidenced in writing whenever possible. Never phone. Politicians and public servants get real nervous when anything in writing can become part of the record.

2. Identify your accuser

Article VI of the U.S. Constitution says, in part, “…to be confronted with the witness against him;” That concept has real meaning at the individual’s level beyond its normally held judicial use. Let me give you an illustration. About a year ago, I received a notice from my City public works department demanding that I cut the grass on a vacant commercial lot I own. The city ordinances permit vacant lots to have grass higher than what you might expect in a residential neighborhood. Knowing something was fishy; I took a photograph of a yardstick stuck in the grass at my lot, and then went “downtown.” I asked to meet the inspector that issued the notice. The reply was, “Oh that complaint was phoned in by a neighbor. We didn’t inspect it.” “In other words” I replied, after showing the photograph, “your department issued an official notice to cut grass, over the signature of an inspector making a false statement.” Never heard about the matter again!

I simply use this illustration to recommend that any notice you receive over the signature of a public servant, insist that you deal with that person, face-to-face and/or in writing.

3. Make your own donations

In my opinion, one of the greatest community failures in recent history has been in the area of non-profit organizations. If one delves into the controlling management structure of many, they will be found to be managed by corporate type individuals, and not the volunteer type of past. Dollars become important, while mission becomes less important. Do not give to “omnibus” charities. Make your own charitable decisions. If you are pro-life, why would you donate to a United Givers campaign only to have the agency grant funds to an abortion clinic? In one stroke of a decision, you have made a meaningful pro-life difference. And it was done at the local level without any necessity of “permission” by a legislative body.

I can go on, but I will not. You have been kind when you made it this far with me. I thank you. Please remember that common sense actions accomplished by just one individual, when multiplied by others, can make a difference in restoring our “cultural average.”

Posted on

United nations

With the continued debate about the necessity of the United Nations, especially in times as now with the Russia/Georgia conflict, many cry out to “get the USA out of the UN.” My idea is a bit different. I say that we should move the UN to Central Africa, or Southeast Asia, to assist some developing nation.

Posted on

The Lily of the Mohawk

About 20-25 miles from Schenectady, New York, are the Indian lands known as the Osserneon now called Auriesville. Schenectady was settled in 1661 and it was always in the midst of Indian conflicts. The major tribes from the Schenectady area to the area of Quebec, Canada were the Algonquin Indians, Huron Indians, Iroquois Indians, and the noted Mohawk Indians. It was into these Indian regions that Jesuits came from France in about the 1640’s. There were eight Jesuits that are known as the Jesuit Martyrs of North America; Antony Daniel, Charles Garnier, Noel Chabanel, Isaac Jogues, John LaLande, John de Brebeuf, Gabriel Lalemant, and Rene Goupil.

We connect Isaac Jogues, Jesuit Priest, and Rene Goupil and John Lalande, two Jesuit laymen, with the events at Auriesville. These men were sent to work among the Mohawks at Auriesville. In 1642, Isaac Jogues and Rene Goupil were captured in Auriesville and Rene took the vows as a Jesuit Brother from Isaac Jogues while both were being tortured. Rene Goupil was tomahawked for teaching the sign of the cross to an Indian child. Isaac Jogues buried him in a ravine in Auriesville. Isaac Jogues escaped, but three years later came back to Auriesville with John Lalande. On October 18, 1646, Jogues was tomahawked, and Lalande was tomahawked the next day.
Kateri Tekakwitha was born in 1656, the daughter of a native Algonquin-Christian mother and a Mohawk warrior father. The family lived in Osserneon, or Auriesville. Tekakwitha was left orphaned at the age of four, when her mother, father, and baby brother were stricken by a smallpox epidemic which ravaged the tribe in 1659 and 1660. Tekakwitha was also stricken with the dread disease and was left with facial pock-marks and weakened eyesight, physical infirmities which were to plague her for life. Her uncle, chief of the neighboring village where she was taken and raised in accordance with ancestral beliefs, adopted her. Although Tekakwitha was not baptized as an infant, she had fond memories of her good and prayerful mother and of the stories of Christian faith that her mother shared with her in childhood. These remained indelibly impressed upon her mind and heart and were to give shape and direction to her life’s destiny. At the age of eight, in keeping with tribal custom, Kateri was paired by her foster parents with a boy of the same age with a view towards eventual marriage. Kateri, however, made it clear that she did not want to marry, but desired to give her life to the great Manitou (that is, the true God), to whom she prayed frequently in the quiet of the wooded area near her village. Tekakwitha had only a superficial contact with Christianity during her childhood.

In 1674, however, when Tekakwitha was 18, Father James de Lamberville, S.J. established a permanent mission in the village and inaugurated a catechumentae program. Despite intense pressures from her foster parents and other villagers, Kateri zealously pursued initiation to the Christian life, and on Easter Sunday, 1676, she was baptized and given the name Kateri, the Iroquois word for the Christian name, Catherine. This event of joining the religion of the white man only intensified the ridicule, calumny, and hostility to which she was subjected by family and community alike, to the extent that her life was threatened so that in 1677, upon the advice of Father de Lamberville, and with the assistance of three Christian catechumens, she escaped from her homeland and migrated north to Caughnawaga, Canada, a Christian settlement where she was able to practice her religion in more tranquil surroundings.

Her virtue flourished in her new surroundings under the direction of the Jesuit fathers. On Christmas Day 1677, only 20 months after her baptism, Kateri was privileged to receive the Eucharist for the first time. According to sacramental practice of the 17th century this was an unusual privilege to receive the two sacraments within such a short time. Kateri lived just three years after this, spending most of her time caring for the sick and the elderly in the village. In 1679, with the permission of her spiritual director, she made a vow of perpetual virginity; according to her biographers she was the first woman of the Iroquois Nation to bind herself to such a commitment. However, the poor health which plagued her throughout life consumed her with violent pain and effected her death in 1680 at the tender age of 24.” Her life had been one of perpetual virginity, prayer and penance. She was beatified by Pope John Paul II in 1980 and has the distinction of being the first Native American beatified by the Catholic Church.

When I was growing up, and the weather was right, Mom would declare that our family was going to Sunday Mass at Auriesville. That meant it also involved a picnic. As a young boy, I would be permitted to go into the ravine, usually with a companion. There we would explore the stream that runs through the ravine, the stream in which Rene Goupil was first dumped into by the Indians. Our children’s imaginations would soar. We were there with Saints Isaac Jogues and Rene Goupil. We were there with Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha.

Water from a well in the ravine at Auriesville, after being blessed, was available for visitors to take home, something I always did after each visit, even into my adult life. On a personal note, that Blessed Water was infused with the Baptismal Water of St. Agnes Catholic Church, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and used for the Baptism of my twin grandaughters, Anna Claire and Caroline Gallo. My prayer is that as the twins grow in age, they can look to the model of inspiration in Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, the Lily of the Mohawks.
Endnote: History of Auriesville and Katrina was taken in part measure from the public documents at Auriesville.

Posted on

Our Wine Tradition

Because my surname is Gallo, the first question when giving my name to a stranger is, “Are you related to the wine people?” My answer is always, “Yes. My father made wine for 45 years.” Let me tell you about him.

Angelo Gallo, my father, was born in Dugenta, Province of Benevento, in the Region of Campania, Italy in 1901. The Campania region is in southern Italy and generally identified with its capital, Napoli. We were Neapolitan! This is a part of Italy that has been inhabited since prehistoric times and has enriched its population over time with a culture equal to none. When I was a child, Daddy, as I called him, continually stressed how we were endowed with this culture and to “trust it.” I always have.

While this culture produced for a select educated few, great literature, artistry, music, and drama, the Italian farm family culture was built by oral demonstration. Education seldom exceeded the fourth grade for the farm family, if any at all. All of this is preface to my wine story. Daddy learned wine making by oral demonstration from his family and others in his village that were taught by the generations that preceded them. I have never seen any written evidence of any procedure, or recipe, about making wine among my father’s possessions. So, that brings us here. My memories of the Gallo family Wine – Angelo’s Way.

I was born on October 12th. This was wine making time in upstate New York where we lived, as well as in Dugenta. My wife and I were in Dugenta during an October and witnessed first hand the trucks carrying the wine harvest rumbling through the main street of Dugenta on their way to the crushing mill. This wine story begins in Schenectady, New York in late September and into October. Well, no, it really starts in summer.

The wine makers that I watched were Daddy, Uncle Dominic and Uncle Ralph (Daddy’s brothers), and Uncle Vincent (Daddy’s brother-in-law). It would be unusual for all of these men to be together at one time unless it was at a wedding or a funeral. But it was not unusual for my uncles to see each other quite often. Because they were all hard working men during the week, Saturdays were set aside for “fixing things”, while Sunday was for church and family visiting. During these Sunday visits prior to the wine making time, the ritual was always the same.

“Angelo, you gonna make wine this year?”

“I don’t know, Dominic. I think so. How about you?”

“I think so. What about Ralph and Vincent?”

“Vincent for sure, but I don’t know about Ralph. He’s always busy with the store.”

The amusing part of this is that my father made wine for more than forty-five years. But it always was, “Angelo, you gonna make wine this year?” “I don’t know…”

This ritual crosshatched between the four men as the Sunday visits continued. Just substitute different names above. Latter, the Sunday ritual continued to step two. The subject would be about what they had heard from their “sources” about the Zinfandel grapes in California. Had anyone heard about the price? When was the harvest expected? Were the grapes good? Inevitably the time arrived when the grapes would have to be ordered.

Schenectady had an active farmers “market place” especially during the 30’s and 40’s when these recollections took place. The market was on Broadway perhaps a block or two from the axis of town, Broadway at State Street, State Street being the traditional “downtown.” Schenectady is built on a foothill running from the top of the hill, which is called Mont Pleasant, down to the Mohawk River, or downtown. We lived in Mont Pleasant. So, when Daddy announced that he was going “down Broadway” to “get the grapes” we knew that Angelo was going to make wine again.

Tucked away in the North East corner of the market place were the permanent produce dealers. The dealers assembled enough orders from Italian vintners to order carload lots. It seemed that every year the grape crates changed in size and weight. One year it might be 28 lb crates, or it might be 32 lb, or 36 lb crates. If my memory is right, a 32 lb crate produced about one gallon of wine. So Daddy would order, say, 200 crates, which would bring the gallon quantity safely under the federal limit for non-commercial wine making.

Angelo’s wine cellar was literally in the cellar of our home. It was a room about 12 by 14 feet. On the 14 foot wall opposite from the entrance door were four wine aging barrels on their side with the “bung hole” facing up. The balance of walls contained shelves on which were placed glass jugs and bottles. On the floor were other glass jugs and a Seven and One-half gallon wine vinegar cask. Outside of the wine cellar was another area where Daddy kept the crushing equipment, which consisted of a hand driven crusher, wine press, and 4 crushing barrels. Crushing barrels have one end removed and stand on end vertically. I have used the word “barrel” for ease of understanding; however, Daddy’s were larger than the smaller U.S. standard of 31.5 gallons. I would say they were on the order of 50 gallons, maybe 60. In Dugenta I saw crushing barrels that were, no doubt, 100 gallons.

After the wine had been made the previous year, it was put through a “racking” or decanting process. In Daddy’s case it was three for sure. New wine settles foreign material to the bottom of the vessel in which it is contained, so it is decanted into another vessel. More on this later. The point is that the wine aging barrels are empty when the new season starts. So they must be cleared out of all foreign “stuff” before the process begins anew. Notice I said, “cleared out”, not “cleaned” in the harsh way the term implies.

With effort, all the barrels were brought up from the cellar to the back yard. The crushing barrels were scrubbed with a brush, stood on end, and filled with clear water. The crushing barrels would leak for days on end until after about a week they would have tightened up and leaked no more. The wine aging barrels were cleared of wine “mud” with dried beans. Daddy would put a pound, or so, in the barrel and then shake the living daylights out of the barrel. After each wine aging barrel discharged clear water from its bunghole it would be returned to the cellar. They did not require tightening because they never had a chance to dry out like the crushing barrels that were only used once a year. Also from day to day Daddy would clean the glass jugs using the same bean process to rid the jugs of wine “mud.” Bottles were cleaned with bottlebrushes.

The wine grapes were delivered during the week because wine was made on Saturday and Sunday, if necessary, and it required the freedom of both days. Bright and early Saturday morning the process began. Crate tops were pried open with a crow bar, lifted high into the crusher and emptied of their contents into the crusher to be crushed. The first few crates were slow in processing because the crusher rollers always need adjusting between seasons. Properly adjusted, the crusher rollers, which mesh into each other, gently split open the grape, but does not mash them. Then it is just a matter of crate after crate until the crushing process is complete and the barrel tops are covered with clean discarded bed sheets. Then that’s it for crushing, except cleaning up, and perhaps more bottle washing.

One day later and the wine is “boiling”…fermenting! The bacteria that is required for the fermentation of the grape is on the skin of the grape fruit so the wine pulp must be an integral part of the total wine mixture for fermentation to continue. As the fermentation works, it’s noisy. Also, during fermentation the grape pulp separates from the clear liquid and begins to float. With separation, fermentation slows down. The “noise” diminishes. It is at this point in the wine making process where it becomes more an art than a process. Daddy would listen to the wine at least twice a day; morning before work, and afternoon after work. When it was the right time, the wine would be turned, that is, the pulp floating is reintroduced into the clear wine liquid and the fermentation chemistry is fortified. It would get noisy again! Daddy had whittled a stick similar to a walking stick onto which a six inch cross piece was attached at the bottom of the stick. The wine pulp was stirred with this stick, which Daddy kept for as long as I can remember. This went on for the balance of the week until Thursday evening, or Friday when the wine crush went “quiet.” At that point the mixture is left alone; wine pulp floating on clear wine liquid. Then Saturday morning the “pressing” part of making wine, Angelo’s way, started. Early, real early.

The crushing barrels sat on construction cinder blocks, which gave sufficient height to properly drain the barrels. There was a bunghole at the bottom of the crushing barrel several inches or so above the bottom of the barrel. Now the tricky part. Daddy had whittled another bung that was about a foot in length and could easily be manhandled so just the right amount of wine would be released when used. The reason that a petcock was not used is that a petcock will quickly foul because the wine is not yet free of all pulp. When the moment of truth would arrive. Daddy would drive the bung into the crush barrel with a mallet. With wine gushing out, Daddy would then insert the larger bung. Catching the liquid beneath the bunghole was an enameled child’s bathtub.

On the wine aging barrel would be placed a large wine filter funnel. The activity at that point was to wiggle out the bung and release enough wine into a bucket held over the tub and to empty the bucket of wine into the wine aging barrel. The funnel was rotated from an aging barrel when the barrel was full to a certain point. How much, I don’t remember. The clearer first draw of wine needs to have added to it the flavors from the wine pulp. Thus the reason for leaving room in each wine aging barrel for “pressed” wine. That ratio is another element of the art that Daddy knew.

As a crushing barrel exhausted its wine it would foul the bunghole with wine pulp. For a while the bunghole could be cleared with Daddy’s special bung, but eventually it stopped flowing. Another bung was tapped in and the process moved on to the next crushing barrel. When all crushing barrels ceased to flow by gravity, the pressing step was next. That was where I helped the most.

Each crushing barrel was wrestled off its stand and tilted over onto its side so that one could reach into the barrel and retrieve the wine pulp with an enameled kitchen pot. Even for an adult, the reach into the barrel was belonging their arm’s length. So what best could it be than to have a youngster who could crawl into the barrel to ladle out the wine pulp? That was my job. After I left home for the service, the job went to my next younger brother. The aroma of wine that is in a crushing wine barrel is one that once breathed in is never forgotten. But the job must be done quickly lest one become drunk with the vapors.

“Angelo, don’t let him stay in the barrel too long. He’ll get drunk”, Mama would admonish.

The wine pulp ladled out was put into Daddy’s wine press and it truly was Daddy’s press. Many of the Italian immigrants didn’t own the wine making equipment and borrowed it from others. I remember distinctly the proud day that Daddy bought the press. Where else but “down Broadway.”

The wine press would be filled with wine pulp and the press blocks and gear head placed over them. The gear head was manually ratcheted down squeezing out the wine. The “first press” was a rather gentle press. Just enough to bring out more wine that was darker but still with some clarity. This wine run-off was added proportionately among the aging barrels filling them up further. The process was repeated until all the wine pulp had been first gently pressed.

At that point the wine pulp was once again returned to the press and squeezed, but this time, harder. The run-off added again to the aging barrels proportionately. The day ended when all the wine pulp had been pressed and was in the press all at one time. Yes, all at one time, as difficult as that is to believe. The press stayed full for several more days. Every day following, the press was ratcheted a “click” or two more and another several cups would drain from the press over the ensuing hours. Sometime during the following week, the press would be opened and the pulp removed the final time. By this time the wine pulp had been squeezed so much that it took a hatchet to break the pulp away from the press. The pulp would be taken out to our garden area in our backyard and spread as fertilizer. You guessed it, fantastic garden!

During the same following week, Daddy would add ounces of the “last press” wine to each wine aging barrel to keep them full. The barrels were not “bunged” immediately until Daddy was certain the wine was completely at rest. During the days following the wine making, the wine aging barrels would just every slightly froth, which meant the wine, was not yet at rest. When it was, Daddy would hammer in the bung, and the wine rested for about ten months.

As we say today, “fast forward” to about August of the next year. Remember, during this time the Gallo family is drinking wine last made, not the new wine. The process for bringing new wine to the level of table wine suitable for drinking is called “racking” by wine experts, or decanting, to draw off the clear wine liquid leaving the “junk” behind. Daddy always did this by siphon, not petcock, even though it was a slow process. After removing the bung from the wine aging barrel, the wine would be siphoned into ten-gallon glass jugs. The siphon used was a piece of 3/8th inch rubber tubing about five feet long. The siphon decanting process was slow because the siphon was inched into the barrel with little movement so as to not disturb the “mud” at the bottom of the barrel. At the moment Daddy detected that the siphon was reaching “mud”, he stopped. Later, from the large glass jugs, the wine was siphon “racked” into gallon jugs. There it would stay until needed for the table. Every so often, Daddy would siphon “rack” a number of gallons into the traditional bottles one uses for the table and graced ours.

After the wine aging barrels were substantially emptied of the “good” wine, the balance of the wine was drained by petcock, filtered, and used in one of two ways determined by my father. Some was still suitable for drinking; otherwise, it went into the wine vinegar barrel. Even the vinegar was decanted later. Great stuff.

I personally experienced watching my father take the “first draw” on the siphon after the aging process was completed and the decanting process was to begin. The moment of truth! Always the same result. With the first taste, Angelo Gallo declared his wine fit for a king. Like a farm crop failure, wine making can fail, and fail they do. I remember the conversations among my uncles when they discussed about how so-and-so’s wine spoiled. Over a span of more than 45 years, Angelo Gallo never produced a “bad glass of wine” as it was expressed. Many people approached my father to buy his wine, but he never, ever, sold any. He would give you a bottle, and tell you that he would teach you the process of winemaking, which he did to many.

The fame of Angelo Gallo’s wine was dramatized as he lay on his deathbed at Ellis Hospital, Schenectady, New York. At that time, my cousin, Louise, and her husband, Joe, owned a notable restaurant in mid-Manhattan, New York City. Joe always gave Angelo’s wine high marks, especially since Joe had access to his restaurant’s wine cellar and knew something about the subject of wine. When Joe and Louise visited Angelo in the final hours, Joe brought a bottle of the finest, most expensive, wine his restaurant served. He previously made an arrangement with the nursing staff to pass out to each of the family members present, including a few nurses, a disposable hospital “pill cup.” And with that, Joe poured wine into each of our cups, including Angelo’s, and gave his toast to Angelo Gallo, including “great wine maker” to the salute.

Now you have experienced my attempt to walk you through the story of, The Gallo Family Wine – Angelo’s Way. I hope you enjoyed my memories, and perhaps, learned a little. And this is the end of the story a few years before Daddy died.

“Angelo, you gonna make wine this year?”

“No, Dominic. The California wineries are making it as good as I can. You ought to buy some”

Posted on

The Garage

My parents moved to 1234 Main Street when I was, perhaps, four years old. My sister, Louise, was born on Crane Street, in an apartment that only had two bedrooms. Needing the extra bedroom, Mom and Dad bought their first home at 1234 Main Street. We stayed there for a few years, and then, Mom and Dad purchased a finer home at 1260 Main Street, just four houses South, on the same side of the street.

I was about 12 years old when WWII started. It was Sunday afternoon, December 7th, and I was in the backyard at 1260 Main Street and a newspaper boy was going down the street hawking the newspaper, shouting about the war. But, back to this garage story. Like all boys during that era, when I became about 14 years old, I got seriously interested in automobiles even though WWII had halted automobile manufacturing. Daddy had purchased a 1941 Buick Century auto, the car I learned to drive. In New York at that time, don’t know what it is now, one could get a Learner’s Permit at age 16. At age 15, Daddy had taught me to drive. Because he had a plan in mind. My father worked at the General Electric plan just about the whole time since arriving in Schenectady as an Italian Immigrant. My Mother didn’t know how to drive, and never cared to learn. The plan was that he would trust me at age 15 to drive the Buick up to “the garage” and back, for fuel or service work. Mom never liked the idea, but I did. It was then that the owner of “the garage” less than a block away from our home became familiar with me.

Some time in the early 1900’s, an automotive service station was built at the corner of Chrisler Avenue and Ostrander Place. The garage building was simple in construction, and followed the usual style of the times. It had two service bays, with the one on the right with a “pit.” As might be obvious to you, the pit was where repairs were made beneath the car. The garage had a basement that was accessed by going down into the pit to the balance of the building. On the left of the building, looking at it, was the very modest office. Outside, at the corner of the lot was a “lift” for servicing cars.

Immediately behind the garage building, on Ostrander Place, was the home of a dear childhood friend, Arnold Daddario. Arnold had been hired to “close” the station in the evenings, pumping gas until the garage closed. I used to go down in the evenings and keep him company. Arnold didn’t like the job, didn’t like cars. So, he asked me if I would like to take over his job. I jumped at it.

One question always asked about this phase of my life is, “Do you remember how much gas cost a gallon?” Oh yes, 5 gallons for a dollar. 25 cents a gallon is one bought less than a dollar’s worth. I would report to the garage after school and stay until 7:30 p.m. in the winter, and 9:00 p.m. in the summer months. I worked a full day on Saturdays and only Sundays, Noon to 3:00 p.m. during the summer months. Noon to 3:00 p.m. was also the schedule for openings for grocery stores. Life in town was “Mayberry” to say the least.

All three of the Gelsleichter boys were good to me. My mentor was Francis. He was a college educated person and loved fine things. He would invite me to his home often to listen to classical music. Sometimes, Dad would invite him over to our house for a glass (or two?) of Dad’s fine home-made wine.

I will close on this story with one short illustration of my training by the Gelsleichter. When WWII ended, the garage was expanded to a larger facility, adding on four more service bays. One of the bays was a very modern “oil and grease change” bay. And it was kept immaculate. When that bay was constructed, the equipment was new and we needed to learn how to operate the equipment. So, one day a factory representative came to the garage and gave us all our instruction, in a tuxedo. The object was, that even with grease and oil, we could do our job without getting ourselves dirty. The messiest jobs can be done with little mess. I never forgot that lesson.

Posted on

Schools

There were three Schenectady schools in my youth; Pleasant Valley Elementary, McKinley Jr. High, and Mont Pleasant High School. All three schools were in easy walking distance from our home on Main Street, in Mont Pleasant. Each school is still standing to this day but serve different purposes. Pleasant Valley is now a magnet school; Academy of Culture and Communication. McKinley Jr. High is now a trade school; The Career Center at Steinmetz. Mont Pleasant High is now a middle school serving grades 6-8.

I have three distinct memories of Pleasant Valley Elementary School. The foremost was one teacher, Miss Sedgewick. I don’t remember the grade she taught, but she made me feel intelligent, and important. It was she that led me to the next memory. I was, and have always been creative. Miss Sedgewick encouraged me to write a class play. Can you imagine? Grade school. But I did. Somewhere in its content was something to do with a spider web. My memory is vivid of me creating a spider web out of white string on a black curtain drop in the school auditorium, which was the backdrop used in the play. The last memory is of my inclusion in a school “May Pole” event. I wore a purple satin suit which my mother sewed. That purple color is a favorite of mine. My wife, Shirley, recently wore an outfit using that shade of purple color, and it was amazing how quickly my school memory of the May Pole returned to mind.

The Jr. High school class grades used during my youth in Schenectady were 7th, 8th, and 9th. Growing up in a deeply immigrant area of Schenectady, coupled with the ages of students in the 7th through 9th grades, made attendance at McKinley Jr. High a real learning experience, to say the least. McKinley school collected students from areas outside of the Mont Pleasant neighborhood, they were areas that where known to be “rough.” Although Mont Pleasant was also an immigrant section of Schenectady, it was quiet and peaceful. So, I was not really prepared for what I learned at McKinley outside the classroom. And imagine, I played violin in the school orchestra. It was a rough three years to live through at McKinley Jr. High school.

Mont Pleasant High School was built in 1931. I entered the ninth grade in 1944, meaning the school was only 13 years old at that time. A really beautiful campus. The school building is a square with a courtyard in the middle. It was possible, and we did in track, to run through the halls around the school. Start and finish was in the men’s gym, second floor. In that period of education, with its immigrant influence, it was thought that a man should have knowledge of a trade, even if going on to college. Mont Pleasant had three trade wings, automotive, mechanical, and electrical. Even though I never entered a trade, the knowledge I received as a “Mechanical” student back then has made me a very good homemaker. One nephew of mine used to say, “My Uncle Sam can fix anything.”

Years later, after serving in the military, I registered as a freshman at the University of Colorado. Freshman were required to take an entrance exam. When my guidance counselor saw that I had graduated from Mont Pleasant, the exam was waived. That was a nice bonus.

My memories of Mont Pleasant are too many to enumerate here. Let me just sum it up by saying that going to Mont Pleasant High was one of the most rewarding periods of my life.

Posted on

There should be a limit

This comment is without regard to party. About a week ago I watched on television Sen. Robert Byrd, WV chair the Senate Committee on Appropriations. Sad. Watching a 91 year old Senator struggle with text obviously written for him by staff. I am old myself, 78. I enjoy the fact that I have been blessed with a keen mind to this date. Yet, I am mindful that my present state will erode over more years.

The Catholic Church has a rule that clerics in leadership must submit their resignations at age 75. Beyond that, they serve at the pleasure of the Pope.

There should be some mechanism that would require the Chairpersons of any congressional committee be subject to a four year limitation of serving as chairman or chairwoman, and be less than 71 years of age at the time of election to head any committee.

What is evident to me over time is that the State of West Virginia is represented in congress by staff. That’s not representative government.

I see this issue as one of the most important to be solved because it masks the underlying problem which is a Congress that has grown “superior to the people.” Congress belongs to all the people. Yes, if West Virginia wants to continue voting in Sen. Byrd, so be it. As an aside though, they do because he is number one in bringing home the “pork.”

If Congress belongs to the people, then it is a given that Congressional committees belong to the people. The Appropriations Committee is one of the most important committees in Congress. The fact that the Senate makes its own rules is within reason, PROVIDED, the rules are reasonable in the eyes of the people, NOT the eyes of senate leaders.

Is a religious cleric any less holy beyond the age of 75? I think not. Probably more so. But the wisdom of limiting a cleric beyond some age in matters of administrative and operational leadership is valid, in my opinion. Sen. Bryd can sit in the Senate and cast his vote for West Virginia until he is 105 years old. But, operating as a Congressional leader for all the people is something different.

Where the rub is in all this, comes from use of staff. Any person growing older becomes slowly attached to a helpmate. The sibling, “Mary,” begins to take “Mama” to the grocery store as “Mama” grows older. At some point, “Mary” tells “Mama,” “Why don’t we go to my store? It’s closer.” “Mama,” says, “Absolutely not. If you will not take me where I want to go, I’ll find someone else to drive me.”

But “Mama” reaches a point in age where her attitude changes. “Mama” is willing to be taken to any grocery store by “Mary” because “Mary” has won out, and “Mama” no longer resists.

At the moment that any Congressional staff becomes superior in importance to a legislator, the people, all the people, have lost representation of that legislator. The legislator becomes a puppet. We have in the instant case, in my opinion, one of the most important Senate committees in Congress indirectly chaired by staff. Sen. Bryd is a puppet.

The rules of the Senate belong to the people because the rules are there to conduct the business of the people. We may joke that Congress is a “club.” But, I agree. It is a club that needs to be broken up and reorganized so that it represents ALL THE PEOPLE.