I have great respect for Italian-Americans, having grown up next door to a family. I'll call the father Al and the son Tony. Right, there's no way you can find these men because they are favorite names for Italian men. Tony followed his father into the printing business, and he had a wonderful apprenticeship under his father's watchful eyes. I heard of Tony's reputation when a man I worked for used his shop. My boss could always get his manuals quickly, with no fuss or lead time. Tony was quick. How my boss connected me to Tony was beyond me. I recalled days at their house when we were very young, earlier than six. Tony's father expected much of Tony and when the father noticed a variance, he declared: "that's caca!" That usually set all efforts and conversations back on track.
Tony once helped me deal with a bully, who would grab my lunch bag. Tony took it across the street for me. So when the bully confronted me at the school side of the crossing, I didn't have it. I am sure people are smarter than me for at five, one boy knew how to be a bully and one boy knew how to elude him. I knew how to cross the street safely.
I had an evening when two friends and I drove into Grand Rapids for fun, and on the way back, we were discussing a decision that went against me. "That's caca", she exclaimed. I am growing fond of this woman.
For the record, I don't mind a good slap on the back of my head if it works.
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