Streetwise: Mafia Memoirs by Vassallo Russell

Author:Vassallo, Russell [Vassallo, Russell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Krazy Duck Productions
Published: 2013-01-28T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Three

Sicilian Roots

It was a four hundred fifty acre wetland farm that lay just off Lord Stirling Road, Stirling, New Jersey, long before the urbanization that settled over the State.

There was nothing distinguishable about it. Just a dingy, red-brick, two story house, with dark lifeless windows and aging vines spreading over the front. Across the second floor, a balcony cordoned by black wrought iron coursed the length of it and at the pinnacle carved in white stone were the initials RV, Rosolino Vassallo, and the date, 1934—the year of my birth. I remember in dead winter pushing open the French doors, stepping out onto the balcony and studying the animal tracks that lay in the snow beneath. Raccoon, deer, fox and rabbit that had visited during the night and evaporated with dawn.

It was a farm house with twisting corridors and small rooms tucked away in odd corners, a large, warm kitchen and a cramped living room with sliding doors. Suspended on one wall were rifles and shotguns of various makes from all

FARMHOUSE – The farmhouse itself appeared small but was very large inside, with rooms along the corridors and separate bedrooms upstairs.

over the world. Outside, and a distance from the house itself, lay twenty-seven dog houses, housing beagles, retrievers, hounds, pointers and setters. They were never silent. When some were silent, the others were barking, and it took very little to set them chorusing. My grandfather loved to hunt and, therefore, raised and stocked pheasant, quail and doves. It was not unusual to see him releasing them before a hunt. Indeed, during the hunting season, men came there as guests and shot game. So it was not unusual to see men toting pheasants, quail or partridge which had been carefully raised and then released a day or two before the event. As a wetland, it housed ducks as well as other marsh birds. Rabbits abounded as did deer, raccoon and squirrels. When there was nothing in season my grandfather sharpened his eye shooting small sparrows and cowbirds.

Although there were twenty-seven dogs, only two were allowed to roam loose: Rusty, an Irish setter, and Queenie, a German Pointer. They were both affable dogs except when eating. One Sunday, I left the table to feed Queenie some table scraps. I made the mistake of approaching from the rear. Thinking I was taking her food away, Queenie spun and bit me behind the left ear. It wasn’t a bad bite but it did shock me. Not as much of a shock as the sight of my grandfather’s anger at the dog. And no amount of pleading could prevent him from shooting her. Disloyalty carries a high price. In the end, he raised the gun, and I hugged the dog by the neck. By then, Queenie knew she was in trouble, but she had no concept that her life was in danger. If ever a dog does something right, she did the right thing that day. She licked my face.

“She’s sorry, Grandpa. See. She’s sorry.

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