VI
OK. Thinking of up north took me right off my time line. So, let’s go back to the 1950s.
Tino had returned from Korea in December, 1952, and resumed his career as an accountant at the Ford Motor Company. They started a family; Mickey was born in May, 1954, I in April, ‘56. And, in their spare time, they built a house.
Remember Tino’s dream of becoming an architect? He might have hedged on his dream in his career path, but the solid and comfortable home he and Betty Lou have shared in Livonia since 1955 is a wonderful monument to those dreams and to his skills with pencil, hammer, saw, level, and square.
In their new Livonia home, they didn’t just have a nice place to live. In the lots around them, homes were sprouting up which would hold not just neighbors but life-long friends. The Bartons, Petersons, and Williams – who are all part of this celebration – can verify these facts and contribute others, I’m sure. But here are a few highlights: all-night volleyball games with pancake breakfasts at dawn, wheelbarrow bonfires in driveways, prize fight parties with the action followed on color radio, and the legendary Labor Day parties with all the running and swimming events, egg tossing competitions, lawn mower races, capture the flag games, and corn roasts.
Let me give you a snapshot of what it was like to grow up there. Early mornings, the dads would head off to work, a surprisingly large percentage of them to their own businesses. Later, we kids would migrate to school by foot or on bike. Since Roosevelt Elementary School was just a block away, I’d come home and have lunch with my mom every day. After eating, we’d toss a baseball in the backyard, play table hockey or, if she happened to be doing laundry, throw rolled up socks at each other. After school, I’d track down the other kids. We’d play army in the woods or in Barton’s castle (a two-story wooden job Greg and Mike’s dad and uncle built for them); cruise through the ditches in our big boots – trying not to get soakers; play our modified versions of baseball, football and basketball that we compressed to fit the yard or driveway and the number of players at hand; or, if there was a lucky downpour, we’d all marvel at how Lyndon Avenue would flood, sometimes even swimming in it. There were so many kids in the neighborhood that if you got tired doing whatever you were doing you could simply shift over to a different group and join in their fun.
Life was active and rich in all the ways it should be. To me, all the neighbors seemed like extended family. I have a good memory, but can’t remember ever being introduced to any of the neighborhood kids. We were all just born into the world together.
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VII
My sister has always had a passion for horses. In the mid 1960s she got one of her own. Passing hours at the stable with Mickey, my mother soon began sketching and painting the horses for her own diversion. But the reaction of the other riders was immediate and positive. Betty’s painting career was launched. Her reputation grew quickly. Before long she was doing as many as 50 commissioned paintings a year. The truth is, since then she’s never been at a loss for commissions, taking just as many as she has cared to produce.
With just a hint of turpentine scent in the air, ours was a house of creativity. My mom’s original paintings hung in every room as she painted away in the basement on the latest ones.
In the early 1970s, Tino’s duties at Ford shifted from the somewhat dry and antagonistic accounting department to the enchanting purchasing side. If you know anything about Tino you know that he is a natural buyer, and the new job fit him tighter than the exacting tolerances on the fine-blanked transmission parts he was procuring.
While my sister and I were just finding our legs in the 70s, both Tino and Betty hit full stride on theirs. Probably no coincidence, but it was obvious and fun to watch. I remember one eventful Christmas/New Years week at Schuss Mt. when a number of us kids expressed our concern to each other after our parents had been to each other’s parties for about six nights running and were beginning to look worn. Now, I recognize those days as the first ones in a long time when parents can look slightly beyond the needs of their kids. That’s reason to party.
In 1978, Mickey and Steve MacWilliams were married. In 1980, Lisa and I got hitched. The grandchildren followed: Lina in ‘85, Carl and Ryan in ‘88, and Reid in ‘91.
Tino retired in 1987. Soon after, he began displaying a creative side none of us had seen before. (Could it be because he was spending so much time in Betty’s presence?) First, he built small wall cabinets that resembled buildings. Then, he got the carving bug. Visit his house now and – when he’s not shopping – you might find him on his side of the basement working over a block of wood, the chips flying. The birds he carves are as numerous in our homes as my mother’s paintings and are cherished by all.
Not surprisingly, Tino and Betty are fantastic grandparents. Thanks to my mom, my kids knew the color wheel down to the tertiary level before they went to kindergarten. She launched my kids into creative realms. And thanks to my dad, they are well outfitted to make any journey, and they know exactly when they’re doing it wrong.
Never short on opinions or afraid to express them, Tino has also proved to us that a large part of what it means to be an Asquini (and a Block) is to think independently, form your own opinions, have the ability to make decisions and the fortitude to back them up even under the fire of criticism from him, while knowing all along you’re loved.
Many times my father has told me that his goal was to improve on his father’s lot. My father was and remains a wonderful provider. (He brings me a loaf of bread from the Italian market every Wednesday, like clockwork. My daughter and her boyfriend, Wayne, mooch a dinner from Tino and Betty every week. Tino would have it no other way.) No one could argue that he didn’t meet his goal. My mother has given us all the gift of respect and independence by treating us like individuals right from the get go, not to mention all those creative juices. Together, they have given Mickey and me – as well as other kids from the neighborhood who have brought this to my attention – a model of married love that, unfortunately, not many get these days. (Another meaning of Asquini, I’m convinced, is “chooses wonderful spouse.” It’s true in all Asquinis I know. And I hope the tradition continues. There’s little else better.)
So, to wrap this tale up, I’m moved to challenge anyone who thinks they have better parents than mine to meet me at the bike rack.
Thank you for your friendship. Thanks for celebrating the lives and love of Tino and Betty with us. Here’s to them. Here’s to you. We’ve all been blessed, haven’t we? |
