Search Results

The original gifted Gurgling Cod, circa 2000 I remember exactly what Kim gave me for my wedding. Which is remarkable, because I can no longer remember her last name. Funny how that happens. At one point, she was the kind of friend you invite to your wedding because you can't imagine your life without her in it. We worked together every day. We knew each other's stories. And now, nearly three decades later, her last name is gone. What I do remember is that she had impeccable taste. She always wore the preppiest little cardigans, and her blonde bob was somehow always perfect. Whether she had attended prep school or an Ivy League, I have no idea, but she looked and acted like she had. She embodied a version of New England I was still getting to know. If you missed Amy's other recent posts, you can find them here at Kitchen Table Conversations. So when I opened her gift and found what appeared to be a large ceramic fish, I assumed there was something I wasn't getting. Because surely this wasn't just a fish. I turned it around a few times. It was definitely a fish. A fish-shaped pitcher, with oversized lips and an expression that seemed permanently surprised. As a kid from Wisconsin, I just didn't get it. Fish belonged in lakes, at coho salmon derbies, or smoked and served on saltine crackers. I didn't understand why, of all the things she could have gifted, Kim chose this. Yet there it was. A Gurgling Cod. Although I didn't know that's what it was called at the time. I remember staring at it, trying to understand why Kim, of all people, had chosen it. And somehow my mother, who was also from Wisconsin and should have been every bit as confused as I was, knew exactly what it was. "Oh," she said. "That's a Boston thing." And this particular cod had come from Shreve, Crump & Low. (Of course it had. Because it was from Kim) Shreve, Crump & Low is its own kind of Boston institution. At least that's how I understood it at the time. If Tiffany's was New York, Shreve was Boston. When people around me started getting engaged, Shreve was where you wanted the ring to come from. It had a reputation. A history. And if you were only planning to do this once, you might as well do it right. So that's where we went. And that's where we bought our wedding bands. What I don't remember is seeing a single cod pitcher. Maybe I did and dismissed it as an ugly fish. Which would have been unfair, because it has quite a backstory. The pitcher itself wasn't originally from Boston. Versions of it had been around for years, imported from England. Fish-shaped pitchers designed to make a distinctive gurgling sound when water was poured from them. Or, depending on your perspective, a burping sound. At some point in the early 1960s, Benjamin Dale Shreve got a little creative with the idea. Looking at the traditional English pitcher, he apparently thought: "Nice fish. Wrong fish." So he turned it into a cod. Long before Boston became known for universities, hospitals, biotech companies, or championship sports teams, cod was one of the industries that built the region. Ships carried it across the Atlantic. Fishing families depended on it. Coastal towns grew around it. It was so important to the economy that a carved wooden cod known as the Sacred Cod has hung in the Massachusetts State House since the 1700s. Over time, it came to represent not just the fishing industry, but the ingenuity, ambition, and hard work of the people who helped build the Commonwealth. And today, we still seem to love cod. Cape Cod, obviously. Weather vanes, town seals, signs, and references tucked into old fishing towns all along the coast. Shreve wasn't selling beach souvenirs. They were selling engagement rings, sterling silver, crystal, fine china, and wedding gifts. The kinds of things people registered for, inherited, displayed in china cabinets, and passed down. And somehow, among all the crystal, silver, china, and wedding gifts, there was room for a ceramic cod. People made fun of them from the beginning. Which I found reassuring. It's a fish-shaped pitcher that gurgles when you pour water from it, after all. But it stuck. So much so that, like my Mom said, it became "a Boston thing.” Maybe because it was distinctive. Maybe because it came from Shreve. Maybe it was just the right amount of whimsy. But I wonder if it was more than that. The cod had come to represent the people who built Massachusetts. Fishermen, merchants, dockworkers, and coastal communities whose livelihoods depended on the sea. And yet here it was, being sold alongside engagement rings, sterling silver, crystal, and fine china. What I've learned after nearly three decades in Massachusetts is that we seem to have a knack for putting things together that don't obviously belong together—and making them work. And if you look closely, you’ll notice that nearly every New England home has at least one, sitting on a shelf, or holding a few purple hydrangeas. Looking slightly ridiculous. And completely at home.

Three longtime friends, Frank Spero, Tony Fiore, and Matty Tricorico. Tony has been friends with Matty for 70 years and Frank 66 years. A Note from Rooted & Refined Living This is a story about my dad and his two lifelong friends shared from my dad's perspective. There is a small section towards the end that talk about the careers his friends had in the FBI and their high-profile case against the Mafia. There is a small part to this post that discuss violence, but it is in the context of the story. More than anything, this is a story about friendship. Following my dad writing the story, it generated a new flurry of activity between the three friends that still talk at least once a week to this day. At the end of the day, that is what this website is about. My Friendship with Matty I was lucky to have a great family and I was also lucky to have great friends. Two of my close friends have been lifelong friends — Frank Spero and Matty Tricorico. Tony Fiore at Port Richmond HS In a previous writing I mentioned about Little Johnny and George Gomez — the elementary school bully who was left back two years and who got his jollies by beating up his classmates after school. I avoided the wrath of Gomez by giving him my homework to copy and Little Johnny got a pass because he was famous for being in a Campbell’s Chicken Soup commercial. Now I am in the eighth grade and a funny thing happened — in two years I grew from 4'10" to 6'2". Gomez stopped growing at 5'6" so George feared me. My dramatic growth spurt did not go unnoticed by the Public School 44 basketball coach Mr. Quin. He put me on the team and made me practice for hours. He would throw the ball against the backboard and whack me as I went up for the rebound. He would step on my toes and yell as the ball was coming down. The motive was simple — if I could withstand that kind of punishment in practice, the actual game would be a cakewalk. I averaged 20 points a game and made the All Star team. So when I entered Port Richmond High School that fall, I tried out for the Junior Varsity and was the only freshman to make the team. If you missed Tony's other recent posts, you can find them here at Papa's Corner. Matty "Sonny" Tricorico at Port Richmond HS in Staten Island, NY One of my classmates at Port Richmond was Matty Tricorico. He was a little over 5 feet when he started as a freshman but by the time he was a junior he was 6'2". I stopped growing so we were the same height. Ironically, Mr. Quin, my PS 44 coach, became the JV coach at Port Richmond and he put Matty through the same regimen he had put me through. Matty was a late bloomer and in our senior year on Varsity, Port Richmond won the Staten Island Championship and Matty was the star player. I had a decent year but Matty was the go-to player when we needed a goal to win. Matty finished second in the voting for Staten Island's best high school player. As a team we played in Madison Square Garden and although we lost to a great Brooklyn school, Matty excelled. He was offered a basketball scholarship to Colgate University and Wagner College. At Wagner he was a big star and years later made the Wagner College Hall of Fame. Matty and I were good friends in high school and college and have remained good friends for decades. My Friendship with Frank At Port Richmond High School, I had a very good grade average and was a cinch to be placed on the school's Permanent Honor Roll. On the last day of my senior year, my English class grade was mostly based on an essay. The subject of the essay was "Political Indifference in the United States." I must have had a brain fog that day because I wrote a 10-page essay on "Political Differences in the United States." I wrote an A graded essay but on the wrong subject. My teacher tearfully told me she loved the essay but had to give me a D. I appealed to take it over. My parents appealed but to no avail — the D stuck. Frank Spero in the Marines As a result, I no longer made the Permanent Honor Roll but had to take Remedial English for a year at Wagner College where I had enrolled. "Remedial English" was also referred to as "Donkey English" because most of the students were football players who had to take the course. Our professor was a tall, lanky guy named Herb Brandcamp. Professor Brandcamp took the course seriously as did I. It was a practice at Wagner that incoming freshman wear little caps called dinks the first two months of class. Naturally I was the only one in the class who adhered to this tradition, and I was ridiculed by the football player classmates — with one exception — a tough ex-marine who was a gritty lineman on the team. His name was Frank Spero. He had graduated from Lyndhurst, New Jersey High School where he excelled in football. Frank befriended me when the hazing got out of hand. After high school Frank enlisted in the Marines and served for three years. When his tour of duty with the Marines ended, he returned to Lyndhurst and was reunited with a former football teammate — Wally Pagan. Wally convinced Frank to apply to Wagner and he did, receiving a partial scholarship to play football. Frank was a guard on offense and a linebacker on defense. He was a key player in Wagner's undefeated 9-0 football team. Frank was awarded the Robb Trophy as MVP of the annual Homecoming game. Frank Spero, Lyndhurst (NJ) High School Eventually Frank, Matty and I became fraternity brothers of Alpha Sigma Phi Fraternity. We became very close friends throughout our college years at Wagner. Frank and I were on the Wagner baseball team and one story sticks out of our time together on the team. It was our first spring practice, and I was working out at first base and Frank was our third baseman. I had gotten a new first baseman's glove for Christmas and had oiled it and did all the things necessary to break it in. So, I am taking grounders and throws, scooping up the short hops and happy as a lark with my new glove. All that ended when a hot shot freshman named Curt Blefary approached me at first base and said, "You better get a fielder's glove Fiore because I'm playing first base." I said, "Curt, I thought you were a catcher." Blefary said I was, but the crouching up and down is wearing out my knees and I don't want to wind up injured with bad knees. Then he said, "Besides, do you see those 5 guys in the stands watching our practice? They are Major League Baseball scouts from the Yankees, Red Sox, Orioles, Giants and Dodgers. They are here to see me, not you." Curt Belfray (2nd row, 2nd from left) and Tony Fiore (2nd row, 4th from left) So Curt Blefary is in the on-deck circle waiting to take his cuts and Frank comes over to talk to me, and I tell him the story. "That Blefary has some nerve — I wonder if his bat can back up his mouth." Then Curt Blefary puts on a batting practice show I and Frank will never forget. He hits ball after ball 385, 400 and 425 feet over the right field fence into the Augustinian Academy schoolyard. Everyone is in awe — the guy is superhuman. Frank's only words to me is, "Tony, I heard Fred Muche's Sports Store has a sale on fielder's gloves." From left to right, Curt Belfray, Boog Powell, Brooks Robinson and Frank Robinson Curt Blefary wound up playing 10 years in the Major Leagues. He was American League Rookie of the Year with the Baltimore Orioles and won a World Series with the Orioles in 1966 playing alongside Frank Robinson, Boog Powell and Brooks Robinson. Considering there are only 1,000 Major League players and 5 million young boys who want to be Major Leaguers, it was quite an experience playing with Curt Blefary. Frank and Matty and I reminisce occasionally about "The Blef." The Years After Wagner My years after Wagner are well documented in my recent two-part series. Frank and Matty had careers that have been written about in bestselling books. Upon graduating Wagner College Frank became a Probation Officer in Bergen County, New Jersey. After a few years as a Probation Officer Frank Spero joined the FBI. After tours of duty in Miami and Atlanta, Frank was assigned to The Organized Crime Division and stationed in Manhattan. Matty had a different career path as he started out as an elementary school teacher at none other than Public School 44. After 9 years as a schoolteacher, Frank convinced Matty to apply for the FBI. Matty got into the FBI and wound up in the same Manhattan division as Frank within a few years. In New York City there were 5 organized crime divisions named after prominent gang leaders — the Gambino Family, Colombo Family, Bonanno Family, Genovese Family and Lucchese Family. The most notorious was the Gambino Family led originally by Carlo Gambino, and eventually by Paul Castellano and John Gotti. The history of the New York City Mafia, or Cosa Nostra (Our Thing) traces back to the early 1900's. It evolved from disorganized, localized Sicilian clans into a highly structured, syndicate-style criminal empire that profoundly influenced the city's labor, construction and political landscapes. In 1931 a violent power struggle erupted between older, traditional Sicilian bosses and a younger generation of Americanized mobsters. Following the end of this bloody war, the Mafia reorganized all of New York's Italian American gangs into Five Families. A commission was established by Charles "Lucky" Luciano. The Commission was a ruling body consisting of the five bosses that mediated disputes and coordinated territorial assignments. The Mafia was glorified by the bestselling 1970 novel called "The Godfather". It went on to become a monster hit movie and is regarded as one of the top 5 movies of all time. As a result, many young Italian American men aspired to become Mafia members. With the rise of the Mafia came huge profits through infiltration of labor unions and an enormous drug trafficking business. The years from 1970-1995 were known as "The Golden Age" of the New York City Mafia. Matty Tricorico (left) Sammy "The Bull" (center) and Frank Spero (right) heading to court to testify against John Gotti Even though Staten Island is the smallest of the 5 boroughs of New York City, it had a little over 100 Mafia members residing there. As a result, Frank and Matty were assigned to the Staten Island office in 1980. The big, powerful boss of the Gambino family back then was Paul Castellano, and he lived a flamboyant life. Whereas most of the Mafia leaders downplayed their ill-gotten riches by living in middle class neighborhoods, Castellano lived a sprawling mansion known as "The White House" atop Todt Hill in Staten Island. Todt Hill is the highest point on the East Coast and Castellano had a view of the Atlantic Ocean and New York skyline. One of the Mafia members who reported to him was John Gotti. Another member was Sammy "The Bull" Gravano. When Castellano's number 2-man Neil Dellacroce passed away, John Gotti thought he or his mentor Neil Dellacroce would be next in line. Instead, Castellano was set to appoint Tommy Bilotti as his number 2 man. Gotti then engineered a December 1985 hit that killed both Castellano and Bilotti on the street in front of Sparks Steak House. The hit on Castellano was engineered by Gotti and Gravano who were parked nearby when the killings took place. Although the killings were done in broad daylight, none of the many witnesses who saw the crime could remember anything. John Gotti became head of the Gambino Family and Sammy Gravano became his underboss. Gotti had gone to trial a number of times, but he was always acquitted. It came to be known that jurors and/or their families were threatened. Gotti became known as "The Teflon Don" because nothing would stick. He loved the fame and made sure the paparazzi was around when he took his walks around the Manhattan neighborhood where the Ravenite Social Club was situated. Frank Spero and Matty Tricorico were assigned to monitor the comings and goings of Mafia members as they hung out at the club. Frank and Matty were in a van keeping track of the goings on. When the van became suspicious to the Mafia members, they rented an apartment with a view of the Ravenite. They learned through an informant that an old lady lived above the Ravenite Club and that was where all the key Mafia discussions and decisions were being made. Gotti would give the lady a couple of hundred dollars to take a walk or go shopping and he and his cohorts would go upstairs to her apartment to discuss business. The FBI learned that the old lady was going out of town for a few days and in the middle of the night they were able to enter the apartment and bug it. Page one of the story about friendship The FBI through the bug recordings learned that it was Gotti who was behind Castellano's murder. Now came the tough part — getting a jury to convict him. This is where Frank and Matty played huge roles in his conviction. Sammy "The Bull" Gravano lived in Staten Island with his wife and two children. There were a number of times that Sammy had to be questioned or served with a subpoena or warrant. Frank and Matty respected the fact that Sammy had a family and close neighbors. They made sure that anytime they had an exchange with Sammy his kids and neighbors were not around. As a result, Sammy built a trust and liking for Frank and Matty. So in the early 1990's when John Gotti was arrested and put on trial for the umpteenth time, Sammy reached out to Frank and Matty and wanted to talk. He said he would be willing to give his testimony implicating Gotti in the killing of Paul Castellano, Tommy Bilotti and others in exchange for the Witness Protection Program. In essence Spero and Tricorico got a notorious, lifelong Mafioso to flip. This trial to jury was unidentified and sequestered. They found Gotti guilty and he was sentenced to life in prison. They nailed the most famous Mafia member since Al Capone. Frank Spero and Matty Tricorico were heralded for their part in finally putting John Gotti in prison. Bestselling books such as "Boss of Bosses", "Gameland", "Underboss", and "The Gotti Wars". With Gotti in prison, many other Mafia members broke their silence and eventually the NYC Mafia became a shell of what it once was. There is still organized crime in New York, but it is run by Russian and Albanian crime families. Frank and Matty retired a little over 25 years ago from the FBI. Lifelong Friendship Bonds I am still close friends of Frank and Matty and we keep in touch quite frequently. As I said at the beginning — I am lucky to have great lifelong friendship bonds.

I have a habit of tucking things away. Four generations (circa 2007) Not everything. I’m actually more of a read-it-and-throw-it-in-the-recycling-bin kind of person most of the time. But throughout my life, there have been certain things I saved anyway. Cards. Letters. Notes. A few newspaper clippings. Things I wasn’t attached to at the time, but trusted that I might be someday. So I stash them away. I think I write the same way, because I don’t spend much time thinking about who is reading the words right now. Once written, they go where they’re supposed to go. Maybe next week. Maybe ten years from now. Maybe never. But they were given a chance to. I’ve always trusted that kind of timing. If you missed Amy's other recent posts, you can find them here at Kitchen Table Conversations. And that’s how I found myself recently sitting on the floor surrounded by boxes of old photographs that had followed me through multiple moves and different versions of my life, looking for a picture from my college graduation. Thirty-one years later and I realized I couldn’t remember a single detail from that day anymore. Not the weather. Not who stood next to me. Not what I felt walking across the stage. I wanted photographic proof the day had actually happened. While searching, I found a card. White with a red heart on the front. It was from my grandmother. My maternal grandmother died a few years ago, and I miss her. She was an extraordinary woman in every way. But she was never the grandmother I associated most naturally with softness or sweetness (although she did make the best Christmas cookies). I had another grandmother who embodied that kind of love effortlessly. Warmth. Nurturing. Hugs. Comfort. Patience. This grandmother loved differently. Or at least that’s how I understood her for most of my life. She loved through action. Through doing. Through showing up. Through movement. She didn’t sit still for very long. Literally or figuratively. And when you know her story, it makes perfect sense. She grew up the eldest daughter of Wisconsin dairy farmers during the Depression, helping raise younger siblings and working the farm before becoming a teenage mother herself and eventually being kicked off the farm. By 32 she was divorced, raising five children alone while her ex-husband spiraled through alcoholism and all the instability and violence that came with it. And then, she built a life anyway. She worked factory jobs at all hours, often balancing survival and caregiving at the exact same time. She earned her GED at 40, became the first female foreman on the manufacturing floor at Kohler, bought property, and spent decades advocating for women and children living in poverty and survivors of domestic abuse. She had a way of showing up for people the way no one had shown up for her. And that’s why her memorial service was standing room only. Even her cards arrived with a kind of consistency I took for granted. Birthdays never passed without one (and it never arrived late). Usually typed. Even the checks tucked inside were typed once upon a time. Before arthritis changed her hands, she typed everything. I don’t remember exactly when that stopped. But the cards never did. Not even near the end. The card I found was from 1997. My grandma, newly married I’m sure I read the card when it arrived in 1997. Back then, it was mostly what seemed like ordinary communication. Plans for a visit. Excitement about things we might do together. A few years earlier I had moved east, and at least on paper, my life looked exciting. I was young, independent, and life was full of possibility. But I also remember feeling untethered and vulnerable during that time. A little disconnected from myself. Like I was floating through a life without having one. I would visit places like I was scoping them or checking them out so that someday, when I had a real life, I could come back and actually experience them. Weird, I know. So when my grandmother said she wanted to come visit and see a few things in the area, I remember genuinely looking forward to it. Inside the card she had typed out a list of things she hoped we could do together while she was there. More than anything, she wanted to go to Ellis Island. So we did. We took the train into the city from Connecticut into Grand Central, a place that had already started to feel routine to me by then. We caught a cab (this was in the days before Uber) and stood among tourists waiting to hop on to the ferry, the one that passes the Statue of Liberty, to arrive at Ellis Island. Once we arrived, I remember walking through the halls feeling like it was going to take forever because my grandmother stopped to read absolutely everything. But then again, she had waited a long time to get there. Don’t get me wrong, at 24 I thought Ellis Island was interesting. Now I think about what it must have felt like for my grandmother, pushing 70, finally seeing places she had only read about or seen on television. Because at 24, I was living on the East Coast, moving through New York City without thinking much about it. At 24, my grandmother was raising children in poverty with an abusive alcoholic husband and trying to survive. Places that felt accessible to me probably felt extraordinary to her, and only a generation or two separated us. And she loved history. So much so that we had a family tradition we called “cemetery hopping.” As kids, my cousins and I would get piled into her brown VW Rabbit and spend hot afternoons driving country roads from Waldo to Plymouth to Fond du Lac visiting the gravesites of our ancestors. She would talk excitedly about who they were, what spouse had died, children they had. Most were farmers with long German last names that barely fit across the stone. At the time, completely normal to me. But I’m guessing most people’s childhood memories don’t involve poking around cemeteries with grandma. And now, almost thirty years later, I’m holding that white card in my hands, the oversized red heart still bright against the front, and I suddenly understand why I had saved it all those years. I hadn’t saved it for the woman I was at 24. I saved it for now. I used to think my grandmother was better with action than affection. Now I think action was her affection. And that’s a strange thing about growing older yourself. Sometimes people keep revealing themselves to you long after they’re gone. In a way, your relationship with them hasn’t ended at all. And sitting there on the floor surrounded by boxes that had followed me across decades of my life, I knew the card had arrived exactly when it was supposed to.

Golden Girl Original Granola I think I have tried every granola brand on the market based on the selection in every major grocery store in a 20-mile direction. It wasn't until 2 years ago when I found the one that my wife and I love, Golden Girl Granola. Of course, this is not to be confused with the great sitcom, Golden Girls, or the lighthearted fast talking drama with a slightly different name, Gilmore Girls. But more on Golden Girl Granola in a bit. Let me share with you how we got here. If you know me by now, I am a big fan of products that are made in small batches that can only be produced by individuals or small businesses. These products are made with love and care and you can taste it in every bite. Similar stories include Dick Taylor Craft Chocolate Review: The Intersection of Art and Flavor and Smugglers Notch Maple Works Review: Elevating Breakfast With Wood Fired Flavor to name a few. When I first met Mary Beth, she lived in the area of MetroWest Massachusetts, which is about 40 miles west of Boston. If you talk to someone in Boston, you would think we live in Ohio based on how far they believe it is outside of the city, but the reality is its only an hour drive to get to into town. Yup, people from Boston refer to their city as town, like Beantown. Very opposite from where I grew up in New Jersey where we referred to New York City as "the city". Not far from where Mary Beth lived was a discount retail store called Spag's. This store was a destination for so many people in the area to get a wide range of products from hardware to deodorant, all at great prices. I think I made the visit to the store once or twice over the years before it was sold and then ultimately out of business. The store was empty for a few years to the best of my recollection. Back to Spag's and the location further down in the story. News story from the local ABC affiliate in Boston on Golden Girl Granola Mary Beth and I got married in 1998 and then in 2000 moved up to Grafton, MA. We initially put a $1,000 deposit on an attached condo in Shrewsbury MA, actually not far at all from the original Spag's location. It turned out that the condo design we wanted was not available in the location we picked as they were building the condos. As a result, we backed out and started looking again. One of my thoughts was to look for a house not far from a grocery store, Stop & Shop, a store with a good reputation. I figured if they selected an area to put their stores, it was already a good location for Mary Beth and I to plant our roots. As we started looking, there was an open house in Grafton, MA and we wound up buying our first house. If you are curious, it was about 1 mile from Stop & Shop, so my approach worked. The Rooted & Refined Living Expert Tip: "Life will take you down many windy paths. As you meander along, you will find unexpected treasures. Keep your eyes open for what is possible." Stop & Shop was our go to place to shop for many years and then the area where we lived really started to grow. The headquarters of Staples and EMC (which was sold to Dell) brought in an influx of people to the area. With the population growth also came new grocery stores. Initially, it was Wegmans, which had a cult following in the east coast and had 25,000 people shop in the first weekend. We made it the second weekend. Then after that was Market32, a division of Price Chopper. Both Matthew and Michael worked at Market32 during high school and college. The last big store to arrive was Whole Foods, which found a home in the old location of Spag's. I know many of you, at least here in the United States, knows about Whole Foods and the good quality they offer. The other thing that Whole Foods does a really nice job with is to honor the location that it is moving into. If it was previously a historic bank, it would try to keep some of that theme. In the case of Spag's, there is a homage to Spag's across one of the walls, which is a really nice touch to make a very big chain feel a bit more local and personal. Small Batch Granola Based on the 4 different grocery store chains I referenced above, along with a few independent stores and a few farmers markets, we tried just about every granola around. It wasn't until my 3rd or 4th try at Whole Foods when I landed on the small batch granola from Golden Girl Granola. Whole Foods has a few of their 7 varieties including the Original, Forest Maple, Chocolate Decadence, and Home Sweet Honey. We have tried them all and love every one of them. Golden Girl Forest Maple Granola Mary Beth often puts the granola in her yogurt and I typically eat it plain as a snack in the afternoon or as a topping in my Acai bowl. It wasn't until I went on their website where I found they have 7 different varieties including one I would still like to try, Blueberry. I was also very excited to see that they also sell their granola at a few local farms. Mary Beth and I made a trip a few weeks ago to Lilac Hedge Farm in Rutland, MA for ice cream. We picked the location because it also had a little shop to buy things like eggs and their own meats. Golden Girl Granola was on their shelves as well and we picked up a few while we were there. As an aside, I was just thinking about the pictures I will be taking to share as a part of this post. To give you a sense of what is actually inside the bag, I will be putting it in a small dish and taking pictures. The problem is we usually only open one bag at a time and now I will be opening up 4 at once. I guess I will be eating a lot of granola in the next few weeks! Frequently Asked Questions How many varieties does Golden Girl Granola offer? Currently, Golden Girl Granola offers 7 varieties including Original, Chocolate Decadence, Home Sweet Honey, Forest Maple, Blueberry, Creative Cranberry, and Truly Tropical Where did the idea of their logo come from? The logo image of the little girl with pigtails was created by their oldest daughter, Jacquie and a childhood love of Pippi Longstocking. Is the granola handmade? Yes, each batch of granola is hand measured and baked with love from the mother/daughter duo of Deborah & Jacquie Start Your Own Granola Sensory Experience If you are looking to upgrade your snacking experience, Golden Girl Granola will satisfy your cravings and elevate your sensory experience. Try it today and let me know your thoughts in the comments! For Transparency: Some of the links in this post are affiliate links. If you purchase through them, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. I only recommend products I truly love and use myself.

Graduation is supposed to be about the graduate. And of course it is. But it also becomes something else entirely when you’re the parent. And maybe it’s okay to say that out loud. Graduation, Marquette University, 1995. Me and my mom. This weekend, we celebrated a milestone. My youngest daughter graduated from college, and we trekked up to Burlington, Vermont — one of the most beautiful places on earth — to watch her walk across that stage. There were ceremonies and inductions and honorary recognitions, all wonderful and well deserved, while at the same time we were moving years of life out of a downtown apartment near Church Street, remembering the hottest day of the year a few summers ago when we first moved her in. If you missed Amy's other recent posts, you can find them here at Kitchen Table Conversations. And this is where I have to say it. It’s amazing how time flies. It really does. Especially when you have children in your life who suddenly become adults, while somehow you still feel pretty much the same yourself. So I don’t know about you, but for me, their milestones have a way of pulling up your own stories. You know the ones. High school hallways. College campuses. The feeling of leaving home for the first time. First apartments with mismatched furniture. Late-night conversations with friends you were certain you’d know forever. First jobs. First heartbreaks. The combination of freedom, uncertainty, excitement, and fear that comes with so much of life still in front of you. And what hits hardest is realizing those memories don’t feel far away at all until suddenly they do. And you start doing the math over and over because it just can’t possibly have been that long ago. But somehow, it was. Throughout the weekend, I found myself thinking a lot about my own college graduation. And I mean really thinking about it, because oddly enough, I can barely touch an actual memory of it. Truly. I know I was there — there’s photographic evidence. One picture of me in a cap and gown standing next to my mom. But I have no memory of crossing the stage, hearing my name called, or really anything else that’s supposed to mark this rite of passage. I’m sure I did it. I must have. But it didn’t leave an imprint, or enough of an imprint to last thirty years, according to the over-and-over math. And I wonder now if my parents remember it more vividly than I do. I wonder if my mother felt all the things I’m feeling now, standing next to me in that picture, while I was already mentally halfway into whatever came next. Because I think that’s exactly where I was. My head was already gone from Wisconsin, thinking about the move, the job, the new city out east, the life waiting ahead of me. Too busy thinking about what was next to fully appreciate what was happening. Too unaware of how quickly these seasons pass. How fleeting these moments really are. And yet, watching my daughter graduate, I felt everything. Immense pride. Heart-swelling love. Admiration. Gratitude. Relief. Hopefulness. All of it. With an intensity that is anything but forgettable. And no, it isn’t about me. But it is, a little bit. Because yes, this is her moment. Her accomplishment. Her stage to cross. But this is also my experience as a parent. Maybe that’s what surprised me most this weekend. Not just how proud I was of her, but how deeply I felt the moment myself. More deeply than I think I felt my own graduation. Which makes me wonder if this is one of the strange gifts of getting older. Maybe we become more capable of understanding the importance of a moment once we’ve lived enough life to know how quickly it passes.

Cropped photo of my dad's business card. This is part 2 detailing my career. You can read about the first half of my career at Fortune 100 Career Journey Narrative Insights. While I was performing strategic planning sessions in Peru, Brazil and Argentina for Warner Lambert and eventually American Express, a young Arizona University college student named Marty Levine was majoring in business. Marty was from East Brunswick, New Jersey where he had a neighbor named Ron Garretson. Mr. Garretson had recently retired as the college bookstore manager for CCNY (City College of New York). He had come up with a business idea to give students a pocket planner that contained bookstore policies and a calendar. The cover had a picture of CCNY and there were pictures of bookstore employees. University of Colorado Bookstore entrance. Picture taken complements of my niece, Brinley, who is just finishing up her second year. The students were handed the planner twice a year when they purchased their books at the beginning of each semester. Garretson called the pocket planner Term Planner, and his new company was Term Planner Inc. He had 5,000 printed and was happy to learn that students thought them as helpful and used them to write important dates for exams and parties. Term Planner was free to students. Garretson passed the idea along to his colleagues at NYU, Fordham, St. Johns and Brooklyn College and soon he was reaching a circulation of 50,000 planners. He got the idea to go out and solicit advertisers who were willing to pay $1,000 to get their restaurants, hair salons and clothing stores to advertise in the planners. When Marty Levine came home for spring break he ran into Garretson who told him he had retired and had started the Term Planner business. Marty was intrigued and asked Garretson if he could work for him and get business at Arizona University in Tucson and some of the universities in Northern Arizona such as Arizona State in Tempe, Arizona. Garretson agreed and they worked out a commission structure. So, for four years Garretson and Marty built up a business that had a circulation of 500,000 students and a one-page advertisement of $12,000 per page or about $120,000 per issue — $240,000 per year. Garretson was 70 years old at this point and wanted to move to Florida. Marty said he would like to buy Term Planner Inc. from Garretson, and they worked out a price of $300,000 and a payout of $50,000 a year for 6 years. The planner was printed by a local East Brunswick printer named Jack McNeil. Marty and Jack became real good friends and Marty asked Jack if he would like to work for him. Jack agreed and the two of them built the business to $500,000 and it had an office on Summerhill Road in East Brunswick. If you missed Tony's other recent posts, you can find them here at Papa's Corner. Meanwhile, it was 1981 and Tony Fiore was searching for an elusive job. The country was in one of its worse recessions in history; companies were cutting employees; hiring freezes were prevalent and employees were hanging onto their jobs and not even considering moving on to a new company. The only difference between current times and 45 years ago is that AI has compounded the issue and the term "Job Huggers" has emerged. As I mentioned in Part I my search was concentrated on finding a smaller situation. Back then there were no emails, text messages or cell phones. Resumes and cover letters were sent by mail and rejection letters were received by mail. Usually on Sunday the newspapers posted job openings... mostly low level. I was surprised to see one that said Vice President Marketing, Term Planner, Inc. I sent my resume and cover letter to Martin D. Levine, President Term Planner Inc. I got a call from Marty who said he would like to interview me for the job. So I drove to East Brunswick and entered a building that had the names of two dental practices, a law firm and a realtor. There was also the name Term Planner Inc. on the directory. Product shelf at University of Colorado Bookstore. Back when Marty started distributing the Term Planner, these products were not available for sale in bookstores. I walked up the stairs and into a small office where I met Marty and Jack. They asked why someone who had big titles in big companies would be interested in such a small situation. I was honest and told them the market was very bad, and I was having a tough time even getting an interview. I told them I had a number of friends I had worked with or for that I had a shot at getting a job, but their companies had hiring freezes. I admitted it would be tough having a big office in New York with a view of the Statue of Liberty and New York Harbor and having a much smaller office with a view of a parking lot but I wanted a smaller situation. I asked Marty how big his company was and he said you are looking at it with Jack and I. "What are your plans to grow the business" I asked. Marty said the college market is much larger than people think — 3,000 colleges and universities with 7,000,000 students — all hard to reach through conventional advertising because they are in class, working part time jobs, playing sports and going to parties. They watch about 10% of the TV their counterparts who do not go to college watch. Jack and I are thinking of launching a college magazine to attract bigger advertisers such as P&G, IBM and Kraft. If you are interested in the job why don't you think about our college magazine idea and come back and we can talk more seriously about the job. I agreed and I went to the library and got a crash course on the college market. I got my information from magazines such as Advertising Age and Promo Magazine. I learned that the 7,000,000 full time students spend about $300 a month on non-book items, such as snacks, movies, apparel and sporting equipment. That translates to about 250 billion dollars in non-essential spending a year. Much larger than I thought. I decided to go to my biggest strength — strategic planning and I got down to the basics of for the MarketSource growth strategy. Existing products in an existing market New products in an existing market Existing products in a new market New products in a new market The highest probability of success is with an existing product in an existing market. What can be done to get more out of Term Planner. The answer was simple — increase circulation and increase the page rate. The idea of a college magazine is a much lower probability of success. First off there were 5 other college magazines targeting the college market. Second, the cost of a college magazine would be in the hundreds of thousands and unless there was a unique point of difference why would an advertiser be interested. I met Marty and Jack for a second time, and they were anxious to hear what I had to say about the college magazine. I told them I didn't think they would like what I had to say and it would probably cost me the job, but I had to say it and also show them my strategic plan for their business. The plan's main elements were as follows: Table the idea for the magazine Double the circulation of Term Planner Leverage the college bookstore by getting them to stock the advertised product thereby creating a unique point of difference Change the name of the company. Term Planner is too limiting Hire a college store specialist to recruit new stores to increase circulation Marty took the plan and said he would get back to me. He did and offered me the job but for half of what I had been making at American Express. He added one caveat and that was if I could get the company from $500,000 to $5,000,000 in revenue, he would give Jack and I equity in the company. That was enough for me to accept the job and the adventure began. The first step was to hire Chuck Kochan to recruit store managers to distribute Term Planners. Next, I went out with Jack and Marty on sales calls to solicit advertisers. I called on everyone I knew from the four large companies I had previously worked for and got amazing results. In six months, Chuck with Marty's help was able to double the Term Planner circulation and we were charging $30,000 a page. We were also successful in getting the stores to clear out some textbooks and make room for new distribution of General Foods International Coffee, Hershey Chocolate, Trident Gum and other products. My friends from my other companies came through since we had a good story to sell in that college students had money but were hard to reach and we could get their product in the college store — a new channel of distribution. Now we were ready for our next product launch. Step II: A new product in an existing market — but it wasn't a magazine — it was a box of samples called Campus Trial Pak. A box of samples is a win/win/win formula. We go to samplers such as Kellogg's, General Foods and Wrigley's Gum and sell them on putting a sample of their product and a coupon if they wish at a charge to us of 15 cents per sample and 3 cents per coupon. We hire an outside firm such as Burke Research to do a pre/post research study to determine upon receiving the sample how many students went to the store and purchased it. In mostly all our sampled products which became multi-multi millions over time it proved to be a payout for the manufacturer. This was an advertisement that was distributed within the R Treat box. It was stuck to the inside of the box when I had the box shipped to me. Product companies like Cheer would pay MarketSource to distribute the coupon to a targeted audience, in this case to parents at Toys R Us. So, chalk up a win for the Kellogg's of the world. It also proved to be a win for the retailer (in this case the college store) as it brought in incremental traffic to get a free sample box. It was a win for the student who got $10 worth of products and coupons free. And, we, as a byproduct of the program made roughly 50 cents a box and since we wound up distributing 2 million boxes, we had 2 million in revenue and 1 million in profit. In addition, we were able to get more and more college stores to carry the product adding a new distribution channel for the manufacturing samplers. Marty was really happy with the successes so far and he called Jack and I into his office and gave us both equity. He also gave us a nice raise. The incentive to grow the business was greater than ever. Enter Eric Weil. The cash flow enabled us to hire two new salespeople for Jack and two new college store account managers for Chuck. I hired a real gem in Eric Weil, a former product manager who worked 24/7. Eric was given the challenge of developing an idea Jack came up with. It became known as The Campus Source, and it was a 4 foot by 5-foot electronic unit that hung on the wall of the student union. It had three components — a backlit visual of upcoming events personalized for each school; an LED that could be programmed by a designated school administrator to update students on an important event or date and a 2ft by 3ft backlit advertisement of a Dell personal computer, for example. The units were free to the colleges, and we wound up installing 1,200. Advertisers paid $500 a month to put their ads on the board. We were always sold out, and it was bringing us $6 million a year in revenue. Eric was a dynamo — selling schools and advertisers. We also teamed up with Sports Illustrated and had campus events involving 3-point basketball shooting, golf putting, and baseball pitching. We teamed up with CBS and had a Young and Restless tour around campus. At this point we moved into a 50,000 square foot building at 10 Abeel Road, Cranbury, NJ. At this point in 1987 we were by far the leading college marketing company. A few years earlier we had changed our name to MarketSource Corporation. We defined ourselves as a college marketing company. We were doing over 30 million in revenue and had won a number of awards for innovation. Marty Levine was named Ernst and Young's Entrepreneur of the Year, and receive awards from the College Bookstore Association for helping make the stores into diversified retailers and helping their business grow exponentially. It was time to take Step III: Existing products into new markets. This is one of the Blockbuster Bonus boxes. This was a massive deal for consumers at the time. You can read more about the story from Dinosaur Dracula Our first was to take our sample box into Toys R Us and we distributed 5 million boxes twice a year in all 1,500 Toys R Us stores. It brought in traffic during off periods — March and August and we wound up doing this program for 15 years. (Learn more about the R Treat from Dinosaur Dracula). Next, we distributed 7 million boxes through Blockbuster video stores for 12 years. 3,000,000 boxes through Medicine Shoppe Pharmacies. Campus Source boards were placed in thousands of high schools and hundreds of military bases. Events were performed in large malls throughout the country. We were ready for Step IV – New Products in New Markets. Our first venture was The Golf Link – a wall board placed in private and public golf clubs throughout the country. It featured illustrated golf tips from our partner in the venture – Lee Trevino. And, it included advertising from car, liquor and technology companies. Lee Trevino was terrific. He gave a golf seminar a couple of times a year and won our clients over with his skill and humor. We had a big meeting planned in San Francisco at the site of the US Open where we were going to pitch a 3 year sponsorship to Toyota. Trevino was the national spokesperson for Toyota and had invited top executives to dinner at Ernie's Restaurant. I was excited to sell the program to Toyota but unfortunately Lee Trevino bailed out. For the first time in his pro career he failed to make the cut and he was so dejected he went home to San Diego and the dinner was cancelled. Toyota never signed on and Lee resigned from the program. It was our first failure. We wound up selling The Golf Link to a magazine called Golf Illustrated and basically broke even. However, the next venture with a new product into a new market proved to be a big winner. Apple was a big client of ours as an advertiser on The Campus Source. Since college stores were becoming an important retailer for them, they asked MarketSource to hire salespeople under the MarketSource name and work the college store. We would pay salary and benefits, and Apple would pay us a 20% markup, so it was a very nice venture to get into. Marty hired a former VP at IBM named Don Clifford and he wound up building an outsource sales force that serviced IBM, Hewlett Packard, AT&T and many other companies. In ten years, Clifford built the business into a $100 million dollars in revenue. So, by 2001, exactly 20 years after I joined the company it was a $200M revenue company and one of the largest in the country. We strongly considered going public but Marty took ill and we wound up selling the business to two buyers – Alloy Entertainment purchased the marketing services sector of MarketSource and Allegis Corporation purchased the outsource sales division of the company. Allegis is owned by Steve Bisciotti who owns the Baltimore Ravens NFL football team. Alloy was a public company known mostly for popular youth oriented television shows such as Gossip Girl, Pretty Little Liars and Vampire Diaries. I joined Alloy's Board of Directors in 2004 and served on it for 10 years. In 2014 Alloy was sold to Warner Brothers where it still exists. Over the past 20 years since Allegis took over MarketSource Outsource it has grown to become a worldwide success bringing in over 1.5 billion in annual revenue and is an integral part of Allegis 15-billion-dollar business. Marty Levine passed away in October of 2003. He will go down as one of the finest entrepreneurs ever. I was lucky to have found that ad in the Jersey newspaper and worked alongside him for over 20 years. Jack McNeil also passed away about 7 years ago. He was a great salesman and very creative. It has been fun reliving my past through my son Steve's web site. More stories to come.

My Uncle Ray, my dad's brother, was a really nice guy. When I was collecting pictures for this story, I reached out to my cousins, Liz and Maryann to find a few to add to this post. During that exchange, Maryann shared that she used to set up her Barbie house and cottage on my uncle's billiards (pool) table, where he would have been playing the game of 8 ball. Maryann mentioned the table's green felt was the grass for her house. As you will read below, as important as billiards was to my uncle, family was more important. If you missed Tony's other recent posts, you can find them here at Papa's Corner. ---------------------- Brother Ray My Uncle Ray, playing billiards at a local pool hall. There is an old saying that rings true now and forever. "You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your relatives". I was lucky to have a brother who had my back his entire life. Ray passed away a couple of years ago, but he remains alive in the hearts and minds of myself and his two daughters Liz and Maryann. Ray's last couple of years were tough and the devotion and dedication of Liz and Maryann gave him the strength to hold on as long as he could. The Rooted & Refined Living Expert Tip: "Playing games and sports is a great way to bring family and friends together." I would like to pay homage to my brother in this the fourth installment of my writings. I am 4 1/2 years older than Ray. This is not an approximation but as real as it gets. My birthday is April 1 and Ray's birthday was September 30... 6 months to the day. Ray (left) and my dad, Tony as kids. When Ray was 14, he took an interest in pool. He watched it on television and marveled at the skill of the players. At 16 years old he started going to the pool hall at the corner of Richmond Avenue and Richmond Terrace. My parents weren't thrilled with the idea since the characters that hung around there had questionable backgrounds. Mom and Dad came up with an idea. Why not give Ray a pool table as a Christmas present. A nice idea but it wasn't cheap since a regulation pool table cost about $800... a lot of money back then. It seemed important enough to make such a sacrifice, and they wound up buying an old fashion pool table with tunnels, not a net. The sound of pool balls rolling through the tunnels could be heard from the basement where it was placed throughout the house. Also, the idea of separating Ray from his questionable friends wasn't working since they found a new pool hall at 252 Van Pelt Avenue... the home of Lou and Flo Fiore. Game of 8 Ball Handwritten story from the first of 6 pages that my dad sent to me. Ray loved the pool table, and he would play from early morning to late night. He became good enough to enter tournaments and win his share. Ray became well known in Staten Island pool circles and he got to a point where he could run 10, 15, 20, 25 balls in a row. Few players wanted to play against Ray so he started to go to bars in Manhattan and Brooklyn and he became a skilled 8 ball player for $5 to $10 a game. The game of 8 ball involves hitting the white cue ball into a rack of 15 balls. Of the 15 balls set up in a rack eight are solids (1 to 7) and the others are stripes (9 to 15). Players must pocket all balls in their designated group (solids or stripes) before pocketing the 8 ball in a designated pocket to win. When Ray aimed the cue ball at the rack he almost always got either a stripe or solid ball in the pocket. Then he methodically ran the other balls and then made the 8 ball. Ray became so good at 8 ball that few wanted to challenge him. Until he met "Sailor Bill". Sailor Bill My Uncle Ray playing billiards. Sailor Bill was sitting at a Brooklyn bar one day watching Ray polish off one player after another. Bill was a retired Navy man who was about 70 when 18-year-old Ray Fiore met him. He approached Ray at the Brooklyn bar and said "I would like to challenge you." Ray said "I don't want to take your money old man." Sailor Bill said "I'll take that chance. How much do you want to play for?" Ray said "One game for $5 dollars." Sailor Bill said, "Come on if its only one game lets play for $20." Ray said "If you insist." Ray said... "You can break". The old sailor studied the board picked out a pool stick and then proceeded to clear the table in a couple of minutes. Ray didn't know what hit him. After two rematches Ray was out $60 without taking a shot. They sat at the bar and Bill bought Ray a drink. He said "Ray you have a lot of potential. I can teach you a lot if you are interested." Ray said sure and for the next couple of months Sailor Bill was a frequent visitor to the Fiore house. Where Ray was able to run 25 balls in a row, Sailor Bill could run 100. He was right out of the movie with Jackie Gleason playing Minnesota Fats. Ray just playing around. Sailor Bill told Ray he saw the pool table in geometric terms, triangles, rectangles and squares and he knew where the cue ball was going to land 5 shots from now. After Sailor Bills lessons, Ray became better than ever. Throughout his life he never stopped playing pool and won many more games than he lost. The Final Hustle At Ray's funeral I gave a eulogy which was about one of Ray's last pool games. Tony (left) and Ray as adults, January 2014 It was great that at the end of our work careers we wound up at the same company... MarketSource Corporation in Cranbury, New Jersey. We had a Christmas luncheon and after it was over Ray asked a few of us to join him at this new restaurant in Cranbury that had a pool table. So about 6 of us joined Ray at this place and we sat at a table having drinks and watching this hot shot named Mikey polish off one player after another in 8 ball. So Ray approaches Mikey and says wanna play. Mikey says, "I don't want to take your money old man". Ray says no problem... How much you want to play for?" "How about $20... You can break". I'm thinking bad move Mikey. Five games later, Mikey is out $100 and he has taken only a few shots. He can't believe what happened to him. Then I look over and in the corner of the bar Mikey and Ray are talking intently. Then I see Ray hand over the $100 he just won back to Mikey... who leaves the place. As Ray returns to our table, we ask him why he gave Mikey his money back. Ray says Mikey told him he has a couple of young kids and the money was for Christmas toys. Then a bar patron who heard Ray's story chimes in... "You got to be kidding... Is that what he told you". Ray said yes and he even gave him $20 of his own money. The bar patron says... well Mikey is not married and has no kids. In fact, he is a big playboy. Ray's smile turns into a laugh. "Well, I guess the hustler got hustled". That was Ray... as kind a person out there. A great brother, husband, father and grandfather. I am so lucky to have him as a brother.

This is the third installment of my dad's stories, which are quickly becoming fan favorites from my audience. I have pulled my dad out of retirement to find a new career as blogger! To catch you up, the first story, Family Storytelling Tradition With Papa Fiore, is worth reading to give some context to this 3rd story. The second story, Discovering Staten Island Roots Through Family Storytelling, gives a bit more color about growing up in Staten Island. --------------------- Family Storytelling As I mentioned in my first article a few weeks ago my grandkids got bored with me reading children's books to them and they asked me to make up stories hence the creation of Little Johnny stories. If you missed Tony's other recent posts, you can find them here at Papa's Corner. These stories weren't entirely made up. Little Johnny was a classmate of mine in Mrs. McCarthy's 5th grade class at Public School 44 (known as PS 44) located in Mariners Harbor, Staten Island. The cast of my stories centered on 4 characters: Little Johnny Mrs. McCarthy Bully George Little Papa Little Johnny: He was only in my 5th grade class for one year. He transferred to PS 44 from an elementary school in Manhattan and lived a few houses from me. His father was a cameraman who filmed commercials for a large New York agency called BBD+O. One of their larger clients was Campbell Soup and they became famous for their "Mmm Mmm Good" slogan that became an integral part of every TV, print and radio commercial for many years. My dad's rendering of Little Johnny So, one day Little Johnny's dad thought it would be fun to take Little Johnny to an actual commercial shoot for Campbell's Soup. The premise of the commercial was to show an average family at home waiting for dinner. There was Mom, Dad, big sister and little brother looking somber until Mom announces that they are going to have Campbell's chicken noodle soup for dinner then the frowns all turn to smiles that get bigger when the soup is actually served. A voiceover then says, "That's why Campbell Soup is Mmm Mmm Good." The young boy who has been cast to be in the commercial has taken ill and cannot make the shoot. The director in desperation asks Little Johnny's dad if he can take his place. His dad says Little Johnny has never acted before and the director says there is no dialogue, all he has to do is wear a frown until Mom announces dinner and then he smiles, tastes the soup and smiles wider joining a very happy family setting. Little Johnny's dad tells him what he has to do and he says "Dad, I don't like chicken noodle soup". Little Johnny's dad says you will be getting $50 an hour, most shoots take 5 hours that means you will be making $250. I guess you didn't realize how much you suddenly got to like chicken noodle soup. Little Johnny says, "Right on Dad". So Little Johnny became a quasi-celebrity at PS 44 as the Campbell's commercial he was in played countless times on television. He became a favorite of Mrs. McCarthy who never had a TV star in her class before. He also became a favorite of Bully George who kept asking Johnny to get him into commercials. The Rooted & Refined Living Expert Tip: "Even if it doesn't feel like it, there are always alternatives to difficult situations." As for me Little Papa I liked walking to school with him because he was fun and upbeat and he didn't let his instant fame go to his head. Mrs. McCarthy: My dad's rendering of Mrs. McCarthy Mrs. M was a typical old schoolteacher. She had a big sign on the wall that said: M Y O B Mrs. M also use to call her students out if they misbehaved. Her favorite line was: We have our General Eisenhower's and our General McArter's but you George are a general nuisance. Bully George had to repeat 5th grade because his grades were terrible. Mrs. McCarthy dreaded another year of him in her class, but her retirement was near and she figured she could tolerate him for a few more months. The rest of the class not so much. Bully George: My dad's rendering of Bully George His favorite saying was "If you don't do what I ask I'm going to deck you". He was about a year older than everyone else in the class, about a foot taller and about 40 pounds heavier. His frustration about getting left back made him take it out on the rest of the class especially the boys. He methodically singled out one boy a day to meet him after school and then before a decent crowd of onlookers would wrestle the boy down and make him say I give up. He never involved any girls. The only boys who were immune from this ordeal were Little Johnny because of his celebrity and George wanting to be on TV and Little Papa because I gave him my homework to copy, a small price to pay from having George sit on you. Little Papa: My dad's rendering of himself as a kid in his own stories In order not to confuse the grandkids, I kept the name Papa in all my stories. They only knew me by that name and to introduce Anthony or Tony (my real and nickname) would have created more confusion. So, in all the stories, I was Little Johnny's sidekick and I was "Little Papa". As I mentioned in my other stories, I lived in Mariners Harbor and went to PS 44 for 8 years. Ironically, many years after when I was in the business world, Campbell Soup became one of my company's biggest clients. More about that in future writings. Now that readers would be familiar with the cast after presenting their biographies, here is one of the grandkid's favorite Little Johnny stories. Bully George was getting bored with wrestling the boys in the class to the ground. Nobody even showed up to watch the show anymore. One day Bully George was walking to school with Little Johnny and I and he said I have an idea that could be profitable for me. "What's the idea" asked Little Johnny. Bully George proudly says I'm starting a company called Bully George Protection Company. As you know every day in the afternoon Mrs. McCarthy makes us take a 15-minute break to have a cookie and a container of milk. The cookie is free, but the milk money is 5 cents for a carton. We have 13 boys in the class. I will not include you Johnny or you Papa and of course myself, so that leaves 10 boys who will pay me 50¢ a day or $2.50 a week for protection. "That means they can't have milk with their cookies Bully George," said Little Johnny. I know Little Johnny, but it means they won't have to worry about being on the ground seeing my smiling face. So let me get this straight Bully George you are asking for money from the boys to protect them from you. If Mrs. McCarthy found out, she will march you to the principal's office and you might be spending another year in 5th grade. I know there is some risk but no risk no reward said George. So, George pursues this enterprising venture and is pleased to have all 10 boys participate. He doesn't feel sorry when their mouths are watering for milk to go along with their cookies. Mrs. McCarthy is clueless as to what is happening and thinks the boys might think the milk is sour. After a month, Bully George celebrates his 10 dollars by buying a fancy yo-yo and a Spalding ball. Little Johnny is not so amused by Bully George's business acumen, so he approaches the bully and details a plan for George to consider. He says George "Congrats on your business but if you want it to grow you are going to have to invest in it." "What do you mean Little Johnny" says George. Little Johnny says well you are going to need a salesman to get you new clients. I can do that job, but you will have to pay me 20¢ a day. Then you will need an accountant (Little Papa) to take care of your books and pay your taxes. And, you will need a marketing manager to develop an advertising campaign Bully George Protection Company. That will cost you another 20¢ each for Papa and the marketing manager (Little Sally). George says, "Great idea Little Johnny but I will be losing 10¢ a day". That's what happens to start-up companies George, but the investment will pay out over time. So, George follows Little Johnny's plan and in 5 months he is forced to declare bankruptcy. Little Johnny has outsmarted Bully George once again. Little Johnny and Little Papa returned all the money plus interest to the 10 classmate boys who had to contribute to George. Everyone in the class enjoyed their milk and cookie again- except Bully George who spent milk and cookie time in the principal's office.

This is the second story from my dad, Tony Fiore. If you missed the first one, Family Storytelling Tradition With Papa Fiore, it became a fan favorite. Below, my dad shares a bit about growing up in Staten Island along with his days in college. Staten Island Roots I would like to give a bit of a prelude, to my second story by telling about my family life growing up (Staten Island Roots). I was born and raised in Staten Island, New York. The smallest of the five boroughs of New York City, Staten Island is most known for its scenic ferry ride with views of the Statue of Liberty and the Manhattan skyline. Fiore Bros (you can see the name on the two pillars) circa 1950 maybe. If you have a relative from Staten Island that is older than 60, they will know of Fiore Brothers and the orange trucks. I was raised in a modest home in Mariners Harbor... known for its shipyards. My house on Van Pelt Avenue had more visitors than the local diner because my mom, Flo, always had something cooking that was homemade. If you missed Tony's other recent posts, you can find them here at Papa's Corner. My younger brother Ray was a great billiards player, and he and his friends headed to our basement where an old-fashioned pool table was located. The Rooted & Refined Living Expert Tip: "Sitting around the kitchen table, smelling the scents of home cooking and great conversations, can elevate the sensory experience." My dad, Louis, was known as Louie the Bookkeeper. He was one of five Louis Fiore’s, all with different nicknames to distinguish them from one another... Louie the Oilman, Louie the Salesman, Louie the Dispatcher and Louie the Bossman. All worked for Fiore Brothers Fuel Oil Company, a firm established in the 1920’s by my grandfather Anthony and his two brothers... Ferdinand and Michael. They also had a sister Rose who was not involved in the business. Rose's husband Frank drove an oil truck for Fiore Bros for 30 years. This was not an easy job as many of the roads in Staten Island are narrow, winding, and have lots of hills. Page 4 of 6 from my dad's handwritten story Fiore Brothers survived the Great Depression of the early 1930’s by becoming a barter company and eventually rose to be the largest fuel oil company on Staten Island with 12 large oil trucks, a few coal trucks and 40 employees, mostly family. Anyone who married into the Fiore family was guaranteed a job which was a testament to the family values of the company. My dad preferred to be called Louie the Accountant, but Bookkeeper stuck for his entire life. When Fiore Brothers customers received their oil deliveries, they usually preferred to pay the Fiore Brothers delivery man after the oil was pumped into their tank. Some preferred to pay at the company office in Elm Park. One of those people was a Mr. P. His son was a Big Man on Campus at the local Staten Island college called Wagner College. His son, Al, was captain of the football team and President of one of the larger fraternities—Alpha Sigma Phi. So one in the early summer of 1959 Mr. P came into Fiore Brothers to pay his bill and he and my dad started chatting. My dad told him that his son Tony had just graduated Port Richmond High School and was enrolled to go to Wagner College. "Great" said Mr. P, "I'll tell my son Al about him, and he will get him into his fraternity." Sounded good but unfortunately it doesn't work that way. Fraternities and sororities have membership drives the beginning of each semester and then the members vote on who should get a bid to join. The President cannot dictate who becomes a member, so I am sure that when Al was told about me, he let his father know the procedure. However, Al's father never said another word about it, and I walked onto campus thinking I was a lock for Alpha Sigma Phi brotherhood. Alpha was one of 7 campus fraternities and what distinguished it from the rest was that 90% of its members were on the Wagner football team—I was a baseball player. The Wagner College Experience The other fraternities, Phi Sigma Kappa was for the brainy guys; Delta Nu was our Animal House, etc. So Al, with the pressure of his dad, tried to sell me to the Alpha brotherhood. It wasn't easy but he didn't want his dad to have to face my dad and say "I'm sorry your son doesn't have what it takes to be Alpha Sig." Al took on the challenge and somehow persuaded the Alpha brotherhood of 70 members to vote me in. I proudly accepted my membership and made some lifelong friends because of it. More about my friends in future writings. This was the winning fraternity, Phi Sigma Kappa, which is not the one my dad joined. Even Delta Nu, which was considered the Animal House of the college fraternities, came in second place with barely any practice. The biggest day of the year for fraternities and sororities is Songfest... a big singing event that is held every May and it packs the Field House and is a worthy fundraiser for various Staten Island charities. Winning is a big, prestigious deal and I couldn't believe how many practices would be held before the big, nighttime event with an orchestra and spotlights. Each participating fraternity was assigned a professor from the music department to coach and mentor us. The song we chose was "Carolina in the Morning" originally sung by Al Jolson. It was a catchy upbeat song, and our fraternity was confident we could win with it. So we are having our first practice and the music professor assigned to us, a stern bespeckled man in his late 50's Mr. Denby, summons me to talk privately with him. He says, "Mr. Fiore I know this means a lot to you to sing at Songfest, but your singing is throwing others off. I am requesting you get up on stage with the rest of the group but please only mouth the words." I protest to no avail, and I sheepishly get back to practice, and lip sync this fun song. Mr. Denby, after a few weeks of practices feels we are ready to go and that we have a chance of winning. The night of Songfest arrives. I didn't have the heart to tell my parents who were attending that I was banished from letting a sound come from my mouth, so I put on my tuxedo and stuck my carnation in my lapel and went off to the big event. The crowd is at capacity, and the orchestra starts playing the prelude and all of a sudden, they start singing: "Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning. No one could be sweeter than my sweetie when I meet her in the morning." I can't take it. All of a sudden, I start singing the words and I see looks of dismay from my brothers next to me on stage. I can't believe I defiantly disobeyed our conductor's request. Neither can my fraternity brothers who look like they lost a football game on a last second pass. We wind up finishing 3rd and I became the scapegoat. For years after that at every fraternity reunion someone greets me and brings it up. "I can't believe you would do that Fiore. It is so unlike you. We hardly knew you existed until that night." Oh well, I'm not going to let a bunch of sore losers ruin what could have been a great singing career. Till the next episode, Childhood Lessons and Family Storytelling: A Papa Fiore Memory, which is now posted.

If you are following along with my family stories, I recently shared about how I helped Matthew and Michael start small businesses while they were in high school in a 2-part series (Part 1 and Part 2). Papa with Emma, Michael, and Matthew on a hike, October 2009. I share all this as a backdrop to my next topic, family storytelling, which is my dad, or as the kids call him, Papa. I have shared a few mentions of him in my stories, most recently, about our trip to California last week and the connection to us buying the most comfortable bed. If you missed Tony's other recent posts, you can find them here at Papa's Corner. During this visit, I was sharing with my dad some additional details about this website and his interest to learn more. On the plane ride home, I came up with the idea that he could be a guest writer on the site. My dad is a great storyteller, though it is sometimes hard to determine where the real story ends and the exaggeration begins. I also think that each time my dad tells a story, they have gotten a bit more exaggerated, always keeping us wondering how real or how imaginary his stories are. As I was pondering what angle I could have him share his stories, nestled in the Rooted & Refined Living lifestyle section, I initially thought his 60 and 70-year-old friendships that started in high school and college respectively could be a great starting point. The Rooted & Refined Living Expert Tip: "Don't worry about accuracy. Preserving family history through storytelling can be a great way to pass on memories and feelings of nostalgia to future generations." We bounced around a few ideas and within a few days, my dad shared his first story, and true to form, he wrote about an imaginary person that was born from real life events of his childhood. My kids heard these stories all the time and now they will be chronicled as a part of this website as my dad shares his stories growing up in Staten Island through his friendships today that have lasted 60 and 70 years. With no additional introduction, here is my dad's first story. There will be more to come. One last thing. My dad writes all of his stories on yellow legal pads and then takes pictures. I then use AI to convert it to text which is a huge time saver for both of us. Papa's handwritten notes. He also writes in all caps as you can see. I used Google Gemini to translate this photo to the text below. Papa's Introductory Story Hi, my name is Tony Fiore. I am Steve's Dad and I live in Orange County, California. Steve lives in a small town west of Boston. He recently came to visit me and enjoy some sunshine after enduring some very cold periods in the Northeast. His web site, Rooted & Refined Living, is doing very well and he asked if I would like to contribute some articles based on my life experiences. I agreed and this will be my first contribution. Steve and his wife Marybeth have 3 children... Matthew 23, a recent Bryant grad and currently employed in Human Resources. Michael, 21, a senior at Keene State College and Emma, 19, a sophomore at University of Connecticut. About 15 years ago, I was visiting Steve on a cold January day and the kids who were 6, 4 and 2 wanted me to tell them a story. So I made up a story about a young boy named Little Johnny. I introduce other characters who interacted with Little Johnny such as George, the school bully, and Mrs. McCarthy, his teacher. The stories became so popular with the kids that when I finished one they wanted another. I got a kick out of how much laughter they got out of these made up characters and stories. Little Johnny was always in trouble but somehow figured a way to come out on top at the end of the story. Then, on a cold wintery day as I was nearing the end of my visit, Marybeth said Matthew would like you to walk him to the school bus stop. I said sure and bundled myself up for the walk to the bus stop with little Matthew who was in first grade back then. When we got to the bus stop there were about 10 moms and dads and their sons and daughters waiting for the bus to arrive. I exchanged a few hellos and stood in line for the bus. At that moment Matthew in a clear, loud voice says "Papa (that was my grandfather name), my mom says 'All your friends are imaginary'." Everything went silent and I could see moms and dads yanking their kids hands and pulling them away from me. I'm thinking, OMG what must they be thinking? Should I try to explain that I have real friends? How the heck does a 6 year old know the word imaginary? When the heck is this bus coming? So I did nothing – just stood there looking guilty waiting what seemed like an eternity for the bus. Here is a visit to Lake Mead on our trip to Las Vegas. We flew out and my dad drove to meet us. Then, the bus came and as Matthew was boarding he said "Papa are you going to pick me up when I get out of school?". Before I could answer some woman with a scowl on her face says "I hope not". I'm sure those parents had a good chuckle at my expense. Anyway, that's my first contribution. I have a few others and maybe some of my imaginary friends will pop up. If you enjoyed Papa's first trip down memory lane, you can read his next story here: Discovering Staten Island Roots Through Family Storytelling Do you have a funny story that your parents or grandparents tell over Sunday dinners? If so, please share in the comments section below.

"Nothing About This Nest Is Empty" “Empty nester” is a phrase we use without thinking. Which is probably why no one stops to question what it actually implies. It’s a strange phrase when you really stop and look at it. Loaded with assumptions we rarely examine. The word “empty” doing most of the work—suggesting absence, loss, something finished. And more often than not, it lands squarely on her. Why her? Because the “nest,” whether we say it out loud or not, has always been hers. The one who kept it running, filled it, managed it, held it together. So when it’s “empty”…what exactly is that supposed to mean? That something is over? That something is missing? That she is? *** If you missed Amy's other recent posts, you can find them here at Kitchen Table Conversations. I’m speaking from experience. I’m the “her.” My nest has been empty for a few years now. I raised daughters, and like many families, we went through those in-between years—college, summers home, back and forth. A kind of emotional whiplash where they’re gone, then back, then gone again. And then one day, that chapter closes too. It’s bittersweet in a way that’s hard to fully explain—watching, knowing, feeling what it means to have launched two young women into their lives. Out of the proverbial nest. And like any transition, there’s a honeymoon phase. Instead of your days spent freezing on a soccer field, or your butt numb from sitting on bleachers, or mornings full of chaos, or those unexpected calls in the middle of the day—the broken bones, the colds, the heartbreaks, all of it… You now have, well…time. To do whatever. You. Please. Imagine that. It’s real. It’s energizing. And then, like anything, it settles. The novelty fades. Real life returns. And what you’re left with isn’t empty. It’s spacious. In a way that can feel wide. Open. And, at times, unfamiliar. And you might not know what to do with it. So I’m sharing this from that place—not as good or bad, just honest—some of what that spaciousness can hold. ________________________________________ There’s spaciousness in the relationships. What’s left is…well, you. And whoever you still live with. Probably the person you built this life with. And they’re navigating this “empty nest” too—in their own way. Their own shift in routine. Their own sense of freedom, or loss, or something in between. Things have changed. Even if you did all the “right” things along the way. Even if you had date nights. Even if you stayed connected. You can’t really prepare for this. Because for years—decades, really—your relationship existed inside something larger. A shared focus. A constant motion. A life being actively built and managed together. And now, that layer is gone. That phase of life is behind you, and the way you operate together changes. And what’s there now has more room. More visibility. Which can feel good. And unfamiliar. And, at times, a little exposing. Not because something is wrong. But because you’re both seeing things more clearly—without the buffer of everything that used to move between you. Don’t be surprised by that. But it doesn’t mean something is broken. It means something has shifted. And like anything that shifts, it asks something new of you. ________________________________________ There’s spaciousness in the house itself. Rooms that are still full—but no longer in use the same way. Closets, drawers, corners that hold more than just things. The high school sports gear. The art projects. The crafts. The stack of poster board you always kept on hand because someone, inevitably, needed something the night before. The swim goggles and cap from junior year. The ballet shoes still tucked into the pink bag you thought she might go back to. The jibbitz from the purple crocs she wore to Disneyland. All the Webkinz—some still with the tags on. And, of course, everything an American Girl could need, want, or imagine. You know they won’t need any of it anymore. But that doesn’t mean you can just throw it out. Because it’s not just stuff. It’s time. It’s memory. It’s entire seasons of your life—and theirs—sitting quietly on a shelf. Tangible, but holding something you can’t touch anymore. Versions of them—and of you—still there, but not accessible. Almost like little ghosts of a life that isn’t lived that way anymore. Not waiting, exactly. But not fully gone either. And you will be tempted to do one of two things. Or both. Clear it all out, or keep it all there. There’s no wrong answer. For me, there was something freeing about clearing space. And something unexpectedly hard about being the one who had to decide do it. ________________________________________ And then there’s the spaciousness that belongs to you. This one is big. If you’re like me, it might feel disorienting at first. Not bad. Not good. Just…different and unfamiliar. You’re still a mother. That doesn’t change. But you’re no longer needed in the same constant, immediate way. And that creates spaciousness—real spaciousness—for something else. And that “something” isn’t always clear. The questions start small. What do I want (like, for dinner)? And then, without warning, they get bigger. What do I actually want (like, for the rest of my life)? And you may not have an answer to either. That doesn’t mean something is wrong. It means something is opening. This is where you start to trust yourself. And actually listen. Because you’re not just adjusting to a quieter house, or a different rhythm, or even a different relationship. You’re face to face with a version of yourself that hasn’t had much room—until now. And just like any good relationship, there’s no shortcut for that. ________________________________________ So no, it’s not empty. And we should probably stop calling it that. Because this phase isn’t about what’s gone. It’s about what’s here now. Spacious. Open. Alive in a different way. And maybe that’s the point. Not to rush to fill it. Not to define it too quickly. But to let it be what it is— And see what has room to emerge.

"Paying Attention to Birds" Have birds changed or are we just noticing them? Because I’ve been fascinated with birds lately. Not in a “this is my new hobby” way. Just in the morning, with coffee, looking out the window, and somehow getting pulled into whatever is happening out there. There’s a feeder. It’s squirrel-proof, but there’s always a squirrel getting into it anyway. And then there are the robins, already out there doing whatever it is they do this time of year—which, apparently, is figuring out where to nest. Around here, that starts now, and by June there are hungry babies. None of that is new. So why does it feel like it is? ________________________________________ If you missed Amy's other recent posts, you can find them here at Kitchen Table Conversations. Maybe it’s just spring. This is when birds are the most active. That part is real. But the more you pay attention, the less random it sounds. What I used to think of as just background noise is actually more specific than that. Some of it is territorial—marking space. Some of it is about mating. And they don’t just have one sound—they change it depending on what they’re doing. When you sit and really listen, eyes closed, it’s obviously intelligent. Even the timing of it—early morning isn’t random. The air is quieter, the sound carries further. So what feels calm on our end is actually a lot happening on theirs. And then you realize you can actually figure some of it out. There are apps now that will listen and tell you what bird you’re hearing. You hold up your phone and suddenly it’s not just “a bird,” it’s a specific one, with its own patterns and habits. Which is a strange thing to find yourself doing. And once you know even a little of it, it’s hard to go back to not hearing it. ________________________________________ Or it’s something else entirely. There’s also the part people don’t always say out loud. That birds can start to feel… meaningful. Certain ones show up and it doesn’t quite feel random. A hawk circling overhead. A cardinal landing nearby. And then your brain goes a step further than it used to. You start to wonder if the hawk means something. If it’s someone. You think about your dog—gone a few years now—and then, there’s that cardinal again. Is that a coincidence? Only if you believe that it is. And maybe you do. Or maybe you don’t. And that’s new too. At the same time, there’s actual science behind the idea that they’re responding to things we don’t see. Magnetic fields. Air currents. Subtle shifts in the environment. They’re navigating with information we don’t consciously have. So they are, in a real sense, tuned into something else. Not in a way we need to define. Just… something we’re not part of in the same way. ________________________________________ Or maybe we’re just noticing. Maybe nothing changed. Maybe we’re just noticing. And there’s a part of that that’s easy to resist. Because paying attention to birds feels like something that belongs to a different category of person. People with time. People who aren’t in the middle of everything anymore. Not us. And yet. They are kind of incredible. And we’re standing there, watching them, having thoughts about them we probably wouldn’t have had before. So maybe the category was off. Maybe it was never about “old people liking birds.” Maybe it was about something else that comes with time. ________________________________________ Because this has all been happening the entire time. The same patterns. The same movement. The same songs, every spring. Generations of it, right outside, whether we were paying attention or not. The whole time. And our attention was somewhere else. On what was next. On what needed to get done. On everything that felt more immediate, more important. And now, for whatever reason, it isn’t. Or at least, not all of it is. Now there’s space to see this too. Not as a replacement for everything else. Just alongside it. The fact that there’s this constant layer of life happening—organized, active, repeating itself—right outside. And always has been. ________________________________________ So no, I don’t think birds have changed. But I do think it’s worth paying attention to the moment when you realize you have.