Chapter 18 - Fate Realized, 38 Years in the Making
In Just Another Sunday, the first of two books in the series I call my Fate books, the multi-plot story-line deals with the interplay between Fate and free-will choices, and certain passages within this book have been talked about as being ho-hum unnecessary banter, serving no purposeful role in the story. One such passage is an entire chapter, Chapter 18.
I, as the author, disagree, and I stand by the inclusion of the seemingly irrelevant dialogue in Chapter 18. I'll explain, but first I'll tell you what the chapter is about.
In the 60s and 70s, most families ate meals together as a family, especially Italian-American households during that time period. Gathering around the table as a family unit, as one entity, was considered the glue which held family members together, solidifying the very meaning of the word "family." Family time was sacred back then--no smartphones plastered to our hands and no television viewing allowed.
In both my books, Just Another Sunday and Trampled Underfoot, the Benedict family is a mirror image of my real life family, and both novels are a-looking-back reflection at Fate and how it played a major part in our lives, and continues to personally reek havoc in mine. How? you may wonder, but that would mean books 3 and 4 and I'm not certain I'd consider writing about it, not yet anyway. But these two already published novels could've been called fictional memoirs but are not written in the 1st person POV and contain too much fiction to be billed as such.
Chapter 18 was born late-in-the-making of Just Another Sunday and my reason for inserting it where I did was the profound impact--38 years later--that a certain reel-to-reel tape recording had on my emotions and psyche during the writing of Just Another Sunday. I had accidentally stumbled upon this taped recording while visiting my elderly mother one afternoon in 2008. I was searching for something (I don't recall what) on her shelving units when I picked up old, decrepit cassette tapes with my brother's hand-written titles on them. By this time we were all into CDs, no one listened to cassette tapes any longer, and the one particular cassette tape that caught my immediate attention was falling apart, literally.
The title of this particular cassette read something like, "Dad and our family, November 21, 1970. The day before he died."
Put yourself in my shoes. I was in the middle of writing Just Another Sunday--an exploration of fateful moves my family had made--and was analyzing the how, where and why I am the person I am today, when this cassette tape shows up out of nowhere and smacks me in the face. I took it with me upon leaving my mother's apartment and promptly inserted it in my car's cassette player, hoping the old tape wouldn't snap inside of it. It didn't. Thankfully.
Immediately, I listened to a voice from the dead speaking through a microphone, "Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3 . . . What's today's date? What day is it? . . "
It was my father's voice, a voice I hadn't heard in over 38 years, and other happy voices of my family, gathered around the table, enjoying the fruits of my father's labor---his reel-to-reel tape recorder, an obsession of his and permanently housed in the dining room for the impromptu recording of family history. I continued listening to this tape while in total shock, awe and profound sadness. Yet it was exciting and comforting to once again hear his voice. I realized what a true family treasure my father had unknowingly and unwittingly handed down to us just mere hours before his death.
I listened as he went on to say, "Today is November 21st, in the year 1970 . . . and who am I? I'm Daddy, right? And how old is Daddy? . . Daddy is 47 years old, right? . ."
Through the years, I had no absolutely no recollection of this recorded family event, the last record of my father's voice, the last happy family gathering on the very evening before my father suddenly passed away. The following day, the day he died, effectively obliterated, from memory, any of the back and forth gaity of that November 21st evening in 1970. Never entered our minds again, like it never even happened. Too struck down by grief, our near constant companion for many years to come.
My brother never mentioned that he transferred those reel-to-reel recordings into cassette tapes. My mother knew, of course, since they were in her possession. Too painful to share, perhaps, and, probably, if he handed copies to each one of us, we would not have been able to bring ourselves to listen to them. We would've tucked them safely away somewhere.
But, remember, I was in the middle of writing a story about how much of an impact a seemingly innocent move to New Jersey in 1968 had upon our family! Coincidence? I think not.
I firmly believe that Fate caused me to find that recording at that particular time on that particular day. I'd been to my mother's apartment day in and day out for years on end, but I never came across those cassette tapes on her living room shelf until the day I had found them.
Yes, finding the tapes was meant to be, and so, in conclusion, that fateful family gathering was meant to be, as was the recording of it all, and it was meant to be included in my book as a separate, full chapter deservingly all by itself, Chapter 18 in Just Another Sunday--a loving tribute to my beloved father, Frank.
