One Moonlit Night - 1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

I remember the drab olive garbed Marine Lieutenant. I remember my mother hugging me tightly as the tears flowed from her eyes. I remember how her body trembled and her sobbing increased as he reported my father had been killed by sniper fire while on a patrol mission. My mother’s anguish was further exacerbated knowing he was to be home from Vietnam in two months. My father’s death when I was three years old had no impact on me; my mother’s tears did. I tried to kiss her pain away as I gently rubbed her cheeks with my tiny hands. My child’s mind couldn’t comprehend that this was an owie that was not to pass or heal with a kiss.

Eleven months after my mother had been given the tragic news of my father’s death, we moved from Albany, New York to a small town, Cleona, in southeastern Pennsylvania. The death of my father had devastated my mother. They had been high school sweethearts and had married shortly after their graduation. Therefore, when she learned she had inherited the house of my Great Aunt Millie she took advantage of the opportunity to move from the place that held so many memories; so many reminders.

The 80-year-old two-story brick house that we moved to was located on a street lined with large old oak, chestnut and maple trees. Their branches, when in full foliage, spanned out over the street intertwining with the tree branches from the other side, giving the appearance of an alameda. The old house was larger than we really needed. There were three bedrooms and a full bath on the second floor. The first floor had a formal dining room, living room, den, family room, not to mention a kitchen with a breakfast nook. My Great Aunt Millie, as she became older, had found it difficult to navigate the stairs so a large master bedroom with a full bath was built off the family room. This became my mother’s room. For as large as it was, it had a very cozy feel to it, and was a wonderful house.

My mother was a registered nurse and secured a position at Hershey Medical Center. As she was new to the hospital staff, she was assigned to the later shifts. Now that it was just the two of us, I now required a babysitter. The childcare worker my mother had first hired was moving out of state and so my mother was in need of a new sitter. Before our move to Cleona, my sweet wonderful Italian Grandmother took care of me while my mother worked. I missed the comforting arms of my Nanna.

Three houses down the street from our house lived the Tuckers. My mother met Mrs. Tucker at the hospital where she volunteered for a few hours two days a week. Mom and Mrs. Tucker had become quite friendly and when my mother lamented her dilemma to Liz Tucker, she offered her services. After all, she said, “What burden can one more four year old child be?” I won’t say she rued the day she said that, but I’m certain she questioned her sanity of the remark on occasion. After a few polite refusals on my mother’s part, the deal was struck. The Tuckers, who from that point on became Aunt Liz and Uncle Phil, were now the proud—though unwitting—caretakers of one irascible Sebastian Sean Cocchetti.

 ***[ ]*** 

Scotty Tucker and I met when we were four and a half years old. I came into Scotty’s life like a miniature barreling locomotive. I had always been a demonstratively affectionate child, and when I first spied Scotty, I ran over to him and gave him my best hug and kissed him—Scotty probably has the date, time, and location filed somewhere in the recesses of his brain! I was big for my age, stood at least a head taller than the diminutive Scotty, and outweighed him by a good ten pounds. Startled and somewhat taken aback by my bold affectionate demonstration, he scurried behind his mother’s skirt, hanging on for dear life. He didn’t cry; he just cautiously peeked from behind her and had that look of a child who just saw a German Shepherd that he’d like to pet but wasn’t quite sure if he dared.

After a little cajoling on Aunt Liz’s part, Scotty finally released his hold on her skirt and cautiously approached, eying me up and down somewhat suspiciously. I stood there like a doofus, not quite sure what to make of this little nervous towhead. His mother suggested, “Scotty, why don’t you take Sebastian and show him your toys?”

Nervously, Scotty put his delicate little hand in mine and pulled me toward the family room that held his treasure trove of toys, saying, “Come on Bashun, dey’re over here.”

I tried for the longest time to get him to pronounce my name correctly but he just couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. Hence, I became Bash.

Once we arrived at his toy chest, I marveled at all the toys and dove into them as a badger digging for quarry, pulling one out and dumping it on the floor. Scotty even at that age was a neatnik and was aghast at my behavior. As I was pulling each and everyone out and briefly inspecting it, then tossing it on the floor, Scotty was picking them up and depositing them back in the chest. This became futile and exasperating for him and eventually he gave up and just sat down amidst the clutter of his possessions. Scotty animatingly elaborated about each toy I picked up and inspected. Let’s face it, four and half year olds really don’t care where, when, why or for what an occasion a toy was received. This four and a half year old’s attention span lasted for about as long as it took Scotty to share with me all about the toy. I was then on to the next one. As I got more involved with these new playthings, Scotty must have gotten frustrated or bored and departed. The next thing I recalled was the familiar melody of I’m a Little Teapot reaching my ears. Fascinated and curious as to where the sound was emanating, I abandoned the now toy-scattered room to seek out the origin of the familiar tune. As I wandered into the Tucker’s living room, I saw the diminutive Scotty plinking out the tune my mother sang to me. He looked so serious as he bit his tongue and scrunched up his face—he still does that when he gets into his music—while effortlessly playing the piano that dwarfed him.

I was delighted and very fascinated as I climbed up beside him on the piano bench. When he was done, I excitedly applauded begging him to play it again and again. Scotty was a natural performer—a real ham—and acceded to my requests sating my wishes by playing his entire, albeit, limited repertoire. I don’t know how long I sat beside him on the piano bench mesmerized by his playing. It was to become a frequent habit of mine however—to sit beside him in awe of his talent.

The Tucker family was much akin to the TV show Leave It to Beaver. There was a little more reality to it than that, but I never saw a family so—so almost perfect. Love, encouragement, and caring abounded in that household. Aunt Liz was the dutiful housewife—and happy being so. She gave wise counsel and always seemed to have the right thing to say; and knew the right thing to do in any given situation. She was petite with blondish red hair and had an air of self-confidence. Mr. Tucker, Uncle Phil, was a police officer. He was huge—well, to a four and a half year old—6’ 3” and weighing about 230 lbs. of solid muscle was huge. He was an easygoing giant of a man. He adored his wife and kids. He was large, yet so gentle. I swear his one hand could practically span Scotty’s upper body. When he would scoop Scotty up and tickle and tease or playfully wrestle with him, he did it so gently, as though he was handling a delicate piece of Dresden china. He became my idol, a father-figure, and eventually a great friend.

Scotty had an older brother of 16, Phillip—Junior and an older sister of 15, Elizabeth—Beth. Scotty obviously came later. He was, as Aunt Liz and Uncle Phil would say an unexpected gift. Scotty would later refer to himself as the Grand Finale. Scotty was a most loved child. Sister and brother alike doted on him. However not to the extent of creating a spoiled brat, though admittedly, he probably got away with much more than they did at his age in the growing process.

Phillip, Jr. was the spitting image of his father, in not only size, but also demeanor. At 16, he stood 6 foot tall and weighed about 185 lbs. He was a star athlete at school and held the city and state title for wrestling in his weight class. He and I became fast friends. He became my mentor in many aspects. I really looked up to him, and as with his father, I idolized him. He was my staunchest ally when I would pull one of my boyish stunts. Like the time I was mountain climbing—well, pretend mountain climbing—Scotty, my partner in crime, tended the campsite. He knew I shouldn’t be using the ceiling-high bookshelves as my mountain but he was as enthralled with my bravado as much as I was with his piano playing and wasn’t about to rat on me. Who was to know my mountain would have an avalanche? The bookshelf came tumbling down with a resounding crash, scattering knick-knacks and books all over the living room floor. I instinctively managed to jump out of the way of the falling shelf. Aunt Liz came rushing into the family room to see what caused the din. She was not impressed with my Sir Edmond Hillary exploit. No one was hurt, and miraculously, no knick-knacks were broken, which Junior dutifully pointed out. So, my punishment was merely to help pick everything up and put it back in place and having to bear the lecture of how some one could have gotten hurt; furniture wasn’t meant to be climbed on, etc, etc. and extracting a promise I’d never do that again.

Beth being the only girl other than Aunt Liz, of course, was in her element having to care for the boys. She commanded respect and she got it. Though Junior was the eldest, he was reluctant to cross swords with Beth, especially when it came to the care and treatment of Scotty. Aunt Liz said when Scotty was born it was as though Beth felt she was the mom, sans the pain of childbirth, she added with an affectionate smile. She insisted on learning how to change diapers and feed her newest sibling. Beth was eleven years old when Scotty came into the world, and he became much like her personal human doll. She was fond of her little Scotty and never missed a chance to show him off and brag about what a cute sweet baby he was.

Scotty and I became best, inseparable friends. Mom and Aunt Liz swore we were joined invisibly at the hip. When we entered kindergarten, we were usually always together. I was more outgoing than Scotty and had to sometimes cajole him into playing with the others. For some reason—possibly because we were best friends and I was bigger—I relegated myself to be Scotty’s protector. On one occasion, Scotty found this rainbow colored xylophone among the other toys. In no time, because of his musical abilities, he was playing tunes on it. Another little boy, Jimmy, bigger than Scotty, and lacking in social graces, decided he wanted the toy and roughly grabbed Scotty’s arm and twisted it causing Scotty to scream as he took the toy. I immediately dashed to Scotty’s aid knocking the ne’er do well on his butt, grabbed the toy back and handed it to Scotty. As Jimmy began to cry, I reprimanded him in my most stern five-year-old voice and said, “You’re ‘posed to ask first and then say, please.”

Dashing across the room toward the commotion came our teacher, Miss Sally loudly saying, “Sebastian Sean Cocchetti!”—even at five years old you know when they stream your full name out, you’re in big trouble. “We do not hit and shove people young man. Now you go take a time out in that chair,” indicating the one across the room in the corner.

I tried to explain to her what happen, but she stated, “That is all well and good Sebastian, but we still don’t behave like a bully.”

I was somewhat ashamed at having Miss Sally upset at me as I liked her and she was very nice. Moreover, as most little boys, I had a crush on the pretty teacher and knowing I had disappointed her, well, I felt ashamed. I, while trying to hold back tears, hung my head and shuffled over to the chair. Scotty immediately got up, handing the xylophone to the sniffling Jimmy, saying, “Here, Jimmy, you can play with it now.”

He then came over, sympathetically rubbed my arm, sat down beside me on the floor, and stayed there the entire ten minutes—seemingly forever—I was incarcerated.

Upon arriving home that day we were met with very disapproving looks from my mom and Aunt Liz. Miss Sally had telephoned and given them the report of my white-knight-on-steed behavior.

Before anyone could say anything, Scotty burst out with very animated gesticulations and related in great detail the incident. Taking a few deep breaths, he spewed out non-stop: “Mommy, mommy, Aunt Twacy you shoulda’ seed Bash today…he saved my life...Jimmy tissted my arm and I cried and he taked the zilephone away fom me and Bash knocked him down and teld him he wasn’t very ‘plite and should say please and taked the zilephone away from Jimmy and gived it back to me… and then Ms. Sowy got mad at Bash and not Jimmy and made Bash go sit in the time out corner for knocking Jimmy down and wouldn’t listen to Bash teld her that Jimmy hurt me and taked the zilephone...I was playin’ “I’m a Little Tea Pot” ‘cause Bash likes that song ‘cause Aunt Twacy singed it to him… and then she said he was a bully and shouldn’t do that and made him go sit in the corner and I din’t think that was right so I gave Jimmy the zilephone and said he could play with it and went and sat with Bash ‘til Miss Sowy said he could get up ‘cause he saved me and Bash is my bestest fren!”

He then wrapped his arm around my waist to seal the bond and, with his best five-year-old look of indignation for the injustice meted out, boldly proffered as evidence his bruised arm from Jimmy’s assault. Scotty did bruise very easily.

Trying to maintain some composure, my mother and Aunt Liz exchanged contained snickering glances and excused themselves while forcing out between stifled giggles an admonishment for us to stay put. They hurriedly headed for the kitchen where we could hear what sounded like muffled laughter. A minute or so later, recomposed, they re-entered the family room.

My mother hunched down, put her hands on my waist, and said, “Sebastian, honey, I know you meant well, and it was somewhat noble to defend Scotty because he’s your best friend, but you still cannot hit or push the other kids in school. If something like that happens again you go right to Miss Sally and tell her. Understand?”

“Yes, Mommy,” I contritely replied.

I didn’t really know what noble meant, but it sounded like it was good. She then hugged me, gave me a kiss, and told me she loved me, as did Aunt Liz and Scotty.

The remainder of our kindergarten year was pretty uneventful other than a few minor incidences. I discovered, to my great disappointment that, no matter the color, you couldn’t fly with a cape—requiring a few stitches and lots of iodine for scrapes. Nor while hurling yourself from the top step of the sliding board, using an umbrella as a parachute, will you float safely to the ground as cartoon characters depict—requiring an ACE bandage for a badly sprained ankle and more iodine. And Scotty was just a little too big to be Cheetah while I was trying to swing with him on a ‘vine’—me (being) Tarzan—lots of iodine for Tarzan and Cheetah.

I don’t know if was my imagination or not but both Aunt Liz and Mom seemed to have started acquiring grey hairs. Elementary school years became a godsend in many ways for our parents. I got involved in all manner of sports: Pee-Wee baseball, soccer, Tae-Kwon-Do and swimming. Scotty became involved in his music. He had piano lessons twice a week and practiced everyday for at least two hours. He also took up swimming to add some exercise. It was one of the few sports in which he didn’t have to worry about injuring his piano playing hands.

I, when not at practice or playing a game, would still on occasion sit beside him on the piano bench as he tickled the ivories. I, at one time, was allowed to sit in the room while he took lessons but was soon banned as one time his teacher, in my opinion, seemed to be just a little too stern and harsh in her instructions. I let her know I didn’t particularly like how she was treating my friend. Aunt Liz said she thought perhaps I shouldn’t be there when Scotty was taking his lessons. Poor old Mrs. Kettering probably didn’t like getting a comeuppance from a seven year old.

Junior, if present, would usually grab me saying, “Come on Bash, why don’t we go out and play catch while Scotty practices?” He’d flip me up over his shoulders causing me to giggle, and then carry me out to the yard.

My friendship with Scotty never wavered. Oh, we had arguments and disagreements at times, but we couldn’t stay mad at one another for very long. Other than the occasional separate vacation or out of town function, you would find Scotty and me together. I know I never grew tired of being with him and missed him so much when we couldn’t pal around together.

One of the times when Scotty had to go to a music camp for a weekend, I was out playing catch with Junior, Michelle Camp, a girl who went to our school, happened by and being the friendly sort we engaged in a conversation. Michelle was a very cute and cheery girl and I liked her. We chatted for a while and then she said she had to get home and she would see me in school on Monday. She then went merrily skipping off.

Junior, of course, set in to teasing me. “Oh, so Bash has a girlfriend now, huh? Ooh, she’s a real cutie and I think she really likes you.”

“Eew, yuck, she is not my girlfriend,” I stated with some disgust. “She’s just a friend, sorta’.”

Now don’t get me wrong, I liked Michelle. She was—well, sorta’—one of the guys. She was about Scotty’s size and had short cropped brunette hair—a Prince Valiant-like look. She had freckles on either side of her pixie-like nose and a very infectious smile. She loved to climb trees, play pirates, and go crawdad hunting. She wasn’t your typical squeamish girl and would enthusiastically play with worms and other creeping crawling creatures. She was a regular tomboy. She definitely was fun to pal around with, but my girlfriend? No way. Don’t even know if I thought of her as a girl.

All my protestations, however, seemed to be ignored by Junior as he continued his joshing. “Ah, Bash, you two look cute together. Michelle and Bash, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Bash pushin’ a baby carriage. Admit it Bash, you looooves Michelle!”

“No I don’t,” I blushingly replied. “I’m not marrying no girl,” I adamantly protested.

“Yeah, yeah, sure Bash. You say that now, but just you wait a few more years. I bet you’re gonna’ be a real heartbreaker,” he teasingly stated. He then swooped me up and started tickling me unmercifully until I cried, “Uncle.”