Guest Post by author Garasamo Maccagnone

About Garasamo Maccagnone

Garasamo Maccagnone studied creative writing and literature under noted American writers Sam Astrachan and Stuart Dybek at Wayne State University and Western Michigan University. A college baseball player as well, Maccagnone met his wife Vicki as a junior at WMU. The following year, after injuring his throwing arm, Maccagnone left school and his baseball ambitions to marry Vicki. After a two year stint at both W.B. Doner and BBDO advertising agencies, Maccagnone left the industry to apply his knowledge of marketing in a new venture in an up-and-coming industry. Maccagnone created a company called, “Crate and Fly,” and turned it from a store front in 1984 to a world-wide multi-million dollar shipping corporation by 1994.

In the mid 90’s Maccagnone decided to fulfill the promise of his writing career, by first penning the children’s book, The Suburban Dragon and then following up with a collection of short stories and poetry entitled, The Affliction of Dreams. His literary novel, St. John of the Midfield was published in 2007, followed by his For the Love of St. Nick, which was released in 2008. Maccagnone expanded the original version of For the Love of St. Nick and had the book illustrated for a new release in June 2009. My Dog Tim and Other Stories is a literary anthology of the author’s best work.

Garasamo “Gary” Maccagnone lives today in Shelby Township, Michigan, with his wife Vicki and three children. At this time, he is researching the location for his second novel, tentatively titled,He Lay Low.

You can visit Gary online at www.garasamomaccagnone.com

Family Reunions

My wife, daughter, my daughter’s boyfriend and my oldest son just departed for Chicago, where after a four to five hour drive, they’ll partake in the opening ceremonies of the first Field family reunion.

Those poor saps. Before they left, I tried to warn them about the experiences I had with family reunions but it was to no avail. My wife felt the obligation to go, even though there are much more important events taking place around our house, like gutter cleaning, garden weeding, and anthill demolitions.

I’m proud of my twenty one-year-old son Anthony. A chip off the old block, after one glance at the event schedule sent forth by my wife’s sister, the smart boy declined the offer, uttering his refusal in a most demonstrative way, “There’s no F-____ way I’m going to that!”

Someone always has to take charge of these things. It seems some new group she’s joined is nudging my wife’s sister, an almost cult like Klan adjoined somehow to her Mormon beliefs. They’ve persuaded her to get closer to her family, to take the initiative to organize a reunion where there’s dialogue, music, poetry readings, open floor political debates, mime and puppet acts, all done, by, and through, the amateurish skills of those attending.

A friend of mine, who stopped by to watch a World Cup soccer game with me at the house, commented, after he threw the venue card for the reunion down on the coffee table, “I think I’d prefer a rectal exam over attending something like that.”

After almost choking on a slice of DiGiorno pizza, I tipped my ice cold bottled beer his way.

In my earlier life, I do not fondly recall the reunions of my side of the family. Being Sicilian, without legendary temperaments, it’s not hard to predict the outcome of a group of people who are all wired the same.

I recall they always started the same way. My Uncle Jerry, who was ten to fifteen years older than my father, usually hid in the willow and oak trees of Dodge Park as our family of seven approached the campsite. Along with a few of his sons, my cousins of course, the trio would make unusual birdcalls to get your attention. Unable to see them, but knowing they were there, my brothers and I would strain to see through the willow or oak tree canopy, trying to catch a glimpse of their exact location. It wasn’t until acorns or small rocks rained down upon us that we knew we had found them.

A softball game always followed with all the cousins showing off their arms and hitting skills. My Uncle Reds, usually was the designated pitcher for both teams. Reds liked to embellish his accomplishments to all the naïve kids around the dugout. He had the entire crowd of under ten-year-olds believing he once pitched a game for the Detroit Tigers. I have to say he was my favorite. He always greeted you with an extended hand, hoping you’d accept the challenge of his vice lock grip. If you did make the mistake of accepting the challenge, he’d twist your hand until you dropped to your knees and pleaded for mercy. “That’s a man’s grip,” he’d tauntingly say. “Now you know my strength, now you know what all those punks down at the shop fear. They fear your Uncle because he’s the strongest man on the earth.”

In the last year of the reunion, three innings in, Uncle Reds stomped off the softball diamond, upset that my father ridiculed him for throwing a knuckle curve ball to one of my five-year-old second cousins. “Feels real good to strike out a baby, doesn’t it Reds,” my dad shouted as Reds tossed his mitt to the ground, causing a plume of dust to tornado around his leg.

I recall playing bocci ball, throwing Frisbees, and listening to Grandma Nina out all the communists that lived near her house. After we gorged ourselves on pasta, lasagna, sausage, and breaded steak, a pinochle game started amongst the men. In the reunions I attended, you could pretty much predict that about a half-hour in, someone would accuse another of cheating and a fight would break out. Every year, the inevitable happened, with the final year being my father’s and Uncle Reds’ turn. It’s quite a sight to see fifty-year-old men wrestling on the ground while cards rain down on them like confetti.

What’s odd is this: After the two men were too tired to wrestle any more, and after they were tired of getting swatted by Grandma Nina, their mother, with a rolled up newspaper, the pair jumped up, wiped the blood clean from their lips or noses, smiled and returned to the game. It was like nothing ever happened. Pretty soon beer cans were cracking and red wine was being poured into Styrofoam cups. Everyone was happy again. Everyone was back on track.

Except those of us, perhaps too young to understand the Sicilian customs and traditions, whose nerves were frayed after watching the spectacle. I’m sure it was from moments like that, and all too many others, that incubated my disdain for such get-togethers. You truly have to have the stomach for them. I know I don’t, and I’m glad I learned early on in my life to stay away from family reunions. The lesson learned kept me from joining my wife in a dreadful trip to Chicago for anything but a weekend of misery.

About My Dog Tim and Other Stories

My Dog Tim and Other Stories is an anthology of Garasamo Maccagnone’s finest works. The anchor of this collection is “St. John of the Midfield”. With newly added scenes, “St. John of the Midfield” is an almost mystical story of Bobo Stoikov, one of the world’s greatest soccer players, who escapes death in communist Bulgaria to find the American Dream. Due to severe injury during Bobo’s escape, he is unable to play once he arrives in America. Though he finds peace and happiness in simply coaching soccer to youth travel teams, his eccentric ways of teaching and his success lead to a hate-filled rivalry, and eventually, his death.

Other stories in the anthology include: “My Dog Tim”, an ode to the author’s beloved childhood pet; “White Fang”, a tale of revenge that has more do with orthodontia than Jack London’s infamous dog story; “The Note Giver”, the story of a mysterious old man who arrives at St. Isidore’s and turns the congregation upside down by handing out notes that sting the individuals with truth and insight on their own bad ways; “White Chocolate”, “Goalie Boy”, and three vignettes.

Garasamo Maccagnone’s MY DOG TIM AND OTHER STORIES VIRTUAL BLOG TOUR ‘10 will officially begin on June 1st and end on July 16th. You can visit Gary’s blog stops atwww.virtualbooktours.wordpress.com during the months of June and July to find out more about this great book and its talented author

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