Broken Windows

I live in a mafia neighborhood. When we moved in, we were asked if we were Italian or Irish, because if you are white, and you live here, you must be one or the other. I have not one drop of Italian blood. I have German, English, Scottish, Irish....no Italian.

Dave says he has Canadian blood. His grandfather was from Canada. But, I don't think it works that way.

Anyway, I'm not sure that the mafia hold here is so strong that I'll get in trouble because I'm not Italian. I think I'll be fine. I am fairly non-controversial by nature. I just want everyone to like me. Even the mafia.

There are unexpected perks to living among the mafia. Their houses are absolutely beautiful. Huge. Stately. Well kept. Giant mansions, one on top of another. Too many mafia in too big houses means: no yard. But the patch they do have has fountains and flowers and very green grass. When you turn off of my street, down into mafia housing you forget you're in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is not suppose to have houses. I think someone forget to tell them.

So, on our walks through Mansion Housing, there is one house that stands out. Not because of its grandeur. Or size. But because of it's broken windows and boarded up door. It is the house from It's a Wonderful Life. People throw rocks to break the glass on the windows. I haven't. But I want to.

I like that house. In my quest for satisfaction, which never seems to be fulfilled, I start thinking, "I want a nice big house with a fountain out front. I want a porch with chairs and pots of flowers. I want a pool. I want, I want, I want...." And then I pass the sad, grey house with the broken windows. It grounds me. It reminds me that even if you get the big house, the pots of flowers, the pool...they can be taken away. It happened to these people. So, it's better to want other things.

Like good pizza.