The Bust of Verdi

One of the things I enjoyed doing with my father was hanging out at Freeman’s Auction House in Philadelphia. It was the only time I ever saw my father spend money in a manner that could be called frivolous.

He would buy books and accoutrements for his study. Some of the things I remember him bidding on, in competition with area dealers, were antique firearms, phrenology heads, sculptures, mannequins and, once, the figurehead of a ship—which he won, by the way.

Sometimes, usually near the end of an auction, there would be some object that nobody would bid on. It was usually something hideous or, at the very least, in questionable taste. I remember such an object that no one showed any love for, perhaps because my father and I decided to be the lone bidders and it ended up being an object that would play a part over the course of the rest of his life.

“As our last item I have a plaster bust of Giuseppe Verdi,” the auctioneer said. “I’ll starting the bidding at $10.” The auctioneer went through his patter over the sound of people milling about or filing out. Then he stopped abruptly. “Do we not have any opera fans in the house?” he asked with arched eyebrows. Although it’s plaster, it doesn’t show any visible signs of cracking or chipping.” I would also add that it was painted to look like aged-brass—not quite trailer trash tacky, but in questionable taste.

Giuseppe Verdi

I turned to my father and said, “I love Verdi.”

“I do too . . . Oh what the Hell,” he said, as his paddle shot up. I carried it into the house that afternoon. It was all we had to show for that particular auction.

“I don’t want that thing in my house,” my tasteful Texan stepmother said to us upon seeing it cradled in my arms. My father took it from me and placed it on top of the antique bookcase in the living room. And there it sat, unappreciated for years, until the unlikely event of my father’s divorce put it center stage for a brief and shining moment.

In early October of 1977, my father’s marriage was all but over. All that remained was for them to split the furniture and the rest of their belongings and my stepmother Beverly would take my sisters with her and return to Texas.

It was a beautiful fall day on campus when my father caught me leaving my last class of the day. “You got to get to the house right now,” he said. “I just got a call that a moving van is parked outside Wallace Street and I suspect Beverly is taking everything. Just get down there and make sure she doesn’t take anything from the study or the bedroom. I still have one more lecture and I’ll be home after that”

By the time I got to the house it was too late. I saw the large moving van pulling away as I arrived. I dreaded what I would find—or more accurately—what I wouldn’t find in the house. I walked in the front door of Wallace Street to find the living room empty except for a bookcase on the opposite wall, to the right of the door to the dining room, and the bust of Giuseppe Verdi on the floor where the antique bookcase had been.

I went through the dining room. It was empty, as was the kitchen. I went up the steps to the parlor. It was empty, then through the family room. The television was there, as were the shelves surrounding it. Then one step up to my father’s study, which was relatively intact. There were bookcases lining both sides and his huge roll top desk between windows that looked out onto Wallace Street.

It turned out that the house was pretty much empty with the exception of the study and my father’s bedroom. My bed and wardrobe were gone and my clothes were in a pile on the floor. I went down to the basement to find a sleeping bag and a card table for the kitchen, so we would have something on which to eat. I set up the card table in the kitchen and some folding chairs. It didn’t look a lot less empty. I went and got the bust of Verdi from the living room floor and set it on the card table.

I sat there thinking about how different life would be without my stepmother and half-sisters, not to mention the always-helpful, always-available, au-pair girl. Of course, it wouldn’t have made much sense to leave the au-pair, but I’d grown quite fond of her.

So, my father and I would be baching it. He would probably start charging me rent if he didn’t throw me out entirely and move in one of his mistresses.

About half an hour later my father came home. He plopped down on one of the folding chairs looking a little dejected and said, “Well?”

I couldn’t feel sorry for him even at that moment since he had brought this all on himself with his extramarital activity that included students, au-pair girls and some of my college friends.

“The study and your bedroom look pretty much unscathed, although my bedroom is empty.”

“Well, we’ll have to get you a bed. If you’re going to stay,” he said.

“I got nowhere else to go,” I said.

“So, what are we going to do?”

“Well, there’s lots of room,” I said, trying to see the glass as half full.

“Good point . . . Hey! Let’s have a party!” He said, his spirits seeming to rise again.

“What, to celebrate being newly-separated? Nothing says desperate, horny, old college professor more than a party celebrating his wife’s departure.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said—words I rarely heard from my father.

“We could find something else to celebrate . . .”

“That’s it! We’ll find another reason to have a party,” he said, rather enthusiastically.

“Let’s see, Oktobefest? No, that really needs an outdoor venue . . .”

“Wait, the answer is right in front of us!” he said as he went running upstairs to his library. He came back down leafing through a biography dictionary. “I thought so!” he said. “Giuseppe Verdi’s birthday is this weekend!” he said, nodding toward the bust on the table.

 “We’re not really fans of the opera,” I said. Which wasn’t entirely true. My father loved Gilbert & Sullivan and I had a fondness for Wagner.

“He’ll be a 164 years old. I’ll print up some invitations tomorrow and we’ll start distributing them right away. It’s kind of short notice, but I need you to round up some hot-looking coeds.”

We had the party. My father and I cooked our own specialties. I remember making pizza from scratch with ingredients we picked up from the Italian Market in South Philly. I also remember making something we called “clam blobs,” which were a mixture of canned clams and cream cheese heated in a toaster oven.  Of course we played Verdi operas and the bust of Verdi, festooned with a laurel on his head, took a place of honor at the hors d’oeuvre table.

Thus began the tradition of having a birthday party for Giuseppe Verdi every October, about a month into the fall semester. My father held the party every year for the next, and last, 18 years of his life.