HAVE I GOT A STORY FOR YOU!

By Philadelphia Bingham

As he drew closer to home and Annie, he reflected on the circumstances that had brought him to this place. Reaching for the tape recorder, he flipped it on.

"Well Tim, this is dad. Have I got a story for you this week! With a little luck, you'll get to see some of it on FYI in a couple of weeks, but I want to tell you a little of the background. You see your old dad is what's known as a source. How about that? Anyhow it all starts with your mom.

I used to think she was stupid, all that pottering around in damp graveyards, spending hours in musty libraries, but that was before I went ancestor hunting. Now it's I who has spent countless hours trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

They were such simple questions that your mother asked one evening. Honey, where did your father die? When did it happen? Where is he buried?

The answers to those questions were things I've never let myself think about. It was easier to ignore what you didn't know, and certainly less painful. But of course, your mom wouldn't let it drop. She needed the information, she said, to finish the family tree she was working on. Finally, at her urging I promised to try and find out.

Eventually I found myself boarding an airplane, looking for row B, seat 10 on my way to Washington D.C. and the National Archives. The National Archives is every genealogist's dream. There you can find records, especially military records, on everyone from Revolutionary War drummer boys to Desert Storm generals, Son. The library seemed to me like a church, or at least how a church used to be, quiet, reverent, and full of food for the inner man."

He stopped the tape for a minute, recalling the spring morning he had driven from Ludington, a small resort town on Lake Michigan filled with Victorian mansions from the bygone lumbering days, to Detroit. Some of the locals called it a jewel in summer, hell in winter, but to him it was just home.

He started the tape again. "You know son, I've done well as the owner of a restaurant and bar on the waterfront. The value of lakefront property alone has let me indulge myself, after all those years of long hours building a life for your mom and you three kids. You kids are all well on your way to being successful. Your brother has taken to the restaurant business, your sister is running the marina, and you are soon to graduate from U of M. Hell of a difference from my childhood.

I'll never forget the day I came home from school to find my mother sitting in the living room. She never sat down during the daytime unless the day was Sunday. My aunt Katie had been with her and it was she who broke a little boy's heart. His father, Staff Sgt. Edward Mason, was dead, she told him, somewhere in Italy.

Ironically, it was the war that gave me hope, just as it had taken away my father. For the war brought people and prosperity to our little town on the lake and when peace was signed it was boom time. The 'Suits' from Chicago arrived and snapped up property. In 1950, as I was celebrating my 18th year, I met the man who was to change my life.

I remember that Graduation parties were in full swing that June evening so long ago. I was the new high school graduate - so what now? No college for me. Mom had struggle enough working at Anna Bach Candies to pay the rent and buy food. I already had my fill of the parties. Hell, I don't even like beer and I was tired of pretending I did.

It was still light, the sun just then sinking below the horizon, reflecting on the lake, as I made my way through the pines, swatting the Michigan state bird, the mosquito, as I walked, trying to fight off the sick feeling of beer, ham and potato salad. I remember how the strong odor of pine, combined with the food and beer I consumed that evening had settled it. Nausea grabbed me and I lost my cookies.

Woozy, but feeling better, I climbed the porch of "Wrens Roost", a popular road house and sat on the porch swing to rest awhile. Country music filtered out to the porch. Patsy Cline was telling every one she was "Crazy."

The glow of a cigarette alerted me to the fact I was not alone.

"I don't like country music, but that thrush can sing can't she! Name's Paul. Paul Fontana, from Chicago," the stranger said

Paul was 30ish, tall - at least 6' 3." To me he looked like a man who had been there, done that, many times. Still, he had a winning smile.

It had been that simple, Tim. We hit it off. I owe my successful life to a chance meeting at Wrens Roost. Paul's contacts in Chicago set me up with my own bar and restaurant. Paul taught me the ropes, and soon I was a successful restaurateur. It's amazing how quickly it happened; I've always wondered at it.

The Teepee Bar and Grill soon became the most popular nightspot in the north. Boats from Chicago, Saugatuck and Grand Haven always managed to stop, and pretty quickly, I found myself the owner of a marina as well.

Paul said my success was due to the fact I always stayed on the business side of the bar. That had been easy. The memory of the night I met Paul convinced me for all time that booze and potato salad should not be considered fit for human consumption. I can hear you thinking Tim. This is a very nice trip down memory lane but what does it have to do with researching the family tree? I'm getting to that. Back to the library.

Imagine the whir of the microfilm readers, the rustle of turning pages, occasionally a "wow" as success rewarded somebody's hard work, Tim. All that barely penetrated my consciousness as I poured over files on my family.

A "Wow" of my own escaped my lips as I discovered that Grandma Mason had been raised in Cicero, but born in Sicily, and her maiden name was Fontana. All I remembered of Grandmother Mason was that she lived in a house on the high bluffs south of town. She continued to live there alone even after grandpa died. You remember I told you years ago how Grandpa Bill Mason, a fisherman, had drowned mysteriously in 1933. His body was found washed up next to the lighthouse."

He turned the recorder off again. He remembered that the view from Grandma's house was spectacular, the soil sandy, but she'd managed to grow a few vegetables anyway. Her property dropped sharply to the lake. It took great effort to scale the cliff; you slid back two steps to every one you took forward. Tradition said that Father Marquette, the great French explorer and missionary died and was buried near there by the river that bears his name. Some say his body was removed and buried elsewhere, no one really knew for sure. As a young boy, he and his friends had spent hours looking for the remains of the sainted priest. But all they'd ever found were bones of a deer.

To him, the house had always been home, and she had always been simply, Grandma Mason. Turning the tape on again he continued his tale. "According to family tradition, the whole Mason family is 100% WASP. How could she be Italian? After all son, she was a Presbyterian!

It seemed strange that no one in the family ever talked about the Italian side of the family. I wondered if Paul Fontana was family too. I would have liked to have asked Paul about it, but he had died in 1976 from a brain tumor. I knew little of Paul's personal life, for he never shared any of his background with me. His only interest was to promote me. Whenever I needed a loan for the business, he would say, "Stay away from the bankers, they will only lend you money when you don't need it. I'll give it to you. You pay me 7% we both get rich." And we did.

The military record file on my father gave me another surprise. Edward Fredrico Mason died 10 Aug. 1943 in Fonda, Sicily, it said. He'd died of a dysentery type illness and was buried in the "Fontana Family Plot." This had to be Grandma's hometown, What had brought my father there? The records stated he was on furlough when he died.

I stopped to rest my eyes and wonder over the information I found. When I leaned back my chair tilted backward, colliding with the chair behind me that was taking more than its share of space.

"Watch out willya, Jeez!" The tall Nordic type blond had a voice that could sand pine logs.

"I'm sorry miss," I replied as I came face to face with the famous Murphy Brown. I always could charm bees from their hives and soon, apologizing and praising, I had Murphy listening to my story over coffee.

"You know Gil, my coworker Frank Fontana is Sicilian," she told me. "Come over to FYI and I'll introduce you."

Frank was out on assignment, but Corky fed me coffee and donuts, while Jim Dial reminisced about his years as a war correspondent.

The FYI producer, Miles, said to me, "You know, Gil, Frank is from Cicero, near Chicago. Just between you and me, I suspect Mafia. A rum-running family, that sort of thing." Frank hadn't returned by 4:30 so I said my good-byes. Corky gave me a hug, and Murphy took my hotel room number, promising to give it to Frank. Jim slapped me on the back, and Miles led me to the elevator. "Well that's the end of that," I thought.

I stopped at a bar called Phil's and ordered an O' Doul's. I sat there thinking about what I learned in the Archives and what my next step should be. I was especially intrigued to find that my father had died in the town his mother was born in.

"Hi cousin." The voice came from behind me

I turned toward it, and there stood Frank Fontana, all nervous and eager to please, kind of like a puppy dog.

"Well maybe not cousins, but then we could be," Frank said. "I'm from Chicago you know and when I was growing up we summered in the Ludington area." Leaning over he became very confidential. "You know my Great Uncle was a bootlegger and during prohibition, when it got too hot for him in Detroit, he used to pick up his booze and go down Lake Michigan to Chicago. Man wouldn't it be great if we were cousins, I don't have much family left."

I ordered Frank a beer and we talked. Frank knew the bootleggers name was Joseph Fontana, his grandfather. Anthony was his brother and the family business was distribution. Frank had said, "You know I am one of the best investigative reporters around. I'll help you find out what you want to know." Then he finished his beer, and as he left the bar, he promised to be in touch.

Later that evening I stood in my hotel room watching the Washington traffic as it inched along below me while I waited for room service to bring my pasta primavera and Chianti. A salute to my new found Italian heritage I guess. I decided to begin my search with census records for Joseph and Anthony in the morning.

It was sunny and cool the next morning so I decided to walk the few blocks to the archives. The morning flew by as fast as film readers on rewind and by the time I stepped out into the noon sunlight, I knew that Joseph and Anthony had a sister, Mary Fontana, my Grandma Mason.

The flight home from Washington was uneventful. I stepped into Detroit Metro airport at about 9:00 AM. I headed for I-96 and the 4-hour drive home. I was about half way home, coming into Lansing, when I stopped at the Pizza Hut for a Stromboli. I guess I was still enjoying being part Italian.

The Pizza Hut wasn't far from the new State Library and Museum, and it was still early so I decided to stop over and check out the old newspapers on microfilm. Maybe the local newspaper would have an article on my Grandfather when he drowned. That would have been newsworthy. Might even be a death notice for my father. Now that I had dates, I could check.

A few days later your mother and I were having a drink on the deck, watching the sun fade into the lake, talking over the events of the past few days, especially the news article about Bill Mason's death. Highly suspicious, the police had called it. There had been some bootlegging activities taking place near the Mason home that summer. Grandpa Mason never approved of drinking legal or illegal, so he would have run them off. Nothing had come of the investigations.

It made me shiver, Tim, to know for certain that Mary Mason's brother ran rum in the area. I turned to your mom, "Annie," I said, "let’s take a walk to the cemetery. I want to visit Grandma and Grandpa Mason's grave." It was less than a mile to the graveyard and soon we were reading the simple inscriptions:

William Mason 1869-1933 his beloved wife Mary 1870-1957.

'Gone to a Better Place' was carved beneath their names completing the simple white marker.

"I wonder what my father knew about his dad's drowning," I said. "Maybe Frank will come up with some answers."

A phone call to Frank elicited the information that, as yet he hadn't been able to come up with anything. But Frank said, "My dad is still summering in Pentwater. I'll call him and tell him you'll be stopping by. Treat him at your restaurant and he'll be your friend for life."

You know what Pentwater is like Tim. Another typical resort town nestled between Lake Michigan and Pentwater Lake. Victorian B&B's, some modern motels, and the usual gift and antique shops stretched along both shores. As usual the streets were littered with tourists, some coming from the hundreds of boats moored nearby, others staying at the nearby campgrounds. I think the Fontana family had been spending summers there since Frank Jr. was a baby.

When I arrived, Frank Fontana Sr. was sitting in a white wicker chair on the porch of the Pink Horse B&B, reading the National Enquirer. Next to him was a pair of binoculars, used to view bikini clad sun-worshippers on the beach across the road from the Pink Horse.

"Inquiring minds," Frank laughed as I climbed the porch steps. I liked the old gentleman at once. Frank Sr., well into his 70's, is still a handsome man with a shock of dark hair going rapidly silver. I thought, this is Frank's father. Certainly not 'like father, like son'.

"Can you believe naming this old boarding house the Pink Horse!" he asked me. "Who the hell ever saw a pink horse anyhow? Well maybe some of your customers," Frank laughed. "I love to sit here and watch the world go by. My brother Paul had business connections here so we learned about this place from him."

Well Tim, I spent about two hours sipping Chianti and listening to Frank Sr. "You are the only one, other than me, who knows this," Fontana Sr. said. "Not even my hotshot reporter son knows."

He does now. I called FYI to talk to Frank Jr. as soon as I left his dad. " Hi Cousin," I said, "I know what a great investigative reporter you are, but have I got a story for you!"

Your mom will be working in her perennial garden when I get home from this trip. I won't even let her ask me how it went. "Annie," I'll say, "I know why my father is buried in the Fontana graveyard. His Uncle Joseph poisoned him."

I can already see the disbelief on her face. She'll say, "I'm so sorry Gil! I had no idea this would happen, all I wanted to do was finish a genealogy form on your parents!"

This is the story I'll tell her then just as Frank Fontana Sr. told it to me. Joseph returned to Sicily when prohibition was no more. He had made more money than one man needed, and he was eager to get away from his sister Mary's accusing eyes. She knew, he was sure of that. Too bad Bill had not been more reasonable. He'd only wanted to stash the booze for a short time, he hadn't meant to hit him so hard. He'd lost his footing and fallen down the cliff hitting his head on the rocks on the shore. It had been an accident but Mary would never believe that.

Twenty years passed and then one day Joseph thought he saw the ghost of Bill Mason walk into his house. It turned out to be Edward. Edward wanted to find out more about his father's death. His mother told him that his uncle would know all about it; that he was responsible for it.

Joseph took Edward to the vineyard where he had a table and chairs and samples of the family wine poured out, and promised to tell him the whole story. He'd managed to slip some slow acting poison into the wine. Edward died three days later.

In July of 1947, Joseph called his nephew Paul to him. "I'm an old man and I soon will be called to God," he said. "Listen to what I tell you, I need to make amends for what I did." A few weeks later Joseph was laid to rest in the Fontana plot and Paul, who had inherited most of Joseph's estate, left for Chicago.

Well Tim, that's the scoop. Quite a story isn't it?"

He switched the recorder off one last time. He could see his house from here, and Annie and the rest of the family were there waiting for him. It was good to be home.

The End