No longer a need to run from the Bellini brothers.

Byline: WRITE ON By Diane Monaco For The Register-Guard

My father remembers his father as a hardworking Scot, with an air of rigidity about him reminiscent of a severe and cruel childhood. According to family rumor, my great-grandfather's aggressive behavior drove my great-grandmother to drink, hence to the grave, thus leaving my grandfather and my great-aunt practically orphaned.

My grandfather's harsh exterior was, as I remember, not always easy to penetrate. He wore a permanent scowl that rarely left his face. Although, I imagine years of marriage to my sweet grandmother, the birth of his own son, his tremendous faith in God, plus, my mother giving him three granddaughters, softened him up a bit. So by the time I knew him, he felt comfortable in exposing that tender part of himself that my father rarely knew. When he did smile, his world did, too - my grandfather was a leader, not a follower.

In 1938, my grandfather was making his living as a life insurance salesman and collected premiums every month by going door to door. He put holes in his shoes as he marched through the poorest and roughest neighborhoods of Providence, R.I. Some of these neighborhoods were rarely visited by Scottish immigrants.

My father recalls that the sons of the Scots and the Irish didn't venture into the Italian neighborhood without great risk.

"Unless you were a really good runner and could outrun the Bellini brothers, you stayed off those streets," he said. They were very territorial boys, and my father went through their neighborhood only if he was late for school or, as he says, "For the challenge of the race."

For the Italian immigrants, English was a second language. Numerous people, especially isolated women, didn't speak English. However, my stubborn grandfather rarely let anything stop him from getting his point across, and managed to communicate very well.

There was one particular client on his collection route who was in a desperate situation. Her name was Mrs. Vasari. She was a mother of young children and her husband was dying.

My grandfather pretended that he did not know her husband was terminally ill. He realized that she didn't have the money to pay her bill. But he would climb 10 flights of stairs and walk through noisy, darkened hallways that smelled of garlic, onions and musty wood.

Finally, he'd arrive at the Vasaris' apartment. Once there, he would remove his hat, knock and wait for Mrs. Vasari to open the door. He'd signify as if he were there to collect the five cents they owed him every month.

Mrs. Vasari would ask my grandfather to come in and offer him a chair at the kitchen table. She would indicate with hand gestures and broken English that she could not pay the five cents.

My grandfather would nod and say, "I will pay your premium this month, Mrs. Vasari, and when your husband is better and back at work, you can repay me what you owe."

She would witness him mark the debt onto his ledger book, and nod her head, yes, in response. He would then put on his hat and exit the crowded but clean apartment.

My grandfather and Mrs. Vasari continued this charade every month for a year and a half until Mr. Vasari passed away.

After my grandfather discovered that Mr. Vasari had died, he went to see Mrs. Vasari and presented her with a $5,000 life insurance check. Needless to say, Mrs. Vasari was overwhelmed with joy and relief.

In perfect English, she said the words that are written on the Fraser family crest: "I am ready." She reached down into her apron pocket and sorted out 80 cents, which she handed to my grandfather.

Word spread quickly through the community about the stern Scot who had presented the young widow with this great sum of money. How he had paid her premium on her husband's life insurance and she now had the money. She could walk with dignity, too; she had paid her 80 cent debt.

As a result of my grandfather's tenacity and generosity, my father was able to take the shortcut through the Italian neighborhood to school. He no longer had to run from the Bellini brothers. He eventually acquired a paper route that included the Italian section of Providence and delivered papers through the streets unscathed. He remembers being well-fed with pasta and meatballs on a regular basis.

My father and his parents later moved to New York. My grandmother became an administrator at a downtown hospital in Manhattan. My grandfather went to theology school and became a Baptist minister. My father became an all-American track star at Taylor University and an attorney in Eugene. And me ... well, I married the grandson of a widowed Italian immigrant.

Diane Monaco, 43, is free-lance writer from Eugene. She is married and has two children.

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