My maternal grandparents emigrated from Italy in the late 1800s. My mother and her nine sisters and brothers went to St. Patrick's Catholic Church Downtown. They lived on Vance at Third. My father was a self-employed refrigeration repairman and, in 1951, took a job in Borger, TX, where I was born. Shortly thereafter, my mother said, "It's time to go back to Memphis."

When we returned here in late 1951, we lived with my grandparents at 119 Market, which is where the Memphis Marriott Hotel is today. There was no front yard. All the houses were very small. One family lived downstairs, and one family lived upstairs. We lived upstairs with my grandparents. We had a large back porch that overlooked Downtown Memphis. The police station was at 128 Adams, and we could see it from our porch. We played in the alley that ran down by it.

I have a picture of myself standing on that porch.

You look at what I'm wearing and at the bench we sat on — we all thought it was the neatest stuff in the world! Today, it wouldn't be good enough for some. Back then, it was perfect.

My grandmother spoke very little English. My grandfather could speak a couple of languages, but he didn't say a whole lot. Both of them were really strict — but they loved you. And man, could my mamaw cook!

Growing up, you just behaved yourself, stayed out of the house as much as possible, and went outside and played because it was too hot in the house or you were in the way.

I remember walking down to Barzizza's with my grandmother. It was on North Main Street. It had old, wooden floors, and the whole place smelled like salami, olives, and baccala, which is salted codfish. I hated the smell of that fish! Real salty. But all together, everything smelled really good. There'd be a big barrel of candy almonds, and the owner would let me have one — and I mean just one!

I remember standing at the meat counter listening to my grandmother tell the butcher what she wanted. I couldn't understand them; they were talking Italian. He put a block of meat up there, and we took it home. My grandmother got out her grinder. She'd sit there and grind and grind that meat while I held the grinder on the table. I asked, "Mamaw, why didn't you let the butcher grind this?" She slapped me upside the back of my head and said, "You listen to me, laddie. Butcher grind, butcher put meat on scale, then butcher take." In other words, he'd weigh the meat, charge her, then grind it up and keep a little bit for himself.

At Christmas, it was spaghetti, ravioli — all homemade. Homemade wine, too. My grandmother sold it to buy food. My momma would stomp the grapes because she was the heaviest. We rarely drank a soda; we drank water. There was never a candy bar in my life until I was 9 or 10. Instead, at night, you were allowed a piece of cantaloupe, some watermelon, and grapes now and then.

When my grandparents watched TV — which was rare — my grandfather would turn the sound off because they didn't understand English very well. We'd watch TV with no sound at their house — there wasn't but three channels, anyway! He'd also give me a dime once a week and tell me to go to the store and get him an RC Cola. There would be a penny or two left over, and he'd let me have it. Shoot, I could get two pieces of candy for a penny!

I had an older brother, Allen, who really looked after me, and a whole lot of cousins!

After that, we lived in a shotgun house on Peabody at Belvedere, then a small rental on North Parkway, then a place on Chelsea. Chelsea was the nicest house we ever had. My brother and I got to share a bedroom. Before, there had been only one bedroom, so we slept on the couch. We had lived there about a year when my father was murdered at Thomas and Chelsea — right in front of me.

I was 10 years old.

They took me home to bed. My mom woke me up in the middle of the night and brought me in the kitchen. There were police officers everywhere. She asked, "Do you know your father died?" I remember looking around at the officers standing in my kitchen, and I remember I never felt more secure and safe. I told my mom then, "When I grow up, I want to be a Memphis police officer."

After that, we lost the house because there was no money. We moved to Thomas Street and lived about a block from where my father was murdered, and that would be the home I grew up in: a shotgun house right next to the fire station. In the winter, we did homework in the bathroom or kitchen. Mom would turn the gas on in the oven to warm the kitchen. In the bathroom, I would get a TV tray and turn the heat on in there to stay warm. The only other heater we had in the house was in the living room. Nothing in the bedrooms. I can remember when I was an 11-year-old, she'd give me a stapler and hammer to put plastic over the windows. Those old plaster walls would sweat, and the wind would come whistling through the walls. During the colder months, I'd have to stand on a ladder and pour hot water over the pipes to thaw them so we could have running water.

But it was always clean. My mother was a perfectionist and kept everything neat. We were very poor financially, but very rich in many, many other ways.

We played baseball in Bickford Park. Six, seven Italian-Americans, a few white guys, and the rest African-Americans. We didn't have any issues. We had nine gloves, one ball, and one bat. When you came in from the outfield, you threw your glove up in the air for the next outfielder. In the winter, we played football. Holy Names Catholic School had a gym, and the priests let us play basketball there. Neighbors took us fishing from time to time.

I was really big into the Marines when I was a kid. All I would watch were war movies. I liked the camouflaged helmet they had. I liked the globe and anchor that said "USMC," and I liked that they were the best. We played mostly war games. The police who rode the neighborhood were like father figures to us. They structured and influenced me.

We all went to Holy Names Catholic School. Being poor got harder on me in the 7th and 8th grades. At the beginning of the school year, everyone got a new coat, and the first time it turned cold, they'd all wear their new coats. I wanted one so bad.

My mom had a Sears credit card, which was very rare for a single person raising two boys on a fixed income. It was a paper credit card, and the limit was probably around $200. She knew I didn't have the clothes I wished I had. She'd give me that card and say, "Go get you two pants, two shirts, and a coat — and if the shoes are on sale, get a pair."

I walked over to Sears Crosstown. They had three shirts I wanted. They had a tie I wanted for Easter and Christmas masses. I used a store phone and called Mom to see if it was okay that I bought them, and she let me get them. Then I'd get to school and notice that my coat was a little different because theirs came from Goldsmith's and mine came from Sears.

I got a job at Montesi's Supermarket when I turned 16 — my first job where I could make a little bit of money and buy a few things I wanted. I was a sacker. I begged to be one of the basket guys outside. They got to load groceries, and that meant tips. We had contests to see who could make the longest train of baskets to take back into the store. So it was more fun, and it made your nights go faster. My plan was to join the Marines, then the Memphis Police Department. I was afraid the Vietnam War might end before I could get there.

In my senior year, I wasn't old enough to join the police force — you had to be 21 — but at 17 years old, I could join the Marines. We were still fighting in Vietnam, and I'll never forget begging my mom to let me join. I wanted her blessing, also. I was sworn in Feb. 26, 1969.

I signed up for four years, which would put me at 21 years old when I got out. I was in a staging area in Okinawa, within days of being deployed to Vietnam, and a guy looks over at my enlistment papers. He says, "Why are you going to Vietnam? You get out in 1971." I thought, "No way!" Turns out my mother had signed me up for two years, not four. Her signature overrode mine because I was only 17.

The Marine Corps influenced me heavily — all the things they instill in you. To be part of the 1st Marine Division made it even more special because you were the best, the toughest, and the bravest. I was meritoriously promoted to corporal, which was quite an honor. I was also selected Marine of the Year in 1970, representing my base.

When I was discharged, I was 19. Knowing there was a gap of two years before I could join the police department, I thought about enlisting for two more years. It meant more money and, man, did I want a new Chevelle! But something told me I should just come home.

I went to work for Westinghouse Elevator, installing elevators at buildings like NBC and Clark Tower. I worked hard and dated my future wife, Nina. In December 1972, we married.

During this time, I was visiting the police station Downtown almost weekly, trying to get hired. Finally, Inspector Wannamaker called me into his office, picked up the phone, and said, "I want this kid in the next class." He asked how old I was. Turns out that the class graduated one week before I would turn 21. They couldn't take me. I tried to bargain with them, but no going. That was August 1972.

At the beginning of 1973, I heard there was going to be another police class starting, so I called Downtown to ask about it. Lt. Fred Warner talked to me about being an undercover officer. I told him I'd do whatever they wanted me to do. A couple of months later, I was instructed to meet two policemen at a hotel, where I took the test. Then I heard nothing, and I continued working for Westinghouse Elevator.

Nina and I had bought a little house in Frayser, and Nina was going to school while I worked. I grew impatient because I wasn't hearing anything from the police department. I told Nina I was going to quit Westinghouse, that I had to be a police officer.

So I quit and went straight Downtown and into metro narcotics. I said I needed to see Lt. Warner. I'd never met him. He asked me what I was doing there. I said I wanted a job. He said, "You've got a job! Now get out of here and don't let anyone see you down here again! We'll call you! You're hired! We'll swear you in tonight or tomorrow." I ran out of there! So I began my police career as a Metro Narcotics Undercover Operations officer. I was sworn in May 2, 1973.

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