Mario and Angela’s Italian Eatery

Mario and Angela’s Italian Eatery 03-07-2024

I’ve chased these fine folks from Jackson to Cape, and now, back to Jackson at 215 West Main Street.

Angela greeted me like a long-lost friend when I showed up to pick up my food. (Wife Lila insisted that I stop calling her “Crazy Angela” when I first started eating at the place on a regular basis.)

Here’s an account of one of my first visits to the original Jackson location.

Only open 10-3

Mario and Angela’s Italian Eatery 03-07-2024

I wish they stayed open longer than 10-3, but they do a booming takeout business. They really aren’t set up for on-site dining.

Angela keeps busy taking phone orders while her dad is ready to cook them.

Quantity is great; price reasonable

Mario and Angela’s Italian Eatery 03-07-2024

The calzone I bought on my first visit a couple of weeks ago was big enough for two meals and a snack.

I ordered the lobster, shrimp and scallop in Alfredo sauce, topped with shrimp today. It isn’t particularly pretty because the sauce covers all the goodies.

Trust me, though, the Alfredo sauce was as good as any you’ll find anywhere. There was enough for two meals, but it tasted so good that I polished it off in one pass.

Country Store Lost to Memory

 

Country Store 03-21-1969

One of the more challenging (and rewarding) things about working at The Athens (OH) Messenger was the canvas publisher Kenner Bush gave us photographers: he opened up a 9×17 news hole five days a week for photo essays.

We drove all over Southeast Ohio photographing people and places that would be overlooked most of the time. I called it “photographing ordinary people doing ordinary things.”

Some stories didn’t pan out

Country Store 03-21-1969

I did a number of stories about country stores over the years, but these photos were never published. I don’t know if the subject didn’t have an interesting tale to tell or if I had to rush off before I discovered it.

I don’t even recall where the store was located, nor the woman’s name. Both are probably scribbled in a notebook buried in a box somewhere.

It’s fascinating to see the wide variety of goods carried.

A gallery of a few moments

So, here’s a brief portrait of a country store in the days before convenience stores and Dollar Generals. I probably should have made a Picture Page out of the images.

Click on any photo, then use the arrow keys to move around.

Mark Was No Lester

Mark’s middle name should have been “Quirky”

Mark Steinhoff, my youngest brother, is heavy on my mind. He left us on New Year’s Eve two years ago.

His birth certificate said his middle name was Lynn, but it could just as well have been “Quirky” or “Unusual.”

Do you know of anyone else who ties rocking horses to a tree in their front yard? Or attaches his Christmas tree upside down to the ceiling?

I bet there must have been 200 people at his Celebration of Life, and each and every one of them had a Mark story – it might have been about something he did; a kindness he performed; a prank he pulled, or how he touched another human being.

One of my staffers sold Mark a Sailfish sailboat that he hauled from Florida to Kentucky Lake. Later, he gave it to Matt, who hauled it BACK to Florida.

Matt inherited the Spitfire

Matt Steinhoff with Mark Steinhoff’s Spitfire

Mark promised Matt that he’d get the Spitfire some time in the future. Robin made it happen. It’s been refurbed and put back on the road.

He was a pebble tossed in a pond that created ripples that reached out in all directions.

Waking up at 4 in the morning

I rolled over about 4 in the morning thinking about Mark, then a contrasting character popped into my head.

Marion showed up in my office one day. There are some newspaper folks who are great reporters who can Hoover up all kinds of quotes and turn them into “just the facts” journalism, and there are writers who can make their keyboards sing. She was in the latter category.

I loved working with her. We spent almost two weeks on the road doing tourist stories from South Florida up through Louisiana. Cutting through a foggy swamp road late one night, she, like Bobby McGee, “sang up every song that driver knew (and a lot of new ones).

We were investigating one of New Orleans’ above-ground cemeteries when my car was broken into (“You’re lucky you had an alarm that scared off the burglar, usually they hit the car, then go into the cemetery to rob the tourists.”)

We attended a Christmas party in the country’s only continental leprosarium in Carville, LA..  Not everybody can say that. She was also a regular on weekend bike rides with other newspaper people. On a hot day, water frolicking was apt to occur.

The well is dry”

“I’ve got to come up with a feature this week, and the well is dry,” she lamented.

“Everybody has a story to tell. You just have to find them,” I told her, falling back on one of my favorite clichés. “Grab the phone book and a thumbtack. Open it to a page at random and stab a name. We’re going to find out what that person’s story is.”

We selected Lester R. “Mosley” on Summit Blvd., in West Palm Beach, an address about three blocks from my house. [Last name changed for privacy.]

Mr. “Mosley” lived in an older, one-story home set back on a large, well-kept lawn. When he came to the door, he was dressed in clean, retiree clothes, and, while confused about why we were there, didn’t chase us away.

We talked with him for about 45 minutes and discovered that he was not only NOT like Brother Mark, he provided the exception to the rule that everyone has a story.

Mr. “Mosley” had no interesting tales of work; had no hobbies to speak of; maintained a neat yard, but without passion; didn’t mention any family nor friends.

About the only unusual tidbit he offered up was that he had married his brother’s widow. (I think I remember that correctly.) Beyond volunteering that simple fact, he never told us anything about her, whether she still lived there, had run off with the milkman or had died of boredom.

A Most Peculiar Man

( Not Mr. “Mosley” -He’s a man I shot in New Burlington, OH, for a book c 1971

A few lines from Simon and Garfunkel’s song, A Most Peculiar Man, came to mind.

He was a most peculiar man
He lived all alone within a house
Within a room, within himself
A most peculiar man

Mr. “Mosley” seemed to be content with his rather colorless life, so who are we to judge?

We didn’t do a story on Mr. “Mosley”. Somewhere in my files is an envelope containing a couple dozen frames of Mr. “Mosley”, which have probably faded away as much as he did.

Marion needed to find a Mark, and all I could provide was a Lester.

UPDATES:

A search turned up a brief obit for a man who could have been Mr. “Mosley.” (His middle name was Rembert). He was born in South Carolina in 1910, and died in Palm Beach county in 1979.

Marion left the paper, moved in with her elderly parents, became reclusive, and died at age 51 in 2002.

Here’s a not-too-brief collection of stories and photos of Brother Mark.

 

Poinsettias on the Graves

When Wife Lila came to Cape recently, she tried to convince me to replace the refrigerator when I remodel my kitchen. She’s a big fan of bottom freezers, and I prefer mine to be at eye level. (Her eyes aren’t that far off the ground, so that’s why she likes the bottom freezer.)

When we went to Lowes to look at ice boxes (using that phrase is a good sign that I’m old), we passed an aisle loaded down with Christmas flowers and cacti. The poinsettias were two for three bucks, so we picked up a couple of them and some cacti for friends and relatives.

Mother had always asked, “Who will decorate the graves after I’m gone?” That sent me back to Lowes to pick up some more flowers.

Sunset more colorful than flowers

After dropping off a pot at my Mother and Dad’s stone, I stopped by Lila’s mother, Lucille Perry. The flowers were colorful, but they couldn’t compare with the sunset in the distance. I wish the camera had captured all the colors my eyes saw.

Roy and Elsie in Advance

Mother’s dad and mother had health problems and lived with us from my early grade school days until after I had left for Ohio University. My life was much enriched by getting to know them.

Here’s a little more about Elsie Welch, as described by her friends.

My great-grandparents

Mother’s grandparents, W.M. Adkins and Mary Adkins died long before I was born, but I still have no trouble spotting their grave in the beautiful Pleasant Hill Cemetery in Tillman, near Advance.

A lot of my grandmother’s friends and relatives are scattered in that cemetery.

I wondered if they got stolen

After I had placed the flowers, I wondered if anyone would spot them and carry them off since they were so portable.

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I said to myself, “I don’t care if someone does. I fulfilled my obligation to Mother, and if her flowers brighten another grave, that’s a good thing.”