We spent many a Sunday afternoon in the early 1950s in our backyard with friends and relatives. Our house was the talk of the neighborhood because we had an in-ground swimming pool. Dad had it built for his three children because he said he had to work and didn’t have time to take us on vacations.

I loved the pool, but even then, I knew it was not the main attraction for those afternoon gatherings. Party preparation began on Saturday afternoon, when I climbed into my dad’s Oldsmobile and we’d drive from our house on Sacramento Avenue to Ashland Avenue, where his favorite butcher shop was located. On Thursday, he would call ahead and order for 30 pounds of baby back ribs. When we got back home with the order, I watched him prepared a marinade, pour it into a large pan and gently place the ribs in the bath. The pan barely fit into the refrigerator. He’d always turn to me and say, “Okay, all set for tomorrow and thanks for the help.” Even though I did little except hold the doors for him.

Indeed, my dad’s famous bar-b-qued ribs, and not the swimming pool, was the real reason friends and family loved coming to our house. On those special Sundays, he’d roll out his homemade sawed in-half, fifty-five gallon drum with welded on legs and specially fitted grill. (He’d beaten the Texas Grill by 30 years). When my Uncle Stan drove a pickup truck into the backyard late one Saturday afternoon with the grill strapped down, Dad shouted, “Finally, I got a decent size grill to cook on.”

Party grilling began with a flaming whoosh. Dad was fond of soaking the charcoal with turpentine and then throwing a match on to the coals. My job was to sweep an electric fan over the coals until they were white hot. When so ready Dad dosed the grates with olive oil and strategically place the ribs. They sizzled nicely turning a golden brown with proper basting. The aroma was gratefully inhaled by the friends and relatives who eagerly awaited the mouth-watering treat. When all was ready, the ribs were placed on a long outdoor table where everyone was seated. In my mind’s eye, I can see my aunts, uncles, cousins and friends chomping on lip-smacking ribs slathered with Dad’s special, homemade Bar-B-Q sauces, either the rich, tangy, red sauce or my favorite, the mellow, sweet and sour sauce. On those Sundays, my brother and I would race friends in the pool and play volleyball with a net over the water. Those not so athletically inclined played cards or engaged in conversation. In the evening, as the sun was winking out, we’d sing the old Italian songs and those popular during WWII. They were good times back then, and I am thankful for my dad, his generosity, and the pages he has written in my memory book.