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he called ‘Coo-Coo Fritz’; it was dough filled with mozzarella, Parmesan, and all different kinds of cheese. And then he would deep-fry it.”
    Joe Tarricone could energize any group and a lot of people loved him. Rose remained quieter and more thoughtful. As her children grew older, she wanted to get a job. Joe pictured a marriage much like his parents’ union: he wanted to be the breadwinner and have Rose stay home. But Rose had had a taste of forced independence during the months when her husband was away in the service and she was alone with their children.
    “She got a job in Old Town in Albuquerque,” Gypsy says. “It was in a specialty candy store and she was really good at rolling chocolates—so good that she was offered a management job there. But the woman who had that job was older, and an alcoholic. Mom said she just couldn’t accept if it meant that woman lost her job.”
    Joe made good money most of the time. He worked mostly in sales, selling everything from the Famous Schools job training courses to gas to meat. While he and the family lived in Seattle, he owned the Shamrock gas station under the viaduct in south Seattle. He had a huge billboard with his picture on it, and it said, HI! MY NAME IS JOE! That became a familiar sight to drivers.
    When he sold memberships to Famous Schools, he outsold most of his peers. One year, he was given a valuable painting as first prize in a sales competition. Joe could sellanything, and his customers were always glad when he came by.
    “When we were in Washington State,” Gypsy recalls, “we lived in Lower Preston, a very small town east of Seattle, and our house had a Coleman stove. Sundays were still special days for us. Mom got us all up and dressed, and Dad dragged us to church at Our Lady of Sorrows in Snoqualmie. Mom started the spaghetti sauce the night before, and she stayed home getting Sunday dinner ready. We all went out for hot chocolate after church, and then we went to K-Mart. My dad loved chasing the Blue Light Specials there.
    “When we got home, we ate spaghetti and meatballs. I came to dread Sundays because I was the one who had to wash all those greasy dishes!”
    There was no question that Joe Tarricone forged deep bonds with all seven of his children. He and Rose had been married three decades, and they were living back in New Mexico when Joe came home and once again shouted, “Pack up, Rose! We’re moving to Texas!”
    For the first time, Rose said, “No, Joe—I’m not leaving my house. I’m tired of moving for thirty years. No more.”
    He didn’t believe her, and his response was flip: “Then I’ll divorce you.”
    “Fine.”
    “My dad was blowing smoke,” Gypsy says. “But my mother meant it. She didn’t want to move again.”
    Joe hadn’t really expected to be divorced, thinking at first that Rose would change her mind about moving to Texas. And, of course, she didn’t.
    Their affection for each other didn’t diminish, but Joe was still the eagle, flying free, looking for a fortune in the next town or the next state.
    And Rose loved her garden and especially enjoyed knowing that she would be there when the perennials she planted returned each spring. She gloried in the permanence of being in her own house with her treasured furniture, curtains, and knickknacks around her.
    Gina was sixteen, Rosemary was thirteen, and Dean was ten when their parents broke up. Claire, Aldo, Joey, and Gypsy were out and on their own. Joe promised to support his youngest children and he kept that promise; he would never miss sending a check to Rose for their school clothes and monthly expenses.
    Not until the fall of 1978.
    School was starting in Albuquerque, and Rose looked for the extra check Joe always sent to buy Gina, Rosemary, and Dean new clothes for school and money for books and supplies. Day after day she checked her mailbox, but the check never came. Nor did the monthly child support that had arrived in the first week of every