White Plains CitizeNetReporter - John Frango, Winchell of Westchester, Passes Away

WPCNR White Plains Epitaph. May 20, 2002. 10:00 PM EDT.: News compadre, Jim Benerofe, and I were talking about the hospital story Monday evening when Jim told me, "I have something else to talk to you about. John Frango died."

John "Frankly" Frango of White Plains, Pioneer Columnist, in a typical "Frankly Frango" column header.
Photo by WPCNR

Mr. Frango died Monday. John Frango was the longtime publicist for Pepsi Cola, White Plains P.R. man par excellence in the 50s and 60s, liaison to Joan Crawford, the actress, and John was well-known as a popular columnist for Suburban Street.

Since I did not know John well, I’d appreciate any memories old White Plains residents might want to share about John Frango, another chapter in White Plains journalism past.

I met John when he became a fan of White Plains Week right from the first week when we began the show in January, 2001. I was flattered he took the time to say how much he liked the show. Some 62 shows later, he still was, telephoning me just last week with enthusiastic suggestions and observations about the show. He offered Alex, Jim and I encouragement when we needed it. Like most confident, creative people he appreciated good work of other writers, and consistently reached out to say, “hey, you’re doing a great job.” I cannot tell you how rare that is in the writing business, or any business.

He was such a positive fellow with sharp insights, and no-holds-barred opinions on issues, personalities and life, which he shared in his long-time column, Frankly Frango. He was a sensitive and thoughtful writer, and though I did not know him well, he was a person I was looking forward to having on the show as a future “Legacy of White Plains.” I always felt there was time.

He had a feeling for news. A feeling of how to do things the right way.

He had sent me a column he had written about his father, which I told him I was saving for Father’s Day. I thought I’d share one of his last pieces of writing with you. I regret we had not scheduled him to be one of our “Legacies of White Plains” personalities.

John’s untimely passing points out to me at least, we should never put off saying how much we appreciate knowing and working with someone, because you never know when they will be gone for good, without knowing how you felt about them.

The following story is very graphic and some may find it distasteful, but it is a sample of a writer who knew how to do it. Who could recognize what about life makes us alive. This one’s for you, John, and I regret we did not publish it sooner.

A Story of A Beautiful Ice Man

By John R. Frango

It was in the early 1930s and my father was carrying a piece of ice on his burlap-covered shoulder up to the second floor of a tenement house.

I followed him up dilapidated stairs and into the “apartment.” I immediately noticed a man and woman. They were naked, sprawled across a filthy mattress, soundly asleep. Their dirty and scratchy buttocks were like two small mountains. Cheap gin bottles were sprawled across the dust-laden floor.

A blond, blue-eyed baby girl was sitting silently in a broken crib amid excrement and urine. Her tinyhands and her entire body were saturated with feces. The milk bottle near her frail body was dark and the nipple heavily soiled.

The odor in the “apartment” was heavy and almost suffocating.

My father looked at me and said: “Go down to the candy store and tell the man Joe Frango needs a bottle of milk.”

Now why I was going to a candy store for a bottle of milk befuddled me. But you never questioned your father in those halcyon days. You just did what you were told.

I ran down the hill as quickly as I could. When I finally arrived at the candy store, there was a slim, tall man standing in front with spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. He was reading a Yiddish newspaper.

“I’m Joe Frango’s son,” I said. “My father needs a bottle of milk.”

The man put the newspaper under his arm and walked into the store. I followed slowly behind him.

He stopped in front of one of those early bright red Coca-Cola coolers. As he opened it wide, I noticed three bottles of milk drifting like cruisers among an escort of uniquely designed six-ounce bottles of Coke.

He rolled up his sleeves, took one of the milk bottles out, and wiped it off with his apron. He located a brown paper bag, put the bottle of milk inside, and handed it to me.

“My father didn’t give me any money,” I said sheepishly.

“Get out of here,” the man said with mock annoyance “Go, so go already.”

Later, of course, I learned that the man bought ice and coal from my father and they became friends after both arrived from the old country: he from Berlin, Germany, my father from Naples, Italy.

I finally arrived at the “apartment,” and was literally astonished at what I saw. I knew my father was marvelously methodical, but this was – to repeat – beyond belief.

A blanket had been placed completely over the bodies of the drunken couple. The gin bottles were packed neatly in a corner of the “apartment.”

The baby’s entire body and the crib were scrubbed clean – immaculately. And my father had fashioned a diaper out of a towel he had found. The milk bottle was washed so that it was miraculously changed from translucent to transparent and the nipple appeared as if it was a brand new piece of rubber.

My father took the bottle of milk out of the bag, opened the paper lid, and poured milk into the baby’s bottle. He then placed the bottle carefully into the baby’s hand; she sucked on the nipple furiously – as if it were a new experience.

My father smiled and hand me the bottle with the remaining milk in it. He told me to put it in the icebox.

When I opened the box, I was faced with decaying pieces of tomato, lettuce and meat. The offensive odor invaded my nostrils and I gagged. I closed the box as quickly as I could and somehow found myself out on the creaky porch – sucking in the soft summer air.

After about five minutes, I turned to watch my father close a back door that was overflowing with a river of cracks.

Then Joe Frango, whose huge, calloused hands were dwarfed only by the size of his soul, touched me lightly on the arm and said softly, “Peccato (how sad).”

I was never more proud of a man than I was of my father on that cloudless summer Saturday so many years ago. His humanity pierced my heart and I wiped my eyes as I followed him down the steps and back to the truck.

© 2001, John R. Frango. All rights reserved. Used with permission of the author.


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