Belmont Avenue
This street, like any other live being, would be entitled to an aura of its own. It didn’t breathe but it offered air to its inhabitants; it didn’t see, but it gave sight to its strollers. One minute it would exude the sweetness of soft rolls rising in the cavernous ovens of the Prince Bakery. At other times, it would reek with the stench of too many hot July days without garbage pick-up. They would turn the hydrant on – before water shortages and modern sprinklers – so that the garbage, caught in the current, would flow down the street, never higher than the curb, racing to unforeseen purification on Fordham Road. During spells like this, you could smell the ape house in the Bronx Zoo, a few long blocks to the east. There were days when the street would crackle as opposing gangs fought territorial wars on her stony terrain. Blood would spill. And there were days when the street would sing for joy, in moonshine and sunshine, under the street lights. There was life on this street of decay and love emanated from the apartments in the stone dwellings, where people lived one on top of the other, separated by twelve inches of concrete.
This story begins in the street, this Belmont Avenue, named after some longforgotten settler, where I found kindness, affection and a beauty of spirit that I never dreamed existed on earth.
The Prince Bakery, Belmont AVenue landmark. 
From hallways like this one on Belmont Avenue, a harmony sound was created and perfected that defined an era and is still wildly popular today. It’s all about the echo.
I set foot on that beautiful, stinking street – rife with filth, strife and life, abundant with love – and soaring, in a second floor tenement, with music and art. I could not tell you exactly why such a soul came and went like a flash in such a place at such a time. But I knew early on my role in the drama: to chronicle it. And I want to share it with you, because it is a story of hope. A strong story, one you can take hold of in your hands and hold up to the heavens and shout: Yes! We are left on earth! Yes, we love our lives. Yes! We will be waiting for you and YES! You never left.
VICTOR FORBES
By the age of 12, Dion was an established neighborhood star working clubs & restaurants, like the Villa, reviewed here by the noted author/ restaurateur Helen Dunn in 1972 
Dion and Susan Butterfield “Top Ten Girls were all I dated.”
From “Haulin’ Ash” to “Kickin’ Ass,” “The Wanderer” to “The Thunderer” THE BEST LOVE SONG EVER WRITTEN:
“They call me Sweet Papa D ’cos I’m slammin’ and tall but when it comes time to get my ashes hauled I let me baby do that, I let my baby do that, I let my baby do that and she ease my worried mind.”
I was wondering how to start this story about Dion. So much has been written and said about him by the great, even iconic figures of our ear. The Beatles put his face on the Sgt. Pepper album cover. Dylan, Springsteen, Paul Simon, Lou Reed, Billy Joel, Steven Van Zandt all write liner notes for his records, cite him as a major influence and back him by singing The Belmonts parts at big-time concerts. Would it suffice to open with this: Is there another performer who is the go to guy for 1) The Blues Cruise 2) Malt Shop Cruise 3) The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 4) WCBS-FM 5) NPR and last but not least 5) EWTN Global Catholic Television Network?
The answer is simple: there is none. There is only one and his name is Dion, who I spent the first 19 years of his life standing on Crotona Avenue and 183rd. A cigarette dangling out of my mouth, my eye was tearing, my lip was burning, but I was cool.
So I was thinking of all these things, driving the Cross Bronx Expressway and what passes me but a very large truck, loaded up. With ash. Hauling.
“You can crank my car, shift my gear But when the easy riding goes on here, I let my baby do that…”
What’s Cookin’ at the Villa Italian Restaurant
The heavenly and hearty aroma of home cooking, just as you open the door of the Villa Italian Restaurant, New York’s newest privately owned and operated restaurant, and the warm welcome by Ralph Martuscelli, one of the most genial hosts here in “Lttle Italy” in the Bronx are twin ingredients hard to beat.
The Villa menu, a la carte and moderately priced, lists over a dozen pasta pleasers including the traditional spaghetti al dente, linguini and lasagna, with your choice of Ralph’s delightful sauces.
Entrees? You name it and Ralph will cook it for you. But … please be patient. Seafood? such succulent shell foods as Shrimps Fra Diavlo, Mussels Possilipo and Scungilli, cooked to a tenderness and served with a hot-hot sauce are highlights.
Steak lovers, this is your dish: Steak Pizzaiola, tender, juicy, and tasty served with a slightly seasoned sauce. Chicken Cacciatore, plump and generous chicken parts and mushrooms which Ralph simmers and simmers to a delight in a mouthwatering sauce.
The appetizers, soups, salads, Pizza (Oh Yes) thin crisp Pizza in a variety of combinations to delight all Pizza lovers. Sandwiches, too, beverages and desserts to the smoothest home made cheese cake, you will be happy you discovered the Villa Italian restaurant.
The Villa is intimate in atmosphere and decor, with warm wood wall paneling and matching table tops. Open for lunch and dinner every day except Monday with a seatintcapacity of forty.
The Villa Italian Restaurant at 651East 187th Street at Belmont Avenue is long gone, as is my grandmother, Helen Dunn. We present this review as a tribute to them both.
The Blues Man as Artist & Author
Yet even the blues, for Dion, is a religious experience. In January of this year, the Times asked him about his first exposure to bluesman Robert Johnson. Way back in the 1950s, rock impresario John Hammond gave Dion a copy of Johnson’s posthumously released recordings: “I listened to it and it got me excited, too. Some of the guys I played it for couldn’t hear it, but I heard it. It’s the naked cry of the human heart apart from God, wanting to feel at home.”
MIKE AQUILINA
