I looked up. There in front of me was a distinguished elderly gentleman. I stood. It was appropriate.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Ed.”
“I’m Tom, Tom Falciglia.”
“Yes, yes, I know the name. Are you related to Ernie? He was my band teacher at George J. West.”
“Yes, my cousin. He played piano. I play trombone.”
He plays trombone? We bonded immediately. I wanted to know this man.
We spoke for quite some time. Tom is a retired college administrator.
He continued, “My daughter told me to come into this store because I would find something I liked. My daughter was right, and there she is. She was working here.” He pointed across the glass case to a beautiful woman, dressed in style. “Ellen is what my daughter was talking about. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Beautiful, indeed,” I replied.
“Yes, and I am going to marry her in three weeks.”
I looked at him. “Tom, do you mind if I ask how old you are?”
“Not at all. I’m 91.”
He continued with so many more stories that we made arrangements to meet after his wedding. He told of how his father built a theatre in Hopkins Park; how at first it did not have a roof, how when it did, there were live performances “Even opera,” he said.
“Opera?” I called Diane who was speaking to Ellen, Tom’s fiancée.
“Guess what, Di?” I told her of the theatre. “Isn’t that where your grandfather sang opera, Eagle Park?”
Diane’s grandfather, Tony Bucci, loved to sing. “Yes,” she replied. Now we were all kindred.
I had to get back to signing books, and as I did, Tom asked, “Would you like to come to our wedding?” Diane’s eyes lit. So did mine.
“Yes, of course. I’ll take some pictures,” Diane said.
“Wait a minute.” Tom went to his car and returned with an invitation that he made on his computer; an invitation as good as any professional. We read it…Spain Restaurant on a Saturday afternoon… “We’ll be there!!”
“Oh,” Tom added, “I’ll be playing my trombone with the group.”
No surprise, I thought. Why not. This guy is amazing.
As we drove home, we spoke with excitement about the upcoming wedding.
“And you know,” Diane said, “Ellen’s aunt married Lou Costello. And two others performed with the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. And I am quite sure I heard that correctly.”
“OK, we’ll ask them next time.”
More about Tom, Ellen and the wedding in a future post. The story gets better. ]]>
My Dad was one who tried many things when he went to a restaurant. I thought it was something he acquired as he got older, but as I think of the Christmas Eve dinner, I remember his most ardent request at that time… pickled pigs feet. It was his only time and only chance to have them.
Yes, my Dad loved pickled pigs feet and the only time my Mom would tolerate it was at Christmas. So she bought them.
“Peter. You know it’s not fish.”
“Of course I do, Anna. But I love them. And they are close to fish because they’re white. You know… La Vigilia in bianco.”
“Oh, get off,” she replied… and compiled.
Off he went to a corner of the kitchen, sat with a mopine in his lap,opened the jar and pulled out the feet one at a time. He devoured his delicacy before the others arrived. Delicacy?
I could not even look at him as he ate these white things with toes and maybe a little hair.
My grandmother weighed in. “Livva him alone. Let him hav-a whatta he wanza.”
And we did. He tried. And he savored.
Off we went to the dining room for La Vigilia, Dad just a few more bites behind. ]]>
We tried to make the most of our holiday by making a Christmas tree out of a small tree or bush. We hung anything we could muster… empty ammo shells and aluminum gum wrappers rolled up in a ball. We gave each other cigarettes wrapped in paper for gifts; anything to share the spirit of the Holiday so far from home.
On Christmas Eve in 1967, we were listening to our portable, battery operated radio playing some music from the ‘50s and ‘60s. We were stunned to be interrupted by the voice of the infamous Hanoi Hannah. Robin Williams referred to the Dragon Lady as “The Wicked Witch of the North” in the movie, Good Morning Vietnam.
Hannah was a 25-year-old Vietnamese radio personality who did the propaganda broadcast for North Vietnam. She broadcasted three times per day, reading the list of recent deaths or imprisoned Americans, attempting to convince us that the war was unjust and immoral… for us, not them!
I was impressed with her military intelligence, especially when she mentioned the location of particular units and a list of the names of the servicemen at that location.
On this particular wistful night, she said, “This message is for the 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines stationed at Khe Sahn. Don’t you wish you were home with your families and loved ones? All you need to do is surrender to our superior North Vietnamese Army. If you do not surrender, you will all die tonight, Christmas Eve! We have you outnumbered, and we are prepared to attack your positions with artillery and mortars to kill every one of you. We will have no mercy. We promise.”
Hanoi Hannah
The fuckin’ bitch named us one by one. Though her pronunciation was not very good, that did not matter. How did she get our names? Depressed and frightened, we were placed on high alert. Imagine, Christmas Eve and on high alert.
We spent the night watching and listening for any sounds. The only sounds we heard were insects, animals, the occasional distant mortar and us, whispering.
My machine gun was loaded and ready. I had several cans of spare ammunition along with my 45 and my jungle knife just in case it became hand to hand combat. While standing in my foxhole, I pulled out my rosary beads and prayed. I did not want to die on Christmas Eve.
This was a Christmas Eve I can never forget! How did they get our names? And I never will forget Hannah.
“Tonight you will earn a medal for your bravery, but you will only receive it when they pin it on your dead body when it arrives home.”
My name for her… “Hanoi Hannah, the Bitch of Christmas!”
]]>I found it interesting this week that as I was reading an essay by Cullen Murphy, Backlogs of History, published in the Atlantic Monthly 1996, I felt justified in my pleas. He had discovered an old hospital bill that his parents saved from the time he was born.
He writes, “I was struck by something else: that among all those decades worth of family documents my parents had looked through, the delivery bill ($187.86…mine was under $100 in 1939) was the only thing they thought of sufficient interest to pass along.”
So what do we keep? What is important to us? What do we leave for the next generations, understanding that the amount of accumulated “stuff’ can choke a land fill if we let it?
Murphy asks…”What should the policy be toward children’s drawings and report cards? Toward family photographs and wedding mementos??”
I maintain that the photos are most important. From them we tell our story.
And coincident with all that, just this week, I found, in an antique store in Maine, this early photo of Polo Lake at Roger Williams Park in RI. My Dad took us there to romp on many a Sunday morning after church and before we went to Sunday dinner at Grandma’s.
I ask you, does this photo tell a story. A Family feeding the beautiful swans.
Polo Lake, Roger Williams Park
I can write a story from this. Can you?
Is it enough by which we can remember and record the past?
“This is Dr. Iannuccilli.”
“Yes doctor, I am a patient of Dr. __. I am worried.”
“Is this an emergency? It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”
“I know. I think it’s an emergency, and I am sorry to bother you.” She did not sound sick, no wheeze, no shortness of breath, no grunts or gasps of pain. I was formal, somewhat annoyed.
“How can I help?”
“ I am worried about my hemorrhoids.” She had to be kidding! Hemorrhoids, on Christmas! What a present!
“You’re calling about hemorrhoids?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why tonight?”
“Because I have to sing in the church choir this evening. It is our biggest concert of the year. Midnight Mass, you know.”
“Yes, I know. So what do hemorrhoids have to do with a concert?”
“I have to sing.”
“I heard you.”
“ I am a soprano.”
“Wonderful. What has that to do with hemmorhoids”?
“How will I hit a high note?”
“Hit a high note? What do you mean?”
“What if I strain while singing and my hemorrhoids pop? What will I do in church if there is blood all over my clothing, and on my backside at that? I must sing. We have been practicing all year. I cannot miss it.”
A Valsalva maneuver while singing? My annoyance was replaced by quiet, laughing, as silently as possible, like holding back a burp at a dinner party. I was unaware that reaching an E above C, even if she could do so (she had an elderly lilt to her voice) created enough pressure ‘there’ to cause a break in the plumbing. I never heard of such an occurrence.
I paused, composed myself, and thought for a moment. I needed to reassure this woman that she and her concert would be a success, but how. Sit when you sing? While everyone else was standing? No, that wouldn’t work. She would be hidden from her audience. Pack the area with gauze or some other absorbent? Tissues?Three pair of underwear? Maybe. Slather the area with preparation H, Desitin, or Balmex? Probably not. Not enough muscle.
Suppositories? Out of the question. I had a vision of a bullet shaped missile flying through the air during the high note of ‘Panis Angelicus’. How might any of those remedies stem a tide? I thought a moment longer. Nothing extraordinary was necessary. Simple reassurance was enough. That was the approach. That was it.
“Hemorrhoids don’t burst on a high note,” I said with confidence (is it true?). “But, so that you feel confident, why not place some padding there, something like Depends. Really, don’t worry, you will be fine. And do not fear standing and singing through the entire performance. Position has nothing to do with hemorrhoids (a white lie here).”
“Thank you so much, doctor. And thank you for taking the call. I am sure you would rather be with your family, so I very much appreciate your time. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” I hung up, a smile on my face.
]]>
Customer : “Yeah,… no Andy Williams special this year, huh?”
Barber: “Oh yeah, he died couple weeks ago.”
Customer: “Yeah, Perry Como, too.”
Barber: “Yup. Perry Como, Dean Martin…all those good Christmas specials. Eh, eh… remember? But Andy Williams, what a good show.”
Customer: “Ya know who else we saw, and she did a really good job? What the hell’s her name? Boy she can really sing. Italian girl. I think she’s in a wheel chair now… she got attacked in the elevator…”
Another customer: “Annette Funicello?”
Customer: “Yeah…, no, I mean, Noooooooo. Not her. But she was good too.”
The other customer: “Connie Francis?” (Tom’s note: Born Concetta Rosa Maria Franconero, by the way)
“Yeah yeah! That’s it. Boy could that kid sing……She got attacked in the elevator.Too bad.”
“Yeah, Yeah.”
“Christmas. Yeah, yeah. Ahhh, those great TV specials. I miss ‘em.”
Which do you remember…Grinch, Frosty???
]]>
Dad decorated a Christmas tree the way he did everything else, with pride. No, it was not the best or the most adorned, and it would not win any prizes, it was not what you would call a classic. But it was one of a kind… his.
He did it alone, from the purchase to the last strand of tinsel. He tied it to the roof, drove it home, screwed it into the stand, straightened it, and planted it by the largest window. Dad strung the lights in a spiral, hung the ornaments, the balls… silver, blue, red and green; draped the tinsel, skirted the stand, stuck the star on the top, and stood back. Perfect. “When I was a kid, we put real candles on our tree. We sat and watched them so the house wouldn’t burn down.”
The first memory I have is seeing the blur of lights, a glow seemed to fill the corners of my eyes with mist, and I was transported to a natural place. His tree was as green as a summer day and smelled as fresh as evergreens on the side of a mountain. Against the window, it radiated streams of low winter light that bounced off the balls, the tinsel and the ornaments, then filtered through the branches with laser like, speckled beams to the rug. The light’s glow and the tree’s aroma diffused throughout our house. It meant Christmas.
Each ornament was hung in the same place every year. Angels came alive, Santas brought gifts, balls reflected light and bells rang with joy. In the middle of the tree was a picture of me taken in front of the tree on my first birthday. And there was Dad’s favorite, a cloth Santa. “I bought that Santa when you were born. It’s as old as you.”
Santa was two-thirds the way up the tree. Made of cloth, stitched and glued, he was no more than four inches high, wore a tall red hat with a white cotton rim, a long red jacket that hung to his knees, light blue pants, a brown sack over his left shoulder and black boots. His droopy, pink face and blue eyes sung with joy.
Bursting with excitement on Christmas morning, the first thing I saw was the tree, and then the bounty; over the years appeared trains, a Red Flyer wagon, a football, shoulder pads, sneakers, a baseball glove, an erector set, a radio, a fire truck, ice skates, a hockey stick, and the bike, the Rocket Royal. The Santa watched from above.
Year after year Dad hung his Santa. The years went by, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty. Santa never failed. He took his place two-thirds the way up.
I married and had children. Each Christmas Day, Dad anticipated our arrival, and then he strolled to his tree. “That Santa is as old as your father.”
Over the years Santa aged too; his beard went from white to tan, he lost his left hand, his pants drooped, pine needles stuck to his boots, his sack shriveled, the piping on the front of his jacket needed stitching, the cotton withered.
My Dad died in 1996. We bought a small tree for Mom and decorated it, never failing to place the Santa. Mom died six years later. Disposing of their collection was difficult. As we discarded the old decorations, I panicked. Where was Santa? At the last moment, I found him, surrounded by hunks of tinsel, attached to Mom’s last tree, in a junk heap in the corner of the yard. I captured him. Was he smiling? That year he took his place on my tree. “See that Santa. Pop bought it when I was born.”
One year, I lost the Santa. I panicked, again, searched everywhere and still I could not find him. He did not grace the tree that year. “I know he’s here in this house.” Christmas passed. Santa missed it for the first time.
The following year, while unpacking ornaments, I found him, lying in the bottom of the box, packaged in a Ziplock bag, smiling up at me. I took a deep breath as memories surfaced, melting into tears in the corners of my eyes. “I found him, I found him.”
Santa took his place in the tree, two-thirds of the way up from the bottom. I anticipate our grandchildren’s arrival each Christmas and stroll to the tree. “See that Santa. He’s as old as I am. Pop bought him when I was born.”
Dad’s tree will ever remain one of a kind…ours.
* Published, Growing up Italian, New River Press 2009
]]>“What?” I thought. “Not even a welcome home? After all that?”
Nobody seemed to care about my 15 months of hell. A confused 21-year-old, I asked myself, “How do I deal with this, where do I turn and to whom do I speak?” With no answers, I withdrew, resolute that no one would ever know.
I turned to alcohol as my crutch to conceal my hurt and confusion. I was overwhelmed with nightmares; dreaming of death and the heroes welcome I never received. Now, I could not, and refused, to accept anyone’s love.
Our culture defines a strong male as a two-fisted, fearless drinker. That’s the road I took, showing my heroism in a different way; alcohol. I could lift a keg on my shoulder and carry it up a flight of stairs. I could down a quart of cognac without showing signs of drunkenness. I was a different hero… the best drinker and a two-fisted scrapper with muscles like the hombres of the Wild West. I was the life of the party.
But the blackouts and hangovers were intolerable, even though I blamed them on something else…the food, the flu, whatever. I lost touch. I closed the door on the real world, turning in, becoming now a fearful, distrusting and jealous person. I gained over 130 lbs and now weighed over 320 lbs and was on a path to mental and physical self-destruction. I felt and looked awful. My days of being a star athlete were dwindling. I was angry with everyone and everything. I was about to lose all I cared about.
My downward spiral continued, uncontrolled, for 12 more years. I considered myself a failure, often contemplating suicide. Something hit me! I woke one morning to what was right there, ever beside me…a loving wife, a beautiful home, an excellent job and friends, many friends, many who cared. Sandy demanded a promise.
For the first time in twelve years, I kept it. I left the friends who were a large part of the problem. I stopped, cold turkey, on September 1st, 1980, the same day we won a golf tournament. When I quit, I was on the outside, a sober bore, never invited to their parties or their homes. Excellent. I was on the road to recovery. I was able to communicate without fear or threat of exclusion.
Since then, I consider myself blessed. My life has changed.
I have been sober for over 30 years. I weigh 210 lbs, my clothes fit and my doctor says that I am a healthy man of 66. I retired in 2008 as the Vice President of Human Resources for North America with Amtrol Inc.; not bad for someone with a high school education. I have a leadership role in the golfing establishment. I am able to write my story.
Where was the angel this time? Why right beside me; Sandy, with whom I have been happily married for over 40 years. I thank God every day for bringing us together. ]]>
3 large eggs
Courtesy of Jersey Mom’s Blog
1 tablespoon butter, softened
1 teaspoon plus 1/2 cup sugar
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, sifted
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup honey
Flour for dusting
Vegetable oil for deep-frying
Colored sprinkles
In a bowl, whisk together the eggs, butter and the 1 teaspoon sugar until foamy. Sift the flour with the baking powder and stir into the egg mixture.
With you hands, work the mixture into a soft dough.
Divide the dough into 4 pieces. On a floured surface, roll each piece into a rope about the width of your index finger and 12 inches long.
Cut the ropes into 1-inch pieces. Toss the pieces with enough flour to dust them lightly; shake off the excess flour.
In a deep fryer, heat the oil to 375F. Fry the struffoli a few handfuls at a time, until puffed up and golden brown.
Transfer with a slotted spoon to brown paper to drain.
In a large saucepan, combine the honey and the 1/2 cup sugar and heat over low heat, stirring, until the sugar has dissolved; keep warm over low heat.
Add the fried balls a few at a time, and turn them with a wooden spoon to coat on all sides.
Transfer the balls to a large plate and mound them into a pyramid, shaping it with wet hands.
Sprinkle with colored sprinkles and let stand for 1 to 2 hours. Then just break off pieces with your hands and enjoy.
]]>
Barstow Stock Certificate
He wrote…” You may know that the Barstow Stove Company was a venture of Builders Iron Foundry on Codding Street…owned by the Chaffee Family…the work force was drawn from generations of Italians who cast the stoves for the kitchens. WWII was the end of many years of grandma’s stoves.”
Mr. Flynn wrote of how, because of his interest in the history of the Company, his “research was able to obtain some of the old stock certificates.”
He sent them to me…. “in recognition of the fact that you alone appreciate the memory of the stove.”
How kind he was. I have thought of Mr. Flynn’s generosity and now have had a chance to write of it.
I arranged to meet this fine gentleman for coffee one day, and he was a treasure of knowledge and kindness.
Yes, industry was king in our little state so many years ago, and The Barstow Strove Company enjoyed much of it. And people like Mr. Flynn, who appreciates history, was, and is, part of the kingdom.
“Thank you, Robert.”
http://cranstononline.com/detail.html?sub_id=77367
Thank you, Joe
]]>In any event, one day I said to Ted,
“Put the bar up to 11.5 feet, and let’s see if I can make it.”
“You must be kidding.” Ted knew.
“No, do it. I have nothing to lose and who knows?”
“OK.” Up it went.
It looked like it was somewhere in the clouds. I went to the rear of the runway, lifted my pole, rocked a bit (like Richards) and took off. My pace was good; my step count right on. I planted the pole. Perfect!
I stretched and the pole, now the new fiberglass, bent. I was on my way up. I looked at the bar, steady. Up, up, a pull, a kick, now for the handstand on the bending pole.
No way. I never did a hand stand on the pole. So off I drifted… under the bar! Yep, I went under the bar and landed in the pit on my back, sawdust spewing as if I had made the jump. I looked up. The bar was perfect, not wavering, but not because I went over it. It was still in place because I went under it!
Ted started laughing hysterically. We weren’t the only ones who witnessed my folly. The coach did, but he did not see me go under the bar. All he saw was my fall and land in the pit. He looked up and noted that the bar was in place. He came running over. I knew what he was thinking…. That he had an All-State pole vaulter.
“Iannuccilli, did you just make that vault?”
“No, Coach. I went under the bar.”
He raced into the pit and kicked me out of it. “Get your ass outta here!” he screamed. Coaches could cuss, hit and kick in those days. That I knew.
Now, he saw me run. He must have thought he had an All-State sprinter.
Nope, he was wrong again. Just a scared rabbit and a lousy pole vaulter.
Years later, I told my son this story. He got me a copy of a Wheaties box, signed by Reverend Bob. Thanks Chris.
]]>In this week’s paper, recalling a story published in 1912, the writer recounts the celebration in Bristol of the victory achieved by the Italian Army in the Italian – Turkish War.
It was saluted with “bombs on the (Bristol) common followed by a parade that started at the Principessa Elena Society on Wood Street. ( My Note: The Princess was the daughter of King Nikola Petrovic of Montenegro. She married King Victor Emmanuel in 1897. Loved by all, she was kind, generous and engaging. A charming and benevolent woman, many Italians hung her portrait in their homes) The Society was an integral part of the community in early Italian American culture).
There was a two division parade followed by fireworks set at intervals along the parade route, A band concert, a vocal solo (from Cavalleria Rusticana) and two speeches (only two?) followed.
I found the story interesting. One hundred years ago, here in Bristol, a local group was celebrating its culture; most appropriate in our country and in this magnificent patriotic community.
]]>Carlino’s Restaurant in Garden City, New York has a great web site with great blogs. This one about pizza and Julius Caesar was a good one. Enjoy
http://www.carlinosrestaurant.com/did-julius-caesar-eat-pizza/
]]>Restaurants: Pissa’s, Spatta’s Lunch, Marcone’s, Angelo’s, Camille’s, Rosa’s, Smith’s, The Old Canteen
He writes of Melucci’s on the 200 block of Atwell’s Avenue. (Editor: My guess, early 1900’s)
Monaleek writes, “It was called the “Midnight Rounders” because after 11 you might find 100 young men from the Hill who would stop for a snack after leaving the theater, the pool parlor or the dance hall. There was always someone playing a ukulele and Charlie played his violin. The real favorite was Missouri Waltz. On summer evenings some of the neighbors who lived on the Caldarone block across the street would come in wearing pajamas to enjoy the fun. No ladies were allowed.”
He continues, “Sometimes, Babe Ruth( Providence Grays) showed up.”
So this is what Tony writes of the Hill. A ukulele player? Babe Ruth. The good old days, don’t you think? Wouldn’t you like to have been there; the proverbial fly on the wall, or maybe someone in pajamas.
“Ya jes caint make up this stuff,” a scribe might say.
Good news. My doctor gave me the documentation I needed to present to the Army when I was scheduled to report to the Induction Station at Fox Point.
My appointment was the day after the big Northeast blackout, November 8th, 1965. I packed some clothes and took my medical records. My father drove me. Assuming I would return quickly, I told him to wait.
While waiting to see the doctor, I heard my name over the loud-speaker. I reported with five others, one of whom I recognized as Roosevelt Benson wearing his Central High Football jacket. I was wearing my championship one from West Warwick. Roosevelt cracked my ribs the year before in a game we won. We shook hands and paused while wondering why we were in this room full of Marines!
The Gunnery Sergeant spoke.
“You six men have been selected for the Marines. You can enlist for two years or leave the room and board the buses for Fort Dix. You have 10 seconds to make up your f—— minds!”
Rosie and I looked at each other. I thought, “Hell if I’m going to die in combat I’d rather die a Marine.”
I blurted, “Marines! Let’s go, Rosie!”
Still thinking rejection, I handed my paperwork to the Sergeant. He read a moment, threw the papers in the garbage can and said, “Son afta a few laps ‘roun the parade grounds at Parris Island y’all ‘ll lose that murmur and anythin’ else that ails ya. Git yer ass outside on that bus ta Parris.”
Head down and in shock, I walked out to meet my father. I told him I was selected for the Marines and would be leaving momentarily.
He was as dumbfounded as I
He paused, frozen, “Goodbye, son.”
“Goodbye, Dad.”
We shook hands as we looked in each other’s eyes. There were no tears. Dad would not show weakness. (I found out later that he pulled over on route 95 and cried like a baby).
I boarded the bus and sat next to Rosie. Though the ride was daunting, it was a nice distraction to reminisce about the injury I sustained in the game.
From that day forward, we became best friends, going through boot camp, elephant platoon, advanced training, jungle warfare training and machine gun school together.
We separated when we landed in Viet Nam, but we knew we would ever be friends no matter what.
Rosie cracked my ribs, but won my friendship. ]]>
Ice cream from Biagio’s on Manton Avenue and the Lincoln Woods Creamery after a day of swimming
Eating Chinese food with Mom at Chen’s Chinese Restaurant on the second floor over Thom McCann’s store in Providence
New York System hot wieners at various places: across from the Majestic, in Olneyville, and on Chalkstone Avenue (the original, still there)
A hot roast beef dinner at the Silver Top Diner on Smith Street near the old St. Patrick’s Church
Hot dogs at Haven Brothers in front of City Hall
Angelo’s Restaurant on the Hill
Shepard’s Tea Room
Sfogliatelle
Lemon squares, sfogliatelle and zeppole
Picnics at Lincoln Woods with extended family
Lido Beach in Narragansett
Meatball and sausage sandwiches on Vienna rolls from DiLuise’s Bakery on Chalkstone Avenue
Hope Club or Fox orange and root beer sodas
Listening to Metropolitan Opera Broadcasts with my older cousin Nick Spada on Saturdays in his mother’s living room
Traveling opera companies at the Metropolitan Theatre…where older cousins brought me to see the big bands in the early 1940s…
Sneaking up the back stairs of the Arcadia Ballroom where I saw Louis Armstrong (Duke Belaire’s dad ran the place).
Playing the accordion at by Lillian Migliori’s recitals. She ran the Chopin Juvenile Club where I met young people who became stars — Christine Hennessey (ballet), Ray Martone (baritone), Anna Maria Saritelli(opera diva)
Playing trumpet in the La Salle Academy marching and concert bands
Listening to Italian 78 recordings on my grandfather’s windup Victrola
Swimming at the Olneyville Boys Club, in the “baby pond” at Merino Park, naked in the Woonasquatucket River, and at “The Bulk”, down from the bridge on Glenbridge Avenue
Riding my bike to Twin Rivers and, though forbidden, swimming in the abandoned quarry on Baltimore Street off of Manton AvenueSo…what did you like in those days…???
I thought that the only differences between this day and the usual Sunday dinner were that we ate turkey, rather than chicken; there was cranberry sauce; and the day was Thursday. I was wrong. The differences were much more.
My grandparents had known nothing of Thanksgiving when they arrived in America.
“But they found a way,” my aunt said. She continued, “My mother was progressive. She learned how to stuff a turkey and taught everybody else. She learned about yams and cranberries. She made us speak to her in English. She wanted to learn everything she could about her new home.”
Grandmother never saw a turkey before arriving here from a small town in southern Italy. She knew nothing of Pilgrims and how they celebrated their good fortunes in America. She was comforted, however, when she learned that she shared something with those early settlers: they had all arrived in fear, ignorance, expectation and hope. Because she felt this bond, she became more involved, more American. Thus she learned how to cook a turkey dinner for Thanksgiving not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
I returned from the football game to the wonderful aromas floating up the rear staircase of our Providence tenement, permeating all the floors. I opened my grandparents’ door. Our families sat around a huge table. The warm light streaming through the dining-room windows brought something — magic perhaps — that made every Sunday and every holiday dinner beautiful. The children had their own table, just as splendid as the adults’, in the adjoining parlor.
The feast began after a thankful prayer. Antipasto first, followed by requisite lasagna, then hot dumpling soup. A lull, then the stuffed turkey was presented as king, symbolically carried by grandfather followed by my proud grandmother. Mashed potatoes, turnips, sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce accompanied the turkey. Grandfather scooped out the stuffing, carved and served the turkey. We ladled out brown, not Italian red, gravy. When finished, we thought that we neither could nor would eat another thing, certainly not the desserts.
But, oh those desserts! In addition to traditional Thanksgiving pumpkin, apple and custard pies, we had torrone, spumoni, confetti (candy almonds), biscotti, noce (nuts), mandorle (almonds), nocciole (hazelnuts) and gelato. Stovetop-roasted chestnuts followed. Coke and Nehi sodas, Grandfather’s homemade wine, and espresso washed everything down.
Late in the day more family arrived, uncles carrying guitars and mandolins and music that extended the day’s festivities.
My grandparents, though immigrants, did what people in America have always done for Thanksgiving.
They appreciated and embraced it, added their culture, and then taught it to us. They taught us that it was our holiday, our American holiday, new and now familiar. It may have been “Italianized,” but it was now clearly American.
* Published ‘Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories.” New River Press, 2008
]]>
We strolled the beautiful town of Guimarães.in northern Portugal, home of the Dukes of Braganza.
We stopped for lunch in the quaint square of Santa Maria d’ Oliviera next to an olive tree that counted its years in its gnarly trunk.
Around the medieval square were shoulder to shoulder homes displaying their family coats of arms.
At midday, it was warm and sunny and the town, a tourist destination, rippled with the sounds of the multilingual from tables surrounding us at the Café’ Rolher.
All four of us had to have the local sandwich, francesinha, and it was worth it.
After lunch, we walked the narrow streets. We came upon the Academy of Music where from its second floor, we heard the sound of a clarinet student attempting to hit a high note.
Oops… squeaks…start over. Enthusiastic students carrying instruments got off the bus and filed into the Academy. More music.Is the clarinet lesson coming to an end? No, not yet. We hear a duet; the teacher and student. The music has hit another level, not just good, not just better but compelling. We listened.
Music can take you to different places. Here we are in Guimarães, Portugal.
Now we hear the church bells at the quarter-hour. Cars pass.
Music everywhere…different kinds, many sounds, all beautiful. ]]>