Six Year Old Me on the Steps of 200 Lodi St. |
The Italy of my
memory is made up of patches of experiences, sounds and smells - the street,
the neighbors, our apartments. In my grandmother's apartment it was the kitchen
you walked into first, drawn in by the
warmth and aroma of what had been eaten, or what was going to be eaten that
day.
On the best of days
there would be plump bulby green artichokes, fragrant with the smell of herbs
from the Roman countryside, the wild mintucce that my grandmother’s sisters
would send to her. In those days you could send herbs from the "old
country" to America without airport alarm systems going off and drug
sniffing dogs setting out a howl. On
other days it was the sweet smell of a chicken roasting or bacala simmering on
the stove. There was always something.
I remember the
voices of the card players coming from the back room of Joe's Bar and Grill, Joe
being my grandmother’s brother. We lived in the apartments above the bar, my
grandparents in the front apartment and my mother, father and I, and later my
brother, in the back. I remember staring down from my grandmother’s second
story porch at the craggy old man with the grinding wheel strapped to his
back walking up and down the street calling out "sharp knives - sharp
scissors" in his strange to our ears Jewish accent. Back in the day 200
Lodi Street was a lively, magical place. It was my little Italy.
In true Italian
fashion, I was kept under lock and key, pampered and spoiled like a hot house
flower. There was a small fenced-in garden in the back of the house where I
used to play, swinging on the swing as I listened to the heated discussions
over the bocce game that was going on the other side of the fence. As the hard
ball rolled down the soft packed earth court it was accompanied to its final
destination with hoots and howls and words of encouragement or disbelief.
"Cazzo!" the
men would yell. "Cazzo" I would say as I sat on the swing.
"Vai, vai, vai
cretino", they would shout at the ball.
"Vai
cretino" I would repeat.
My Italian lessons
would continue at the end of the day when I would sit near the radiator in our
apartment and eavesdrop on the conversations going on over the card games in
the back room of the bar below. Melodic obscenities, the poetic voice of
Italian laborers, used to roll off my sweet five-year-old lips like dew off a
grape.
Our life on Lodi
Street was contained, it was as Italian as Italy itself, it was only the location
of the drama that had changed. My grandmother most certainly drew comfort in
that containment as there were many things she didn’t understand about life and
living in the land of opportunity. The one I remember best was her problem with
central heating.
My poor father. Every
winter it was the same old story. Every time he’d walk into my grandmother’s
apartment and find the windows wide open he would shake his head in frustration.
First he would go around and close them,
then he would walk her over to the thermostat and say, “Ma, if you think it’s
too warm in here just turn this little knob to the left. Move the little arrow
down a couple of notches and in a few minutes the house will be cooler. Do you
understand?”
“Va bene,” she would say
looking over his shoulder at me, her co-conspirator, and I would raise my
eyebrows and put my lips together in a sign of solidarity. I knew the scene by
heart. As soon as the door closed behind him, around we would go flinging open the
windows once again. An icy blast of upstate New York winter would hit the
thermometer and the poor furnace would kick in and start running full blast
again.
She Taught Me How to Wear a Hat, Play the Piano, Love Opera, Not Be Afraid and to Know When to Keep My Knees Together |
My grandmother and
my father used to argue a lot. Most of the arguments had to do with my grandmother’s
insistence on sending things to her sisters in Italy. The dark, heavy, almost
purple mahogany dining room table was the collection point. It was always piled
high with this that and the other thing she thought they might be able to use.
Mostly she sent clothes and shoes. Other times she would send bolts of fabric,
rolls of lace, collars and belts, photos from American fashion magazines,
packages of pasta and cans of tuna fish and anchovies. The war was over but
life in the small hill town of Piansano was still difficult, and her sisters
still had to get dressed every morning and they still had to eat.
I remember the day
the letter from Italy arrived with the news that her sister Mary’s oldest
daughter Pina was going to marry Riccardo Moscatelli. My grandmother became
obsessed with the wedding. The dining room table, which normally held piles of
clothing and mysterious boxes that had been taped shut, was soon buried under
the load.
“Ma, please”, my
father would plead, “they don’t want this stuff. You don’t even know what they
need. Do yourself a favor, do me a favor, just send them some money.”
But just sending
money was not going to satisfy my grandmother, nor was it going to resolve the
problem of the wedding. Then she got the bright idea to send her niece my
mother’s wedding dress.
“Absolutely not,” my father said. “No. Forget
it.”
The white satin
wedding dress with its long train, took up the whole dining room table. The
lace veil, attached to a simple band of tiny satin lilies of the valley,
hovered over the top of the dress like the Maid of the Mist at Niagara Falls.
Sheets and sheets of tissue paper were placed on this confection as it was
folded, and folded and folded again, until it became a sort of puffy square
marshmellowy thing that would fit in the box that was patiently waiting to take
it to its final foreign destination.
Many years later, after I had moved to Italy, I met Pina, the recipient of the wedding dress.
“How we use to look forward to those packages
from Zia ’Malia,” she said to me. “You can’t imagine how important they were to
us. We had nothing. Each package was like Christmas. I remember a dark blue
satin blouse with a round velvet collar; I had never seen anything so beautiful
in my whole life. But the wedding dress, oh the wedding dress,” she said,
slowly shaking her head as her eyes welled up with tears. “The wedding dress
was so special. There are no words.”
But I really didn’t
need words, I understood. I had always understood. After all, I grew up on Lodi
Street, didn’t I?
This article was originally commissioned for the 100th Anniversary Edition of the Syracuse Post Standard.
What a touching story. I loved every word and your nonna.
ReplyDeleteWonderful to read, and I especially loved your old photographs and captions. We're here in Italy and I constantly have to remind my husband to cool it with the "cazzo!" as our 2 year old daughter is starting to repeat everything! ;)
ReplyDelete