Saturday, October 31, 2015

Veni, vidi, vic


I used to look at my little Grandma Frances and years later my mother and wonder, after they had cooked a whole meal for a huge crowd, how they weren’t dog tired from it all. Not only was there all this delicious food; they maintained such high standards! Then they sat and chatted with the company, keeping pace with the hum of the different conversations and the intermittent injection of English and laughter. Their aprons worn from the years of devotion to the family: the meals borne of love and tradition. Sometimes a casual drop of gossip that cleared the room of all other business, the aunts oohing or calling upon some saint to save them from the spicy news.

Looking back now, I remember all the people that sat for dinner, and just ate and enjoyed themselves, but didn’t think about how lucky they were to be in not only this country, but having these feasts, all because of a little old Italian lady, God bless her soul who came to America as a young girl on her own, and rallied those on the other side to journey to America and make a better life!

It was a challenge for grandmas to put out as much food as possible to see who would fall to their knees screaming: “Basta!” But you went to Grandmas for dinner to meet the challenge yourself, before you screamed: “Basta!”

But off I went, daring anyone and anything from stopping me from my grandmother’s pallet of culinary delights. But wouldn’t you know it, there was always some character who could stop you in mid-bite. An elegant dance of the hands, accompanied by a vocal syncopation of the beautiful language as no one else can do but an Italian, ‘passione’!

Watching an Italian tell a story, is like watching a Broadway production, somehow it is exciting, musical and dramatic, the rising up and lowering of the voice, punctuating each word, it made for good dinner theatre! The theatre as I knew it was an enclave of holy pictures, and statues, votive candles and more rosary beads than I can remember, spotted throughout the rooms and bedrooms, always a cause to pray for.

But eventually you got through your meal, having come for dinner, eating and smiling through the burps!

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

THE PROFESSION OF FAITH SPEAKS MANY LANGUAGES


Recently, a friend of mine on Facebook lost a bracelet, which was of great sentimental value. She happens to be an fellow Italian and I think a great Facebook friend of mine without ever meeting her. She asked everyone to pray to St. Anthony to help her find her bracelet.

It got me thinking how much saints are rooted within the Italian culture, but also hold the same job for other ethic cultures as well.

Take my wife Ellen, an Irishman who like her Irish mom, believe in the finding power of St. Anthony. If they are Irish one would think they would pray to St. Kevin or Brian or even St. Margaret Mary, but no, St. Anthony will do just as well.

It seems a while ago I witnessed a miracle. It all started when we made plans to fly to Sedona Arizona for a vacation. Along with my wife would be my youngest son. The night before as we put the finishing touches on the suitcases, Ellen made an announcement: “Do we all have a form of identification for boarding the plane?”

#2 Son announced that he had lost his driver’s license! “LOST YOUR LICENSE!!!!” I calmly asked. Yes, somewhere in the house had to be his license and it was late in the evening, the flight being early the next morning from JFK which was over an hour away drive!

Looking at me she says: “Well you can laugh at me Joe, but I’m praying to Saint Anthony!” She then proceeds to drop on her needs over the couch and say a prayer, blesses herself and marches upstairs to #2 Son’s room.

Within moments of going up she came down looking like the feast of San Gennaro or maybe in this case, St. Patrick, holding up the license over her head with two hands. She had found the license through the power of her prayer, and faith.

I don’t laugh at faith, not at all.

Monday, October 26, 2015

TODAY


There are things in life that you hope you never have to do. Some of them are so horrible and revolting that the thought of doing them haunts you when you do. My little dog Happy, reaching the end of her life was put to sleep. When they injected her with the needle, the look of fear and the shaking of her body broke me forever: I will never own another dog.

Then there is the loss of a child, the most devastation thing to happen to any parent, a dark place I have been to before. That haunts you everyday of your life, as the joy for life seeps out slowly. The last looks at the hospital, the little songs I sung to him as he slept fitfully in my arms, intravenous tube attached to his little body, the only thing holding me together the hope that somehow he would survive.

And now I have found a new low in my life, being the guardian of an individual with developmental disabilities, one who is dying and suffers oh too much. I signed off on a DNR form, and so we will wean him off all his medications and watch and wait for the inevitable.

He is on my mind as never before, knowing I was the one that opened the door for this action, while closing the door on his life. I know that he will be better off, rather than suffering a short life anyway. But will God judge me and ask the hard question: “WHO ARE YOU TO DO MY JOB?”

GOD forgive me.

Monday, October 19, 2015

HELP! IMA GONNA DRRROOOWN!!

There are two interesting people in my life and one of them was Uncle Tony, a sweet man with a wonderful disposition, born on ‘the other side’ as they used to say. He wasn’t a blood relative but married my father’s sister. Grandma owned a duplex in a town called Patchogue: she rented it to my aunt on one side and my uncle, my father’s younger brother on the other. It seemed to be like North and South Korea, poor Aunt Angie had everyone’s sympathy always arguing and tensions could run high over the slightest misdeed intentional or not. Uncle Joe was a sour puss at times and cranky, yet was the life of the party as well, being very funny in his stories and jokes, for that we all loved him.
Together the two gentlemen were more like Laurel and Hardy, whenever they did something together, fix a fence or move a table, you could count on one doing something less than stellar and one get madder than a mad hatter.
So one day the two neighbors decided to rent a small rowboat and go fishing in the local lake, Uncle Joe and Uncle Tony. This was a formula for something outrageous to happen and sure enough it did.
As they went out into the middle of the lake, something snagged Uncle Joe’s line and he asked Uncle Tony to see if he could fix it. Uncle Tony gets up and is standing in the boat and Uncle Joe is yelling: don’t get up, don’t get up!!! I didn’t matter, Uncle Tony in his confusion now got unsteady from Uncle Joe’s pleas, and into the drink he went; head first.
There was uncle Tony floundering: “I CAN’T SWIM, HELP! IMA GONNA DRRROOOWN!!
By now Uncle Joe looks at him and says: “Tony… the %#$@+$& water is up to your knees for Christ’s sake, stand up!
Uncle Tony stood up and stepped back into the boat.
Tomorrow: FIT TO BE TIED.

Sunday, October 18, 2015

A GENTLE SOUL

The 37-year old son of Italian immigrants, he would lean in the doorway, which overlooked the three step grey stoop. He would stare out into nowhere, watching people go by. He could hear the cadence of a little girl as she bounced her rubber ball, and every once in while swing her leg over the ball as it descended, then abruptly ascended back into her palm, only to begin the process allover again.
Nick Iula

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IF THIS IS HEAVEN…
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