People sometimes complain that I make fun of my Italian
relatives and Italian-Americans and that I shouldn’t. They don’t understand.
My grandparents had a cellar, an interesting place as any
I’ve known in my life. Down in this cellar was a treasure of antiquity and
mystery, history and tradition, as ever there was in any such a place. The
cellar ran the length and width of the house, and it was broken into three main
sections. There was the majority of the cellar, and two small separate rooms,
one housing a wine press and one for canning.
It had just 2 overhead exposed light bulbs with a string
hanging from them to pull on and off the light. The floors, cast in cement
offered no comfort or welcome, as did the surrounding atmosphere of darkness
and mystery.
As you entered the cellar from the long hallway that had
this almost visible portrait of a devil from the harsh paint strokes that dried
on the outer door, (It was my imagination) telling you to tread cautiously and
don’t wake up the demons you descended the steps and immediately things started
to happen. You came to an old Victrola, with the dog looking into the sound
system: “His Masters Voice.” label on the grammar phone or speaker with the big
knob-like needle holder that you manually placed on a record. On the sides, it
had moveable slats that looked like large vents to direct the music.
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| His Master's Voice |
As you moved past the Victrola, there was a free-standing
room with doors making up the walls of this room, and I wondered if my
grandfather kept a monster in the room, as I gently pressed my ears against one
of the doors. I would hear these noises coming out of it and would back away,
my knees shaking and the urge was to run. (It was the furnace!)
There were used oxygen tanks from before the war and after
when Dad made glass novelties and other things that had an interest to me, but
the thing I always went to look at was, my grandfather Joseph, fresh off the
boat when the picture was taken. He is in a black pressed suit, black bow-tie,
a stiffly starched shirt, and black shiny shoes topped off with a boutonnière
on his lapel. This picture amazed me as it had him standing in front of this
grayish background from an almost Draconian set, next to a table that stood on
three legs, as it was a small table. The picture must have been about 30’ x
40”, and although I was named after him, I never met him. His sharp black
mustache trimmed to a pencil thickness dominated his face, and his eyes seemed
to tell so many mystic stories. Here was the cradle of American life born from
the “other side.”
There were two long factory tables, probably where all the
glass novelties were placed and sorted before being shipped to customers.
Flags, American in kind stood in one corner of the room and pictures of
haunting poses of saints occupied the other walls, and as you walked the length
of the cellar you could almost hear the echo of days past, each object with its
own tale to tell.
Then there was Grandmas gas stove and the wonderful steaks
she would make on it. She had what best can be described as an iron wired
contraption with a long handle that you lifted to place a piece of meat in, you
closed the handle and placed the steak on one of the burners and there you
roasted or bar-b-q the steak, leaving a mouth-watering smell that drove you
crazy if you were in the least bit hungry!
The canning room had shelves lining it, with jar after jar
of tomatoes, eggplant and other canned delights that once extracted from the
darkness of its home and placed on the plate created all the sunlight you
needed in your life.
When Grandma cooked, she reduced things down to the simplest
of terms, she cut her garlic over the pan, she tossed her spices by the pinches
and stirred her magic to perfection and completion, leaving the dinner totally
satisfied. When the canning room came alive while processing the tomatoes, in
particular, there were flies everywhere, but grandpa rigged a big fan that kept
them out of the room.
There were weddings and parties with relatives with accents.
These accents were the poetry of these wonderful peoples lives. They and their
accents were accepted finally into the mainstream of America, making it
possible for me to be who I am and do what I want. Their accents meant to me a
calling from home and the heart. Yes, the accents were but identification of
their hearts and souls, warm and loving. To tell my stories is to tell how much
I loved and missed them all.
Oh, I would give anything to once again see my grandparents,
to feel the special love that came from them, in their zest for life, their
kindness, and generosity, their love of food and family, because it was family
and love that fueled the engine they drove.
I can cry that I miss them, but laugh at the memories and
take comfort in their lives touching mine.
So what lurked in that cellar?
Memories of love.
