Sunday was a ritual day, a day of part fasting, part praying and mostly eating, drinking and conversations. It was a day of paying your respects to the elders and dressing up. It was the OFF day, and toward evenings the bluest time because you had to go back to work or school in the coming morning.
Sunday began by fasting because you had to go to ‘Holy Communion’ on Sunday morning, sit through a children’s Mass that was policed by the nuns, I think they were the Sisters of Agony, since every once in a while in church a whack went out for some poor soul who was not kneeling straight.
Walking back home after church, you could smell all the pasta sauce, the aroma of tomatoes and meat mixing together slowly in a massive pot, the underlying menu enhancer for the day. We would get home, hungry and Mom would put out buns or buttered Italian bread from the grocery store and I would get a little coffee and dunk away.
Then came the resurrection, that is, Dad finally getting out of bed where I find him at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee, the Daily News sports pages opened and his ever-present cigarette, leaving a haze so thick we needed to call out to each other to find ourselves.
Mom had a habit of running out of parsley sometimes, so she sent her little 6-year old son over to a Gummada to ask for some. I would walk over the few doors, enter the vestibule and ring their second-floor bell. The mamma would answer: “Who isa it?” knowing who it was and I would yell out: “My mother needs some parsley.” “OO parseleee, comer onna hup.” There she stood, a giant grin on her face as she greeted me. Before I got any parsley, I had to sit down and eat a pastry with a little coffee. Each member would greet me pleasantly and talk to me a little, I’d get the parsley and off I went.
We lived a few doors away from our Gummada, who had hailed from my Grandmother’s hometown kept us in their loop as well. There was Mamma, a sweet and wonderful woman who loved children and loved to squeeze my cheeks, muss up my hair, cowlick and all. There was her husband, a giant of a man who was hurt on the job working for the Pennsylvania Rail Road and relied on a cane. He would hobble with that cane and still worked because there was no insurance or benefits on the job in those days like there is today.
The children were all grown up, there were two sons, one called Tony and one Mike, there was a daughter named Catherine who married and I was her ‘Flower Boy’, and all of these wonderful people stayed in my heart long after I last saw them over 63 years ago.
Mom, like every Italian lady, made gravy on a Sunday morning. Your whole neighborhood did it, the slow cooking sauce percolating in the giant pot with meatballs and sausages, along with both beef and pork braccioli.
As a matter of course, around 11:00 am, Ah Gummbada would arrive, slowly climbing the steps with his cane, be greeted by mom and dad and dad would go into the closet, reach the high shelf and pour his guest a shot of whiskey, they would talk over his cigar and dad’s cigarette.
Then after ‘Pop’ had left, up would come to Mike, a jovial sort who had ideas to do all kinds of things, mostly piped in by his angels. He would advance to mom’s sauce pop, get himself a fork and dig deep into the pot and pull out a meatball, which he put in his mouth… whole.
If Brooklyn is known for its churches, parks, and trees, it was also known for its knick-names and Mike’s brother Tony had one. It was ‘Pineapple’ and that is how I knew him. Then one day Dad sent me to the corner candy store to get a newspaper for him and who shows up? Tony! What do I say? “HI, pineapple!” Old Pineapple isn’t too happy about the greeting and says: “WHYN do people call me pineapple, my name is Tony!” That is how I found out his real name.
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