DAYS OF WINE AND PASTA

Bobby and Darby

Growing up in an Italian household filled one’s heart and soul with long-lasting sweet memories that rise to the surface of my consciousness. They feed me when I am lonely, they cry out to me in echoes from yesterday, and sadly, they remind me that my grandkids will never experience those wonderful memories that filled my days.

Dear Darby and Bobby,

Your names could have been Rose and Anthony or Maria and Giovanni, but that was a long time ago. You are the new generation and you will find new memories just as Grandpa has his. If there is one thing I want to give you as you grow and learn about your heritage, it is this: Once upon a time life was simple but beautiful.

There was a sense of family and what it meant was you lived for the days you were brought together, the times that you sat around a dinner table or shared a laugh, a joke, and yes, even a kiss. You watched the process of osmosis transform strangers and friends into family. With broken English and eyes that sang like a tarantella playing for welcomed people to the table of my grandparents.

There was my Grandpa Ralph with his plaid shirt and grey hair inviting you to sit down among the members of your new family. The voice welcoming he gave you the impression that grandma had tamed him long ago. His grey fedora cocked on his head he had no pretense he was simple and kind. You looked at his face and you saw the years of sacrifice to raise an American family, the calluses of hard work that encased his hands from manual toil, hands that carried the bread home. He was a proud man; work was his privilege loving and protecting his family was his need.

My grandmother Francesca was the glue that adhered to all who lived in her household, then married, moved away and had children, teaching, loving and there for all her children and grandchildren. My grandmother was an inexhaustible woman with talents that she employed on to her children, redefining them from her Old World to the New World. After all, she was raising an American family in her heart. She was not a linguist but tried none-the-less and made sure all her children spoke the American brand of the King’s English, preferably with a Brooklyn accent!

But my grandparents were not unique they were the norm as they say today. They were everybody’s grandparents that sailed to America from their homeland called Italia. Giving up what they cherished for a future in a strange land they sacrificed often their health, what little money they had and their past for the dream they realized.

There are amazing stories, millions of them from all the Italian immigrants that set their belongings on the shores of this great country. Disillusioned of their concepts that the streets were paved in gold they rolled up their sleeves and paved a golden future for their offspring.

With all their love of America, they still loved their Italia and so taught their children and grandchildren about the “Other side” as it was called. If you sat with these immigrants they left you with the clues that pointed across the sea. Their English was broken, yet they communicated with their hearts as they related their past as children in the old country.

On the holidays, be it, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day or Easter the family came together. Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins gathered in merriment, hands waving and gesticulating, voices singing and laughing, joy pure and simple. The plate of ziti or manicotti, maybe lasagna or ravioli, the meatballs perfectly rounded and the chicken roasted like it should be with a hint of lemon, simmering in a copper pan grandma brought back from her home across the sea.

Grandpa was that little old winemaker, making sure everyone had his glass filled, while it sat in the large pitcher with orange or peach slices, ready for the grandkids as the rushed grandpa for one or two slices, then, pretended they were drunk.

After dinner came the roasted chestnuts crossed by hand. I once asked grandma why she cut a cross in the chestnut and she said it represented every time she thought of me! Scattered across the white wine and gravy stain tablecloth were remnants of various nutshells, and then the demitasse cups were called to perform their duty with the dark roasted Espresso Coffee and anisette that flavored the bitterness along with a spoon of sugar.

I had great aunts and uncles who spoke broken English. They greeted you with kisses and left you with kisses, and in between they would tell you stories that left you laughing so hard your sides hurt. With their accent, they related the trials and tribulations of their lives and as they did, you would remember and repeat things they said long after they were gone. I miss them. I wish I could hear them once more, just one more story, one more squeeze of my cheek, one more dollar found mysteriously in my pocket, one more question out of love and caring concern.

God bless them all! There will never be those moments for me again, but they will live on in my core, my heart, and soul and I will cherish it all! The warmth and love they conveyed were special, like Italians on a whole all-loving and homey.