THE GIFT

Once upon a time

As I look back at this Christmas season, my mind takes me to Christmas’ spent in an apartment in Brooklyn so long ago. It is not the gifts I found under my tree, but the gifts that were under my very nose that made me whole and grateful to this very day.

I can still hear the echo of those days, taste the essence and be blinded by the moments as they stand out today in my mind.

“La famiglia prima di tutto” was the binding that took all our lives and brought us together in a sacred place at a sacred time. It was watching the many visitors that rang my grandmother’s doorbell and marched in joyously, arms open and mouths puckered for the greeting we all gave and endured. The happy tones were set and the level of sunshine surpassed any we ever knew before. The excitement of seeing cousins and aunts and uncles you hadn’t seen in awhile raised your hearts and souls as high as that sun that shone. In those greetings was the underlining reminder that something good to eat was cooking and we would all share in it, grateful for our heritage.

Often there were people I didn’t know, lonely and maybe recently widows or widowers who came to sit with us and share in some happiness, grandpa in his fedora or grandma in her floral apron, taking a moment from her stove to embrace all who came to our table.

Today I think back as I see my own grandchildren and children and I realize that we all have been given a gift, from the old country or the ‘other side’ that we heard so often. It came in an accent of English that was a struggle to being learned by older people.

I can hear them as they speak enthusiastically conveying love with their smiles, laughter, and the waving of their hands for emphasis. And what were their gifts that day? They brought me a wonder, joy, elation, and pride that I was part of something so special. I can hear them as they insisted on helping grandma cook, setting a table or pouring wine into pitchers with peaches or orange slices, bottles of cordials set aside on a serving table, nuts piled high waiting to follow the pastries standing in wait for the main course to be consumed, all bearing the love of those that sat at the table.

On occasion, there would be the flash of a light bulb from a Brownie camera that would someday be viewed as old and faded but grabbing my heart and soul and taking me back to those wonderful days.

I remember the joy on Dad’s face as he saw his brother and sisters, bringing Grandma into the conversations in Italian, Grandma correcting and telling stories about the past, some involving grandpa, comically, as grandpa waved them off with a smile and we all laughed with him.

The intensity of grandma cooking was accompanied by the flip-flop of her slippers as she ran across her oversized kitchen. Slowly we gathered around that head-to-head double table, a glass of wine or a stolen piece of bread or meatball someone was eating.

Everyone was dressed on Sunday at their best. The women in fancy dresses with aprons, the men with their ties askew as they slowly peeled away to the open collar and tie before we even sat down to eat.

Then the dinner was ready! That big old pasta pot was steaming and the spaghetti was distributed, the gravy dished over it and the satisfaction that you would eat finally arrived. As the dishes came out so did the stories, stories about childhood or jobs or children, some were sad and some were happy, all were listened to with keen interest. What happened on the boat that brought grandma or grandpa here so many years ago, the jobs they held as immigrants and because they were such dependable workers still owned?

Grandma would talk about some child of a friend of hers who achieved college or became a lawyer or doctor, speaking in admiration and respect, someone she admonished her grandchildren to respect because he was educated. There was mention of priests and nuns and stories about her own children, and grandpa would add when he wasn’t arguing politics with a relative. In those days politics was what you read about, not what you were. The emphasis with arms and hands swinging about, voices rising to make it look like Mussolini was one of our guests.

There were always characters that showed up old friends of the family and people I didn’t know. The smelly lady, the communist, some friend of this or that one, there was Italia and her husband, a wiry blond guy from northern Italy with wiry curls that sat in a row along the sides of his head. An abundance of phrases that in broken English made me run into the bathroom so I could laugh and say them a few times to myself, then the next week mom would grow tired of hearing me repeat them.

But most of all: “La famiglia prima di tutto” was what makes me laugh and remember and mostly miss them all.