WHERE HAVE THEY ALL GONE?

As I have reached old age, I can sit back and enjoy some of my memories and reflect on what has made me who I am. I can still hear the echoes of yesterday, the laughter of the wise ones, the pioneers who helped build this country and me personally. Their accents punctuate who they are and where they come from, that jewel of the Mediterranean, Italy.

I thought that Grandma would live forever and that grandpa was indestructibly been by her side, forever. That I would live in harmony with the old traditions that lay in the sepia tone of my memories, the canned tomatoes, the pressed wine and vinegar, and pickled vegetables that lined the basement storage rooms.

Seeing the icons and pictures of saints’, testimonials of their piety by the great Italian Renaissance artists that lined some of the walls of their home. I can hear one more time the sound of her screen door that led from to kitchen to the backyard as basil or parsley were claimed form Grandpa’s garden.

If I listened carefully I could get the gist of the Italian love songs that grandpa sang to himself as he traversed through the threshold, coming and going. If you followed him in his grey fedora you could watch him put a nail in there or a screw in here, his tools, like him, well worn but dependable.

Sundays and holidays would spring to life as relatives from out of town would begin the migration for a day to Brooklyn and the happy sounds emanating from adults and children alike, greeting for the day, laughter and of course, a little loudness to make it all Italian or official, depending on how you wanted to listen to it.

There were relatives I didn’t know existed and those that were legendary; all had a nickname and a story to them that made them unique. All the little old ladies, mostly dressed in black with religious medals pinned like they were decorations for military service, rings on more than one finger and speaking of fingers, fingers that I would avoid at the cost of getting my cheeks pinched. (Facial cheeks)

In almost every Italian family get together there was always an Uncle Joe, or Aunt Tessie, in case you didn’t have one or the other, I had two of each!

In those days it seemed they all came dressed in their very best. Fancy suits and ties that would be discarded as the pasta came out and the cards were dealt for the pinochle game that followed the end of the day.

There was always a hierarchy that was respected, Grandma, Grandpa, and Zio Felice, my grandmother’s older brother. He stood 4’6” with a long handlebar mustache, a critical eye, and tongue. The eye was for the ladies and the tongue for the food. He had, and I am not making this up, 19 children. His wife never showed up and now I realize why she was getting some sleep and much-needed rest.

As I sit here writing this, I wish I could see and hear them all, just one more time.