I raced to the black and white TV when I heard the first rousing measure of the William Tell Overture. This familiar tune meant my two favorite Thursday night events: spaghetti for dinner and the Lone Ranger Show. Adding to the excitement was a visit from wonderful Grandma Carmela. It took so little to amuse this teenage girl in 1963.
Mama and my little brother Angelo spent that entire day at the Jacksonville Farmers Market helping Daddy with his produce business. This indulged my guilty pleasure of having Nonna all to myself. In just two days she would return to New Jersey after a way-too-short visit with the Florida clan. Who knew when I would see her again, or what a memorable evening it would be?
We talked and we cooked, a vision of contrasts: the 82-year-old cinched in her ever-present corset, flowered dress and apron, standing in her brown orthopedic shoes; the 17-year old clad in short shorts, halter-top and bare feet. Her creamy skin was soft and hairless, legs covered by thick cotton stockings. I flaunted a dark tan from a long summer of sun-worship and feeble attempts at surfboarding. Nonna had a faint scent of baby powder and Ivory soap; I reeked with Topaz, Avon’s brand-new cologne. One spoke a mixture of Italian with a sprinkling of fractured English. The other, a clipped Southern drawl.
And so, we traveled on the tales of her crisscross journeys from Italy to America at age 22, back to the homeland, and finally a permanent move to New Jersey—a chance to start a new life. I savored the opportunity to learn my grandmother’s delicious culinary tricks and discover some juicy family secrets.
“Nonna, how do you make your famous spaghetti sauce?”
“Today, we maka the suga together. Usa everything fresh from the garden: tomatoes, garlic, onions, parsley and basilico.”
“But I didn’t get your Green Thumb…”
“Silenzio! Cooka the pork neck bones and salsicce in the olive oil with the onion and lots of the garlic. Then browna the tomato paste in the pan. Puta together, cook alla day. Finalmente, a little Chianti and the meataballs, perfecto!”
“When did you learn how to cook? Did your mama teach you?”
“No, Bella mia, Mama she die I’ma nine years. Papa marry La Zia and two more filii. I learn to cooka fast.”
I teared up at her painful stories of loss. Leaving her parents and siblings in Italy. Death of three children…a son miscarried and two daughters who died tragically at ages four and nine. Uprooted from her comfortable Italian countryside villa. Humiliation of a subservient life in the apartment ghettos of Little Italy aka Paterson, New Jersey. Forced to send her lovely daughters to work in textile sweatshops. Adjusting to a new world of foreign tongues and foreign minds.
I laughed at her antics defending her honor as a “single parent” during Grandpa’s trips back to the states. The laborers that frequented her deli in Serino often tested her fidelity to her absent husband. I could imagine her wielding one of Nonno’s butcher knives and chasing the would-be suitors from her door.
“Antonio, he maka four trips. Every time he come, a new bambino. 1927, I closa the Tabacorria, and closa the baby door too. We mova to America for good.”
“How did you manage raising kids and running a business in Italy while Grandpa was gone?”
With eyes gazed to Heaven, “Aiuto di Dio…and a stronga backahand!” her words punctuated by that famous Italian gesture.
“You were the original liberated woman! I’m sure I got your genes.”
That night our dinner table overflowed with extended family, sumptuous food and passionate debates of the upcoming presidential election. The fragrance of our yummy sauce competed with the smell of grilled t-bone steaks, strong espresso and Daddy’s homemade vino. When I had my fill of superb Italiano cuisine and boring adult conversations, I returned to the living room to watch my beloved western.
Just as the cowboy asked Tonto the famous question, “Who was that masked man?” I looked down the hall and noticed Grandma. She was sitting at the end of the kitchen table surrounded by a weird light. I blinked a couple of times, but the shimmering luminescence continued for a few minutes. By the time the commercial for Ipana toothpaste was over, the light was gone.
The shocking phone call came three hours later. Gaiety that had filled the house all evening evaporated. Sorrow and grief crept in. Uncle Orrie woke us with news of Nonna’s sudden death.
My eyes stung and my chest hurt. I couldn’t catch my breath. The delicious aroma of dinner transformed into a revolting stench. I staggered into the arms of my sobbing mother. It was my first encounter with death and an abrupt end to my youthful innocence. That night was a prelude to the assassination of our young president three months later.
The memory of that strange glow around Grandma made me shudder. I crossed myself and muttered a Hail Mary. My eyes had not tricked me after all. It was just Grandma’s halo.
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Living my personal mission statement, “Each One, Teach One,” my greatest blessing is being the mother of two, grandmother of three and a lifelong educator. A graduate of UF and UNF, I am the former principal of St. Paul’s Catholic School in Jacksonville Beach, Florida and executive director of Tree Hill Nature Center in Jacksonville.
Since retirement my avocation is now my vocation – freelance writing. The technical writing of past professional life evolved into more creative genres of poetry, short fiction and memoir. My goal is to invoke the entire spectrum of human emotions in my reader: longing to laughter, pain to promise, despair to discernment.
