Saturday,
May 05, 2007
Memories of Italia in the Neighborhood
The
ANNOTICO Report
The
memories are silly, but fun, and they sure do strike a familiar note.
Memories of Italia in the Neighborhood
By Jim Hillibish
Saturday, May 5, 2007
I grew up in a
neighborhood of first-generation Italians. Breathing, talking, cooking, family
- everything was a passion.
Building a
birdhouse became the restoration of the Sistine Chapel. It took Antonio four years ... .
There aren't
many of these old-timers left. We all are much less because of it.
A 1st Gen.
Italian neighbor invited me over for a "a little
sip of wine." Three hours later I find my way back home hoping nobody
steps on my hands.
This guy then
invited me over to "make a little wine." He had a grape press the
size of a Whirlpool washer, which it was in another life.
We went to
Mamma Antonelli
used to make a "little recipe" of Christmas pizelles.
She started Thanksgiving afternoon. She paused f or Mass on Christmas Eve, then
kept on baking through Near Year's.
AGONY AND ECSTASY
Italian wakes
are periods of profound grief, broken only by
mountains of pasta and the comfort that eating goes on.
The widow sat
next to me and inquired as to my pants size. I said 30. Her tear-red eyes
brightened.
"I had to
buy papa a new suit for his trip to see God. He's a 32, almost you," she
remarked.
"Yes
...?" I said, dropping my pasta fork, holding my breath.
"The suits
were on sale. I got two almost for one money,"
she said. We made the deal.
Italian
weddings. They take eternity. So beautiful. So solemn. The 37 cousins all under age 6 squirm in their
taffeta and corduroy. Finally, whew, he kisses the bride.
It takes four
minutes as they explore their molars. Mama finally nudges Aunt Marie. "The
first time," she explains, loudly.
Italians always
have fruitful honeymoons. The reception sees to that. Afterward, even the non-newlyweds
are in bed for a week.
It's OK to dance
with anybody, including the waiters. Some dance with chairs or wine bottles.
This stuff is so dry it causes fluids to flee the
brain, leaving you light-headed with hair standing on neck.
After my first
PROUD TO BE
ITALIAN
I visited an
Italian friend's house. He has a sign on a tree by his drive, "Parking for
Italians Only." He showed me his "Kiss Me
I'm Italian" underwear, his dinnerware with scenes of
"I'll bet
you wish you were born in
"No way - I
can't even speak the language." (I think I heard that one on Groucho Marx.)
The son of a son
of a First Generation Italian tells me of the afternoon when his grandfather
asked him what he wanted for Christmas.
"I really
need an encyclopedia for school," he proposed, figuring that to be the
most intelligent of answers.
Grandpapa
thought. His hands suddenly implored heavenward.
"Encyclopedia
my eye.
You can walk to school just like I did."
Seventeen
miles.
Why is it always 17 miles?
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