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

 

Canton Rep

Canton, OH
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 Sandusky wine country to get his grapes, in Uncle Leo's double-axle cement-contracting truck. We made 122 gallons of squeaky-dry red wine.

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.

Segesta vino. Only 1st Gen. Italians drink it, menfolk, in the kitchen, over DeNobili cigars. Segesta has all the "nose" of jet fuel.

This stuff is so dry it causes fluids to flee the brain, leaving you light-headed with hair standing on neck.

After my first Segesta, I could not figure out why my face hurt. I rushed to a mirror. I had a grin wider than a 6-week-old zucchini.

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 Rome.

"I'll bet you wish you were born in Italy," I offered.

"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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