My Italian Family...

When I was an eight year old kid I lived in the city, in an Italian neighborhood. My home was on the third floor of my Grandpa's house.  Life was good then, after all, what did an eight year old boy have to worry about. My dad worked for the Indian Motorcycle company and my mother was a stay at home mom. I got three squares a day and a roof over my head. I roamed the neighborhood and played with the other kids. The summers lasted forever.

From the third floor I could look down into the backyard. Not very large but, back then everything looked larger than when revisited as an adult. In the yard was a large barn. It was a home for a draft horse. I don't remember the horse's name. My 'Pa' as we called him, ran an ice business and the horse hauled the wagon ladened with ice blocks to customers all around the city. I remember as a kid, going to a local frozen pond with my father. We'd cut blocks of ice from it using a large hand saw, haul the ice to my uncle's ice house near by, and store it. One day the draft horse was killed in a fire and soon after the ice business went the way of the dinosaur. The modern refrigerator had replaced the ice box. 

Next to the barn was a one car garage, so narrow that once a car was parked inside, it was nearly impossible to get out of the car. The remainder of the backyard was covered in grape vines. Every year they would grow to maturity and the whole yard was permeated with the sweet aroma of grapes. It was wonderful. Behind the barn and garage was a vegetable garden. This was Pas' crowning achievement and he tended it with great care. Everything was perfect. Rows of tomatoes, peppers, beans, corn and other things filled every square inch of the garden. Not a weed in sight. Every row, ram rod straight. Every plant pinched back. When it was time to harvest, he'd open the gate and escort Toni and me in. (Toni was my cousin and lived on the second floor) We were never allowed in by ourselves. This sanctuary...this, almost holy ground. I always felt 'special' when we went in. He'd point out what was ripe and tell is how to pick it. Carefully, slowly, I'd reach for the prize..didn't want to make mistake here. Maybe I'd never be allowed back in if I screwed up. Today, I think back and realize he must have been chuckling the whole time. 

On the second floor lived my aunt and uncle and their daughter Toni. The two of us were lucky. living there we got to spend lots of time with Pa. He lived on the first floor. Things in his place were always interesting. Never was there a time you could walk past his open door without being overwhelmed with familiar aromas of an Italian cooking. If he wasn't cooking down tomatoes for a tomato sauce he was preparing the grapes from the vines to make home made wine or grape jellies. Canning jars were everywhere waiting to be filled, topped off with a wax seal and capped. Every time I entered there was a huge bowl of pasta waiting..'sit, sit' he'd say 'mongiare' (eat). Dutifully I'd sit and stuff myself with spaghetti until I almost couldn't move. As it turns out, my mother once told me pasta was my first solid food when I was baby. Guess it left a lasting impression.

The real excitement came on Sundays. The entire family would come from all around to enjoy the dishes my Pa had spent all week preparing. Everyone gathered outside under the canopy of grape vines. From my perspective, it was electric and often times loud. Everyone had something to say. It was a large family. It was like a sibling rivalry convention. If you know anything about Italians, they can be opinionated at times and it always showed at these family gatherings. Arguments usually ensued but, by the end of the day everyone parted, at least, on speaking terms. To me it was almost comical. The following Sunday would be an instant replay. All of us kids just played and had a fun time. Oblivious to the adults for the most part.

Now time has passed, things have changed. Pa passed some time ago, and as with most families, once the 'glue' holding the family together is gone, the family slowly begins to disintegrate.  I'm certain this was the case with most families back then. Today families are much smaller. The cohesive element seems weaker. I don't personally know of any families that gather together on a weekly basis. It certainly is the case in my family. Once a large family, today our numbers have dwindled dramatically. The last generation is past. All that remains are a few cousins and their kids. We're spread out around a few states, rarely communicate, let alone visit one another...yup for a time, when I was a kid...I enjoyed my lovable Italian family.

Just my observations...Jake T