SKIPPY

At the age of three my niece Sandra was given a little puppy. He was a black and white toy short hair terrier, and even then he had a very inquisitive face. Skippy, as he was named, quickly shifted his allegiance from Sandra to my father. He started following him wherever he went and in no time the two had created a strong bond.

My father worked on the railroad and left home about 6:30 each morning. Skippy waited at the door for him and the two walked to the train station together, with Skippy running ahead, excitement in his every step. At the station Skippy waited while the men boarded and when the train left, he then came running home, his escort duty for the day finished. Sometimes my father did not want him to come. Perhaps it was too cold, or the snow was too deep. My father would tell him, in Italian of course, to go home. Skippy would stop and look at him with an inquiring look as if to say, “Are you sure?” My father would tell him again to go home. So Skippy would turn around, head down, tail drooping, with a very dejected look, and slowly come home. At three in the afternoon, Skippy went to the door to go out. He ran up to the corner and sat there to wait for him. If he did not soon appear, Skippy would go half way down the block to a bar. Waiting for the door to open, he quickly slipped into the bar. He sniffed everyone’s shoes, and when he found my father, he would jump up with paws on my father’s leg, and give him a joyful welcome. Then the two would walk home. He stayed close to him as my father took off his work shoes, all the time talking to him in Italian. For the rest of the day you did not see one without the other.

The living room was off limits to Skippy by my mother’s orders. However, when my father was in there, Skippy would saunter in, head held high, almost defiantly, and sit right next to his master. Mother would go in and tell him to leave, but he did not budge, not as long as his buddy was there.

At times, my father hand fed Skippy his breakfast. In this way he would be sure to have breakfast and still accompany my father to the station. Skippy loved my mother’s pasta, with bits of meatball and sauce. However, Skippy had developed a gourmet’s appetite, as he would not touch the pasta until Mom sprinkled some grated cheese over it.

When Skippy was l4, he became ill and the doctor said it was cancer of the throat and it would be a long painful death. So one day my father and Skippy took their last walk together. He took him to the vet to be put to sleep because he could not let his buddy suffer. What a sad day that was for all of us, especially my father, who came home crying. Now, almost 60 years later, we still talk affectionately of this great little dog.

MY MOM’s PASTA SAUCE

When our grandson began his college career at George Mason University he lived with us as we lived very close to the school. We enjoyed having a young person with us, and once he settled in a routine was created. He was at home quite often when I was cooking. His favorite meal was pasta with meat balls and tomato sauce. One day he decided he wanted to make it himself. He enjoyed cooking and did very well with the tomato sauce

What was supposed to be a one-semester stay with us turned out to be four years. I had to evict him when we moved to Greenspring. At that time he asked me to type out the recipe for the sauce. He and some friends lived in a town house and he practiced his cooking on them.

Between 2002 and 2007 he made several trips to the Mid-East, studying its history, culture, and religions. One day he e-mailed me from Amman, the capital of Jordan, asking me to send the recipe to him. He cooked for over 30 friends while there studying Arabic as part of the Critical Language Scholarship group. On another occasion he cooked for a smaller group and even had them chopping onions and making the meat balls. He bought all the ingredients at a Safeway in Amman! He told me that everyone enjoyed the meals, even those who had traveled in Italy. He said as the sauce cooked, it filled the area with a wonderful smell that drove everyone crazy. His travels included Israel, Jordan, Egypt, Yemen and Saudi Arabia.

Who could imagine that the sauce that my mother learned to make in a small village in Italy would travel to America and then all the way to the Mid-East. I am sure she would have been amazed!!

The amazing thing is Christopher is Korean by birth, American by adoption, with a lot of Italian thrown in.

FIRST CLASS? OH, YES!

Although I have done much traveling with my husband and children, it has always been tourist class. This spring my niece asked me to go to Italy with her but I was very reluctant to make this journey at this particular time. My son joined her in urging me to go. They knew of course how much I loved to see my relatives. Finally I gave in and my niece made all the arrangements. We were to leave from the Newark, NJ airport. A few days after we had paid for our tickets, she received a call from Alitalia, the airline we were using. The agent offered a deal which my niece said we could not refuse. After much convincing I finally said yes, we would travel first class on our way to Italy.

At boarding time, the first class passengers were called first. We were escorted to our seats. One of the male flight attendants explained to us the various buttons on our recliners. They were much too plush and comfortable to be called seats. Then we were given blankets and a lovely pillow. In the package with these items there was a small zippered bag which contained a comb, tooth paste and brush in its own little holder, a sleeping mask, lip moistener and cotton slippers. There was plenty of room to put our tote bags. I thought to myself, “Hmmm, so far so good!” Then, in no time at all, one of the flight attendants came to bring up our trays from the side of the recliner. These were covered with small linen tablecloths. Then he brought our silverware (which was really silver) and two glasses. Menus followed this and he poured wine – white for me, red for my niece. I read the menu, both in Italian and in English and I thought, “Wow, are we going to get all this?” Assorted hors d’oeuvres to go with the wine, then crepes au gratin with artichokes and feta cheese, or bowtie pasta with tomato and basil sauce, tenderloin in a Tuscan red wine sauce with polenta and portobello mushrooms, fresh fruit and cheese selection for dessert and of course expresso coffee. Throughout the meal the attendants were ever present asking if there was anything we desired. I must admit that after I spoke in Italian to them, they were even more solicitous. It was nice having these young handsome guys at my beck and call!

Not too long after dinner, the cabin was darkened and everyone prepared to sleep. We put on the slippers, played with all the buttons on the side of the recliner, until we hit the right ones to lift up the foot rest and lower the back, so in effect it became a comfortable bed. Out came the blanket, the pillow was put in place behind my head, and I prepared to sleep. I did sleep a good part of the night except the night was not very long. In just a very few hours it was complete daylight. The flight attendants did keep all the window shades down so as to keep the cabin dark as long as possible.

Soon a lovely breakfast of fresh fruit, orange juice, scrambled eggs with Canadian bacon, tomatoes and grilled mushrooms, various cookies and sponge cake and warm pastries were served with coffee, tea, or milk.

When it became time to leave, help was ever ready for us. The whole experience was great.

First class again? Oh, yes indeed!!

A Visit to Nonna

In 1949, when my husband received orders to go to Germany as part of the Occupation Army, I was very excited. Excited that I would get to see Germany and probably Europe, but more excited at the thought that I would eventually get to Italy. All our relatives were there and I had never met any of them.

We traveled to Europe on the USS Rose, a ship which had carried troops but had been refitted to carry families. Upon our arrival at Bremerhaven, Germany we traveled overnight by train to Munich. We stayed in the Excelsior Hotel for ten days until we were assigned our own quarters. Actually, it was only half a hotel; the other half had been bombed. We were very pleased when we saw our very nice house with a lovely garden. We settled in quite quickly and our son Jim who was only l6 months old was doing fine.

In October my husband got leave and we planned to go to Italy. Now I really got excited. When we finally got to Spoleto, our destination, I was anxiously looking for the address. And suddenly there they were – two of my aunts were outside waiting for us. They had been worried about how they would communicate with this American niece and were amazed that I could speak as well as they did, thanks to my mother’s teaching. Suffice to say that the next few days were spent in a whirlwind of visits. So many relatives, but I already knew who belonged to whom!

Memorable occasions were happening every day, but the most memorable, the happiest and saddest, occurred when we went to my father’s village. My grandmother had been told we were coming. The car was left down on the narrow dirt road we had traveled, and we walked up a narrow, winding path. There at the top of the hill was this very old lady, very thin, but standing very erect. Finally, after all the years of wanting to call someone “Nonna” the moment had come! I held out my arms and for the first time said “Nonna, Nonna!” We embraced and I was trying hard not to cry. Then she, instead of calling me by name, looked at me and said “I want my little boy!” Her little boy! This 93-year old woman wanted again that young 19-year old who had given her one last kiss and then left. Did either one realize it would be forever? This was almost 40 years later, and she wanted her little boy back … her little boy who was my 60-year old father. She never saw him again. It was the one and only time that I saw her.

Those of us who were children of immigrants never thought of the tremendous sacrifice that was made, and that we benefited from – it gave us the chance to be born in this country. The sadness and loneliness of those early years, completely separated from their families, must have been so great. And yet, as children, we did not recognize the nostalgia that would come upon them from time to time. This still remains one of the happiest, and yes, saddest experience s of my life. A wish granted – a dream fulfilled.

Laughter

My husband of 62 years passed away on February 6, 2009. He was just a few months shy of 90 years old.

He fought Alzheimer's Disease for almost five years. As he slipped away, I penned the poem below.

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LAUGHTER

This man, this wonderful man, that for many years

Has lived with me, and together we built a great life.

This man, with whom I shared everything,

The sorrows and the joys, the laughter and the tears.

But now, now, he does not laugh any more.

The first years when the babies came, how we loved all that.
And the middle years as we watched them grow up,
The fun times, the jokes, the trips, and some hard times.

Life has stolen much from him.
The ability to think, and to do so much.
The ability to share wonderful jokes.

But now, he does not laugh any more.

He does not see the humor any more, and there must be humor.

And laughter to get through the rough times.

But now, he does not laugh any more.
Each year takes much away,

The agility, the good looks, the ability to think,

But the worst thing to lose is

Laughter.

Stranger But so Familar

My husband, Anthony, passed away on February 6, 2009. We were married for 62 years.

My grandson, Stephen, wrote a beautiful poem about his grandfather's fight against Alzheimer's Disease.

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by Stephen Anzalone

He was so full of life,
He laughed all the time
Now he sits there in his chair
Drawing pictures at night.

I remember at a party
When he danced, he took the lead
He would tell stories about our family
Now when he looks at me

I see a stranger, but he’s still so familiar
His mind is slipping,
He’s desperately gripping onto his memories
The man who’s my grandfather is now a stranger
But he’s still so familiar to me

She looks at pictures, she thinks of forever
Now tears are running down her face
They’ve had good times, life was so right
Now he’s living in a different place

He’s a stranger, but he’s still so familiar.
His mind is slipping,
He’s desperately gripping onto his memories
He’s a stranger, but he’s still so familiar to the family.

Isn’t it sad how someone can fail so fast?
It happened just like that
It’s time to hold on
It’s time to be strong
Don’t let him forget the past.

He’s a stranger, but he’s still so familiar
His mind is slipping,
He’s desperately gripping onto his memories
Where is he, the stranger that was so familiar to me?

Snowy Day in January

It had been bitter cold for several weeks and, now toward the middle of January, it had been snowing heavily for two days. The year was 1921 and there was no heat in the house except for a coal range in the kitchen. In an upstairs bedroom a young woman had been in labor for almost three days. The doctor seemed totally confused at this point. A neighbor lady who was the unofficial midwife for these immigrant women did not know what else to do.

The mother-to-be was in great pain and she seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. She remembered her home village in Italy and her mother waving goodbye to her. She half turned and waved to her mother, but eagerly ran down the path to the main road. She was so excited to be really going to America with a friend of the family. She was leaving behind eight brothers and sisters and her parents, but her desire was greater than anything else.

A wrenching pain tore a scream from her mouth. She tried to distance herself from her body and from all the pain, for which there was nothing available. She thought of her first arrival in a new, foreign land, and of going to her friend’s house where a number of people awaited them. Among the people there was a handsome young man whom she learned was from the same area as her family. She still could smile at how quickly they fell in love. Just four months later they were married. This young man was now downstairs listening to the moans and screams of his bride of less than one year.

After those three long days of extended labor, the doctor finally made the decision to use forceps. The father was told of the perilous situation and was asked whom he wanted saved, the mother or the child. Of course he chose the mother and was so terrified he could hardly speak. The doctor, sure that the child was dead, worked to save the mother. He applied the forceps to the baby’s skull and pulled. The child was finally born and someone quickly wrapped her in a towel and put her at the foot of the bed. They worked feverishly on the mother to stop the hemorrhaging.

Suddenly out of the folds of the towel there came a sound! Then there was a loud cry! No one could believe what was happening. The helper quickly picked up the little bundle and unwrapped the baby, who was definitely crying for attention. Everyone was laughing and rejoicing at this miracle and someone ran downstairs and told the father that both had survived.

So, on that snowy, cold day in January a miracle happened. Into this family, which was so poor, with so very little to look forward to except hard work, a healthy baby girl was born. That baby girl was … me.

Terror on the Trestle

It was a beautiful, sunny, early-summer morning. Our son, Jim, who was 12 and was a Boy Scout, decided that this morning would be the perfect time for him to earn his hiking badge. He asked our neighbor’s son, who was a couple of years older, if he would also go. I still did not feel really good about this, but then he told me that Dean’s uncle would also go. I thought, “That’s good, an adult will be with them. They left about 11 A.M. with their packed lunches. Jim was really excited and looking forward to his adventure.

It became mid-afternoon and they were not back yet. I reasoned that they probably had gone further than they had planned. I became more and more jittery with that feeling in the pit of my stomach, the kind that mothers get when something is wrong. I kept looking up and down the street, but no one was coming. At about 4 PM the door opened and there stood Jim, white-faced and trembling, with a stranger. The stranger said that Jim and his friends had had a bit of a scare and he offered to drive them home, but Jim was the only one who accepted his offer.

It took quite a while for him to calm him down and talk to me. He just hung on to me and I could feel his heart pounding so hard. Finally, he said, “The train! The train was coming.” When he was calm enough, he told me the whole story. They walked to Accotink Park and climbed up the hill to the very top where the trestle is. It is very high off the ground, and they thought it would be shorter if they just walked across the trestle to the other side. Halfway across, they felt vibrations and Dean knelt down to put his ear to the rail. In this way he judged on which track the train was coming. The three of them jumped over the open space between the two sets of tracks and they lay down between the rails of the other track.

The engineer, seeing three people on the tracks, leaned on his massive air horn. Knowing he was too close to even slow down, all he could do was blast the train whistle.

Soon the train roared by at a frightening speed and they hung on to the rails. It was a long freight train and it seemed to take forever. The whole trestle shook from the vibrations; the noise was thunderous. When the train was completely past them, they got up and shakily made their way back the way they had come. When they got down to the ground, there was a man there who had realized what had happened. The boys were really frightened and he offered to take them home. By the time Jim got home, he was almost incoherent with fright. As it turned out the Good Samaritan had encountered the same experience as a young boy. Giving a Jim a ride home was his way of giving back.

Hours later I asked why Dean’s uncle would even consider climbing up to the trestle. I learned then that the uncle was only a couple of years older than Dean! I don’t think Jim ever got the hiking badge.

Many times over the years I have thought of how much danger they faced and how Dean knew the only way they could survive. Someone was really watching over them through this terrible ordeal.