Written for RDP, where leapingtoes asks
us to get creative with the word ‘broke’.
Here’s where the prompt took me.
Tag: Italian
RDP Saturday: sandwich
Today at RDP, we are asked to share a
story, poem, photo, painting, essay, etc.,
focusing on the word ‘sandwich’. Here’s my take.
Takeout Stakeout
Written for Esther’s “Can You Tell A Story In…..?”
#280 – exactly 30 words including the four
required prompts: ‘devious’, ‘brick’, ‘chicken’ and
‘tunnel’. The amazing graphic was created by
Kevin @ No Theme Thursday. This is my story.
The Bus Ride
Written for OLWG #410.
The three prompts are shown below.
This is my story.
Sunday Morning With Carlo & Marie
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where
we are urged to get creative in 250 words or less.
The photo below is our inspiration; this is my story.
My Dad’s Lesson: Dectina Refrain
When my father emigrated to the US
from Sicily, he was given advice that
changed his life. With that in mind,
this is my response to dVerse Poetics:
For the Love of the Broadsheet.
I have chosen a Dectina Refrain.
Bones Of Steel
Introduction: More Italians have emigrated to the United States than any other people in Europe. When they first arrived, speaking no English, they learned very quickly the only jobs available to them were in sanitation and construction. They took pride in their work. The resulting cathedrals and skyscrapers dotting Manhattan are testaments to their craftsmanship and determination.
I will not lie; this is not a new piece. It’s been
whittled down from its original 746 words to
250 words for The Unicorn Challenge where
we are urged to get creative using the photo
below as our inspiration. This is my story.
Honeysuckle and Provolone
Originally written several years ago, I thought this fitting
for this week’s Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Going To The Mattresses*
Written for Weekend Writing Prompt #381 where
Sammi asks us to use the prompt word “bungle” and
get creative in exactly 41 words. Here’s my flash.
Dio mio! I’m afraid I’ve bungled things quite badly.
While planning the seating arrangement for my son’s wedding, I inadvertently placed Zia Carmella at Table 1 and her sister, Zia Francesca, at Table 2.
An insult! Disgrazia!
This means war!
NAR©2024
41 Words
* In times of war or siege, Italian families would vacate their homes and rent apartments in safer areas. In order to protect themselves they would hire soldiers to sleep on the floor in shifts. The meaning of the phrase “going to the mattresses” symbolizes the association in Italian folk-memory of mattresses with safety in wartime. The phrase wasn’t well known outside the US and Italy prior to the Godfather movies. It was used there, and later in The Sopranos, to mean “preparing for battle”.
When Kay met Michael, scenes from an Italian wedding (Godfather, 1972) featuring Al Martino as Johnny Fontane. This is “I Have But One Heart (O Marenariello)”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Flying … or … Volare
Written for Song Lyric Sunday. This week Jim Adams has asked his
readers to choose a song they remember from their childhood.
Music has always been a huge part of my life since my days growing up in The Bronx. Every self-respecting Italian family has a finished basement … one wide open room with a kitchen, eating area, a space for family activities, a TV area, a bathroom and closed-off workshop. Our television was one of those big console units which also included a radio and stereo with a storage cabinet and looked something like this:
When my sister and I listened to our music, my mother would either be cooking or in her sewing area and Dad would be at the kitchen table working on a crossword puzzle. He claimed he didn’t like our music but he never actually left the room when it was on. However, on Saturday afternoons my father commandeered the radio so he could listen to his favorite Italian show called “Pasquale C.O.D.” I remember it being just like WMCA … the station I listed … only in Italian. Pasquale was the DJ who’d talk about everything from food to politics and play the top hits from Italy and the US.
In 1958 there was a song we heard often and it became a family favorite; it got to be so popular, it wasn’t just limited to Dad’s Italian station. People all around the world could hear Domenico Modugno singing his hit “Nel blu, dipinto di blu“, more commonly known as “Volare”. Modugno composed the music and, along with Franco Migliacci, wrote the lyrics. The single was released on February 1, 1958.
The song spent five non-consecutive weeks atop the Billboard Hot 100 in August and September 1958, and subsequently became Billboard’s #1 single for the year. In 1959, at the 1st Annual Grammy Awards, Modugno’s recording became the first ever Grammy winner for both Record of the Year and Song of the Year. For more info about “Volare”, you can click HERE.
Here is “Nel blu, dipinto di blu (Volare)” by Domenico Modugno. This one’s for you, Dad.
LYRICS
I think a dream like this will never come back
Penso che un sogno così non ritorni mai più
I painted my hands and face blue
Mi dipingevo le mani e la faccia di blu
Then suddenly I was kidnapped by the wind
Poi d’improvviso venivo dal vento rapito
And I began to fly in the infinite sky
E incominciavo a volare nel cielo infinito
Flying oh, oh
Volare oh, oh
Singing oh, oh
Cantare oh, oh
In the blue painted blue
Nel blu dipinto di blu
Happy to be up there
Felice di stare lassù
And I flew, I flew happily higher than the sun
E volavo, volavo felice più in alto del sole
And even higher
Ed ancora più su
While the world slowly disappeared far away down there
Mentre il mondo pian piano spariva lontano laggiù
Sweet music played just for me
Una musica dolce suonava soltanto per me
Flying oh, oh
Volare oh, oh
Singing oh, oh
Cantare oh, oh
In the blue painted blue
Nel blu dipinto di blu
Happy to be up there
Felice di stare lassù
But all dreams fade away in the dawn
Ma tutti i sogni nell’alba svaniscon perché
When the moon sets, it takes them with it
Quando tramonta la luna li porta con sé
But I continue to dream in your beautiful eyes
Ma io continuo a sognare negli occhi tuoi belli
Which are blue like a sky studded with stars
Che sono blu come un cielo trapunto di stelle
Flying oh, oh
Volare oh, oh
Singing oh, oh
Cantare oh, oh
In the blue of your blue eyes
Nel blu degli occhi tuoi blu
Happy to be down here
Felice di stare quaggiù
And I continue to fly happily higher than the sun
E continuo a volare felice più in alto del sole
And even higher
Ed ancora più su
While the world slowly disappears in your blue eyes
Mentre il mondo pian piano scompare negli occhi tuoi blu
Your voice is sweet music that plays for me
La tua voce è una musica dolce che suona per me
Flying oh, oh
Volare oh, oh
Singing oh, oh
Cantare oh, oh
In the blue of your blue eyes
Nel blu degli occhi tuoi blu
Happy to be down here
Felice di stare quaggiù
In the blue of your blue eyes
Nel blu degli occhi tuoi blu
Happy to be down here
Felice di stare quaggiù
With you
Con te
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Domenico Modugno/Franco Migliacci
Nel blu, dipinto di blu lyrics © Downtown Music Publishing, Peermusic Publishing
There were more than 100 different recordings of “Volare” worldwide but my favorite from 1960 was the version by Italian-American pop singer Bobby Rydell (Ridarelli). Even my dad thought he sounded pretty good! His recording reached #4 on the Hot 100 during the summer of 1960, #22 in the UK and #3 in Canada. Here is Bobby Rydell’s version.
Of course, we couldn’t go flying without the wonderful Il Volo (flight) and their rendition of “Volare”. These young vocal sensations came on the scene long after my father passed away; I wonder what he’d think of them. Here is Il Volo.
Big thanks to Jim Adams for hosting another great Song Lyric Sunday this week. Be sure to click the link and check out Jim’s site.
Thanks for stopping by. See you on the flip side. 😎
NAR©2024
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Buon Appetito: An Ovi Feast
Ronovan offers the inspiration “food”
for Ovi Poetry Challenge #50.
Here’s my serving; pull up a chair.
Escarole and bean
Lentils red and green
Split pea and sardine
Traditional Sicilian soup
Feather light manicotti
Cushiony ravioli
Plump cavatelli
Pasta so delicious
Flaky sfogliatella
Creamy panna cotta
Sweet ricotta cassata
Decadent Italian desserts
Bubbly iced Moscato
Heady regal Borolo
Grapey Montepulciano
Intoxicating me
NAR©2024
This is the fabulous Billy Joel with “Scenes From An Italian Restaurant”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be use without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Belmont Avenue, Bronx, NY
As it’s now February, the challenge from Glyn at Mixed Music Bag is to write about a band or singer that starts with the letters C or D.
One of the greatest things about growing up Italian in the Bronx, NY (besides the food) was hanging out with my friends listening to music. We’d usually go to Sal’s Pizzeria on Belmont Avenue where the pizza was like nothing you ever tasted. It was thin and soft and light as a feather. On just about every street corner, doo-wop groups would gather and sing song after song and everyone would dance. Man, those were some of the best times.
One singer from Belmont Avenue (sadly a little before my time) was an Italian kid named Dion DiMucci. Dion’s dad Pasquale was a vaudeville entertainer and Dion would accompany him whenever he went on tour. Dion developed a love of country music, particularly Hank Williams, but he was really into the blues, doo-wop and rock and roll. His singing was honed on the street corners and local clubs of the Bronx.
In early 1957, Dion auditioned for Bob and Gene Schwartz for their Mohawk Records label. They asked Dion to sing a song but Dion refused, stating it sounded like something his old fashioned parents would listen to, but the Bob and Gene convinced him to give it a try. The backing vocals were by a group called “the Timberlanes”, some guys Dion had never met. The resulting single, “The Chosen Few“, was released under the name “Dion and the Timberlanes”, and became a minor regional hit which enabled Dion to perform the song on American Bandstand. The kids at the show started screaming during his performance and gave Dion his first impression of being a recording star. In his autobiography, The Wanderer, Dion explained that he didn’t even know who the Timberlanes were. “The vocal group was so white bread, I went back to my neighborhood and I recruited three guys and we called ourselves Dion and the Belmonts.”
The group’s initial hit was called “I Wonder Why” followed by “No One Knows” and “Don’t Pity Me”, which charted the Billboard Top 100. This success won a place for Dion and the Belmonts on the ill-fated “The Winter Dance Party” tour with Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, the Big Bopper and other performers. On February 3, 1959, after a concert stop in Clear Lake, Iowa, Buddy Holly and the others decided to charter a flight to the next venue rather than travel on the tour bus. Dion was invited to accompany the group but declined when he heard the price of the ticket was $36. That was the same amount of money his parents spent for one month’s rent for their apartment and Dion couldn’t justify the expense. The plane crashed, killing all on board; that tragic event has been referred to as “the day the music died”.
In March 1959, Dion and the Belmonts recorded “A Teenager In Love” which reached No. 5 on the U.S. pop charts and No. 28 in the UK. The group’s biggest hit, “Where Or When” was released in November of that year and reached No. 3 on the U.S. charts. Further single releases for the group that year were less successful; with musical, personal and financial differences between Dion and members of the Belmonts, Dion left the group for a solo career.
By the end of 1960, Dion produced his first solo album on Laurie Records, “Alone with Dion”, released in 1961. The single “Lonely Teenager” rose to No. 12 in the US charts. The name on his solo releases was simply “Dion“. In 1961 Dion released “Runaround Sue” which stormed up the U.S. charts, reaching No. 1 and No. 11 in the UK, where he also toured. “Runaround Sue” sold over a million copies and was followed by “The Wanderer” another big hit for Dion. By the end of 1961, Dion had become a major star, touring worldwide.
In 2024, at the age of 84, Dion is still recording new songs and his career is going strong.
This is Dion with his biggest early hit, “Runaround Sue”.
LYRICS
Here's my story, it's sad but true
It's about a girl that I once knew
She took my love then ran around
With every single guy in town
Yeah I should have known it from the very start
This girl will leave me with a broken heart
Now listen people what I'm telling you
Ah keep away from a Runaround Sue
I might miss her lips and the smile on her face
The touch of her hair and this girl's warm embrace
So if you don't want to cry like I do
Ah keep away from-a Runaround Sue
Ah, she likes to travel around
She'll love you and she'll put you down
Now people let me put you wise
She goes out with other guys
Here's the moral and the story from the guy who knows
I fell in love and my love still grows
Ask any fool that she ever knew, they'll say
Keep away from-a Runaround Sue
Yeah keep away from this girl
I don't know what she'll doe
Keep away from Sue
She likes to travel around
She'll love you and she'll put you down
Now people let me put you wise
She goes out with other guys
Here's the mora and the story from the guy who knows
I fell in love and my love still grows
Ask any fool that she ever knew, they'll say
Keep away from a Runaround Sue
Stay away from that girl
Don't you know what she'll do now
Written by: Dion Di Mucci, Ernie Maresca
Lyrics © MUSIC SALES CORPORATION, CONCORD MUSIC PUBLISHING LLC, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Lyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind
NAR©2024
This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR © 2017-present.
HONEYSUCKLE AND PROVOLONE
The minute she walked into my deli on Arthur Avenue, I was blown away. She knocked my socks off. Even through the crack in the storage room door I was dazzled by this profusion of red hair the color of a bright autumn day, creamy skin with a splash of freckles and captivating emerald eyes. I’ve got a weakness for gingers and I fell head over heels.
I’m Bruno Deluca – or Mr. Monotone compared to the stunning Monarch butterfly that just gaily flew into my market. I have the quintessential Italian look – walnut brown hair, coffee brown eyes and a perpetual deep tan. But I have a sparkling smile and dimples “to die for”, as my Aunt Carmella always says.
This amber goddess stood in front of the meat and cheese display, a bewildered look on her face. Here’s my big chance. I dashed from the back room and positioned myself directly in her line of vision. “Welcome to Deluca’s Salumeria. May I help you with something, miss?” [Smooth, right? Not to mention original!]
She looked up and I flashed her my trademark smile. And she smiled back, blushing winsomely. My knees grew weak when she spoke, her lilting Irish brogue a sweet surprise.
“Everything looks so exotic and delicious! I wouldn’t know what to order, even if could pronounce the names!” And when she laughed I swear I saw musical notes wafting through the air.
“No problem” I replied as I swiftly came around to her side, naming and describing all the meats and cheeses.
She smelled like honeysuckle. I smelled like provolone.
She still couldn’t make up her mind so I tried something radical. “How about I give you a few samples – on the house – if you promise to come back and buy something, even if it’s one slice of salami?”
She hesitated for a second, then laughingly said “You have a deal, Mr…..”
“Deluca. Bruno Deluca. And you are…..?”
She extended a delicate porcelain hand. “Rowan McCourt. Pleased to meet you, Bruno.”
“Rowan, eh? That’s a lovely name. What does it mean?”
Tentatively toying with her hair she said “Little Red-haired One. And what does Bruno mean?”
I shrugged and matter-of-factly stated “Brown” and we both burst out laughing!
I packed up a nice selection of sliced meat and cheese and some of my best Italian bread. “Here ya go, Rowan, and don’t forget…..”
“Oh, no Bruno! This is too much! I couldn’t possibly…..!”
“Go! Enjoy! It’s always good to have leftovers. See you soon!”
The next day I kept glancing at the door; I couldn’t get Rowan out of my head and I was disappointed when she didn’t return. True to her word, though, she was back the following morning.
“Bruno, everything was delicious!” she declared excitedly. “Now what shall I buy?”
She browsed for a minute. “That looks incredible! What is it?”
“That’s lasagna – sheets of wide pasta layered with ricotta, mozzarella, grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, sauteèd chopped beef and sausage in my homemade tomato sauce. It’s already cooked; just heat and enjoy. Would you like to try it?”
“I would indeed! You make it all sound so delicious, Bruno. My mouth is watering!”
“You won’t regret your decision, Rowan. Lasagna is one of our specialties. How much would you like?”
“Enough for a few portions, please” Rowan replied. Her smile was radiant.
“Ah, leftovers. You remembered!” I said, smiling back.
“Actually, Bruno, I was hoping you would join me for dinner tonight.”
It took me a second to remember to breath. “I’d love to” I whispered while inside I was shouting “YES! I’d love to!”
“Wonderful! Here’s my address. See you at 7:00. And Bruno, can you bring a bottle of wine and some of your fabulous bread?” Rowan asked.
I stared into her eyes and nodded mutely.
“Bruno, I’m very happy you’ll be joining me tonight.” Taking her bag, Rowan floated out the door. The slightest trace of honeysuckle tickled my nose.
NAR ©2023
Happy Birthday to my guy, my special Mr. Bill 🧡
Please join me today
In The Groove
as we conclude
Motown Memories.
What could be next?
https://rhythmsection.blog/
TIME’S UP
“Jesus Christ, Marco! I’m a nervous wreck!” wailed Tina. “Meeting your mother for the first time is freaking me out! Do I look ok? What if she doesn’t like me?”
“Are you kidding me, babe? You look great! She’s gonna love you! Besides … my mother thinks we’re just friends; she won’t be judging you!” replied Marco with a huge grin and a bit too much enthusiasm as he selected his mother’s favorite Dean Martin record.
“But honey, you’ve told me how your mother scrutinizes everything with an eagle eye and doesn’t miss a trick. I’m scared of her and we haven’t even met yet! The pressure is killing me! What if she figures out we haven’t been honest with her?” Tina was getting frantic.
Marco reached out and pulled her close, giving her a comforting hug. His mother never liked any of his gitlfriends, saying no one was good enough for him. Just this once Marco wanted her to likr being with Tina for who she was, without any preconceived notions – even if it meant keeping the truth from her for a while.
“Babe, try to relax. Ma’s bark is worse than her bite. I promise, there’s nothing to worry about. You’re getting yourself all worked up for no reason. When my mother finally hears the truth, it won’t matter that we didn’t tell her right away; she’ll already be crazy about you! I’m not a little boy and I don’t need my mother’s permission for anything. As long as Dean Martin is playing in the background, she’ll be fine.” It sounded to Tina like Marco was trying to convince himself as well as her.
The ring of the doorbell was expected but it still startled Marco and Tina. Carrying a box of Italian pastries, Marco’s mother Francesca arrived promptly at 6:00 – ready and quite curious to meet this woman sharing her son’s new house. Introductions were made, niceties exchanged and then Tina excused herself to check on dinner. “She certainly knows her way around the kitchen well enough; maybe her cooking won’t be so bad” Francesca thought hopefully while keeping a close eye on her son’s “house mate”.
While Tina put the finishing touches on dinner, Marco brought out some appetizers. “Ah, bruschetta!” exclaimed Francesca but when she bit into the small thin slice of toasted Italian bread, she discovered the topping was raw meat. “It’s steak tartare, Ma” explained Marco. Francesca made a horrified face and hastily deposited her half-chewed mouthful into a paper napkin. “O Dio mio! Raw meat will give you food poisoning!” Francesca exclaimed. “I hope the rest of the meal is cooked”, she thought.
In an attempt to calm his mother down and get her mind off the failed appetizers, Marco decided to give her a tour of the house he shared with Tina.
“Look, Ma. Isn’t this nice? A large airy kitchen with an island and plenty of room for a table and chairs. Here’s the dining room with a buffet and hutch filled with glasses and dishes that belonged to Tina’s great-grandmother. Isn’t the furniture beautiful? We got at a Roma’s in Brooklyn, imported from Italy. We even have a fenced-in backyard and patio with a barbecue grill. But the best part is two big bedrooms, each with a separate bathroom so there’s no fighting over who gets to shower first.”
Marco realized he was saying too much and talking way too fast; he laughed self-consciously, feeling like he was 10 years old again and his mother’s laser eyes were burning right through his skull after catching him in a lie. He squirmed uncomfortably and quickly closed the bathroom door when he noticed the towels that were on the rack were embroidered with the words “HIS” and “HERS”.
Francesca just nodded her head and mumbled “That’s nice” every so often; she may have seemed indifferent but that was far from true. If Francesca saw the bathroom towels, she gave no indication. Now Marco was nervous about that … a careless mistake on his part.
“Come in the kitchen, Ma. Let’s have a nice glass of wine to celebrate your first visit to our house” Marco suggested.
“Our house” thought Francesca.
Francesca sipped her wine and silently simmered on a low boil, her thoughts working overtime while Marco and Tina puttered around the kitchen. “Well, Tina certainly made herself right at home, bringing over all her great-grandmother’s dishes and glasses! I don’t get it. Unmarried men and women sharing a house?” Francesca asked herself. “Maybe in a big house with five or six other people and a lot of bedrooms, but an intimate space with two people of the opposite sex? I don’t like it! And how come the bedrooms have such big beds? Something fishy’s going on here!” Francesca tapped her foot impatiently, her eyes taking everything in.
Finally dinner was ready; throughout the meal, Francesca couldn’t help noticing how attentive Tina was to Marco. By now she was very suspicious about their relationship; she was sure there was more than just friendship between the two of them and their little interactions further convinced her there was something brewing between her son and his “house mate”.
Recognizing the look on his mother’s face, Marco said “I know what you’re thinking, Ma, but I told you before – Tina and I are just friends. House mates. Don’t go making a big deal out of nothing.” Francesca smiled thinly and replied “Whatever you say, Marco”. But in her head she was thinking “House mates, my ass!”
About a week later Tina said to Marco “I know this is gonna sound crazy but I can’t find the napkin rings I used the night your mother was here. I’ve looked everywhere for them. You don’t think your mother took them, do you?”
“Well, I can’t imagine why she’d do that”, Marco replied, “but there’s only one way to find out. I’ll send her an email.”
Dear Ma – Crazy question! Tina’s napkin rings are missing. Now, I’m not saying you TOOK the napkin rings and I’m not saying you DIDN’T take them but they have been missing since you were here the other night and you were the only other person to see them. Love, Marco
A reply came through one minute later:
Dear Marco – Funny you should ask! Now, I’m not saying that you DO sleep with Tina and I’m not saying that you DON’T sleep with her but if she was sleeping alone in her OWN bed she would have found the napkin rings by now – under her pillow. Love, Ma
Oh, by the way, I saw the towels, too.
NAR © 2023
Please join me today
In The Groove
as we continue our musical journey.
It’s really getting good!
https://rhythmsection.blog/
THE WARMTH OF THE SUN
When I was an infant, my parents decided our small apartment in Manhattan was no place to raise two little daughters. The following day they set off on their search for a house in The Bronx. Back then living in The Bronx was a lot different than it is now. Crime was practically nonexistent; drug dealers weren’t openly operating out of school playgrounds, storefronts weren’t gated and padlocked and families were not shattered by drive-by shootings.
The Bronx was like a country village with farms dotting the neighborhoods of Baychester, Kingsbridge, Morrisania, Riverdale and others. People raised sheep, goats and chickens. Gardens were abundant with homegrown fruit and vegetables. It was a different world, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. Life was peaceful.
My parents bought a new semi-attached two family house spacious enough for the four of us and my maternal grandparents. We had a nice piece of corner property and a large backyard perfect for my grandfather’s grapevines and fruit trees and my mother’s vegetable garden.
My grandmother was a sickly woman, having been ill since my mother was only 12 years old. Nonna was not quite bedridden but spent a fair amount of time inside in bed or looking out the window. My mother was her caregiver; when the weather was nice, she would wrap a blanket around Nonna, making her comfortable in a lounge chair in the backyard.
Nonna’s ‘job‘ was to rock my carriage as I napped outside. Since she was not strong enough to carry me, my grandmother delighted in being able to help my mother in this small way. Nonna relished being outside in our quiet backyard watching my grandfather tending the garden; the warmth of the sun on her frail body renewed her spirit and magically brought a glow back to her face.
It was the first Labor Day in our new home and I napped in my baby carriage while Nonna sat in her chair gently rocking me. I began to stir and when I opened my eyes, I saw my grandmother’s smiling face looking down at me. Her doe-like eyes twinkled as she sang an old Italian lullaby, “Ninna Ninna”.
It may be difficult to comprehend that a little one just seven months of age could have such clear and distinct memories. I can recall my grandmother’s happy face smiling at me, her dark brown eyes shining. The poignant song and Nonna’s expressive voice always had a mysterious way of calming me and I would drift back to sleep. Those days in our peaceful backyard are tenderly stored in my mind.
My grandmother passed away six years later; the special bond we shared is something I will treasure forever.
NAR © 2023
VAFFANCULO!
“So, what brings you here today, Lou?” asked Dr. Patterson.
“I can’t sleep, Doc!” replied Lou in despair. “I’m so tired! I haven’t slept a wink!”
“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that!” laughed the doctor. “Look, Lou. Of all the ailments people discuss with me, the greatest number of complaints isn’t about body aches, irritable bowels, erectile dysfunction or psoriasis: the most talked-about topic is lack of sleep. Falling asleep at bedtime and getting a good night’s rest is a problem that plagues millions so you’re not alone in this. I’m going to ask you some questions; let’s see if we can come up with a solution.”
Lou yawned and nodded in agreement. His wife Marie chimed in. “Maybe you should start by telling the doctor how much coffee you drink every day.”
“Ok, that’s an excellent suggestion. How much coffee do you drink, Lou?” asked Dr. Patterson, his fingers hovering over the keys of his computer.
“Oh, I guess about eight cups a day and an espresso after dinner. We have one of those – whatchamacallits – Nespresso machines. Fantastic things! Just pop in a little plastic capsule and brew yourself fresh coffee in no time”
“Whoa! That’s a lot of caffeine!” The doctor was clearly surprised.” You need to cut back. If you drink that much coffee, at least half of it should be decaf. I’d like to eventually get you down to just one cup of regular coffee in the morning. How about alcohol?”
“Go ahead, Lou. Answer the doctor” Marie said, giving her husband a nudge with her elbow.
“I’ll have a couple of glasses of my cousin Carlo’s homemade vino while Marie’s preparing dinner. And another glass or two with dinner. Oh yeah, I like a nice sambucca while I’m watching “The Tonight Show” with that Jimmy Fallon. He’s a funny guy!”
The doctor stared at Lou allowing his words to sink in. “That’s five alcoholic drinks per day!” Dr. Patterson was flabbergasted.
“Give or take. Yeah, that sounds about right” was Lou’s reply as the doctor shook his head in amazement.
“What form of exercise do you engage in?” the doctor asked.
“Exercise!?” squawked Marie. “The strongest parts of his body are his fingers … from pushing himself away from the dining room table, surfing the interweb and using the remote control. He gets his exercise by watching Stallone running up and down those steps in that Rocky movie … as if that’s gonna work, you stupid jackass!”
Lou’s eyes shot daggers at his wife. She shrugged. “What? It’s the truth, Lou, and you know it.”
“What about your diet, Lou?” asked Dr. Patterson while eyeing Lou’s sizable belly.
“Diet? I ain’t on no diet, doc! My Marie is a fabulous cook!” Lou exclaimed, making her blush. “She makes everything from scratch, including her pizza, pasta, braciola, arancini – you name it, she can make it. And her ricotta cheesecake? Fuggedaboutit!”
“Well, it’s wonderful that Marie’s such a great cook but it sounds like you’re eating a lot of rich, fattening foods” the doctor replied with concern.
“What’s wrong with pizza?” Lou asked incredulously. “It’s the perfect food – something from all the food groups. You got your carbohydrates, your protein and your dairy, right?”
“Well, technically, yes but I wouldn’t call it ‘the perfect food’. Dr. Patterson entered all Lou’s information into his computer. “Let me get this straight, Lou. Your caffeine and alcohol intake is off the charts, you eat rich foods and desserts, you spend a lot of time in front of some type of device, you stay up late and you don’t exercise. Is that about right?”
“Yeah, I guess” Lou admitted begrudgingly.
“Do you realize that everything you’re doing is adversely affecting your quality of sleep? And what about you, Marie! How well do you sleep?”
“Who, me? Why, I sleep like a rock” Marie answered proudly.
“You’re not kidding! You should hear her snore, doc!” Lou guffawed. “What a racket! It sounds like bocce balls rolling around the court! Hey! That’s probably why I can’t sleep!”
Marie huffed indignantly.
“You snore, Marie? Sounds to me like you could have sleep apnea – a serious disorder. Considering everything we’ve discussed I’m referring you, Lou, to a life management specialist. And Marie, I’m scheduling a sleep disorder study for you.”
Lou and Marie stared at the doctor in shock.
“Can’t you just give me some sleeping pills?” pleaded Lou.
“And maybe all I need are some of those nose strips” Marie suggested hopefully.
“I’m afraid not. You need to make some serious life changes” replied the doctor showing Marie and Lou to the door. “Just stop by the desk on your way out and Victoria will have all the paperwork ready for you.”
“Thanks a lot, Marie, making me tell the doctor everything! Now I gotta see a specialist!” Lou griped. “This is all your fault!”
“Oh, shut up, Lou! Thanks to you, I gotta go for a sleep study! Well, you can get your own damn dinner tonight. I’m on strike!”
Lou looked devastated.
“And another thing, Lou – vaffanculo!”
NAR © 2023
I hope you’ll visit
me today
At The Movies
for more great music!
https://rhythmsection.blog/
PAPA-LOGIC
In 1930 at the age of 15 my dad emigrated to the U.S. from Sicily. He spoke no English, had very little money and knew a bit about barbering. He settled in Brooklyn, moving in with friends from his hometown in Sicily, but Dad couldn’t live off the kindness of his friends forever; he needed to find work. Fortunately his friend knew of a barber who was looking for help so Dad applied for the job and started work the next day.
Every morning Dad would show up at the barber shop with a copy of the Italian newspaper, Il Progresso, under his arm. This went on for a week or so until one day his boss said to him in Italian “Hey, Vito. If you want to learn how to speak English, do yourself a favor and stop buying that newspaper. Instead, buy the New York Times and read it every day.” My dad took that advice to heart and began reading the paper from front to back; sounding out the words he read and dealing with some English-speaking customers is how be became fluent in English. It wasn’t easy but he stuck with it. He was a self-taught man and after a few years he had just a trace of an accent. I give my dad a lot of credit for that.
My parents were introduced by mutual friends and married in 1939; their first baby, a son named Frank, developed nephritis and tragically passed away in 1943 at the age of two. As soon as the death certificate was filed, Dad was drafted. He served his entire tour of duty overseas, something he never liked to talk about. The one thing I do know about Dad’s army days was that he fought in the Battle of the Bulge.
After Dad returned from the war, my sister and I were born and we moved into a new house in The Bronx with my maternal grandparents. During the first few years living there, we had fresh Italian products delivered, including olive oil imported from Sicily. Dad was jealous of the handsome salesman and demanded my mom stop all deliveries. Mom was a beautiful woman and men were naturally attracted to her but she never gave them the time of day. She wasn’t a flirt and the thought of cheating on my dad never crossed her mind; killing him, yes, but cheating on him? Never!
Our family was very musical; we all sang, my sister and I played the piano and Dad played the mandolin. He shocked us by auditioning for our church’s production of The Mikado – and he landed the role! What a riot seeing this mustachioed Sicilian gent made up to look Japanese wearing an authentic kimono and singing Gilbert and Sullivan patter songs. He was the hit of the show!
In 1965 we went to Sicily to visit family. One day my parents went out shopping while my sister and I stayed behind with our cousins. When they returned, my dad had a gift for me – my first Italian rock & roll record, a hit called “Ho Rimasto” (“I Stayed”). Dad hated rock and roll so in my eyes this was just about the coolest thing he ever did!
Years later, when my sister and I had kids, they started calling my dad “Papa”. Dad was always coming up with corny jokes or comments which soon became known as “Papa-Logic”. We’d roll our eyes when he would intentionally order an “Al Pacino” instead of a cappuccino. Dad loved being controversial, too, and took great pride in getting his point across. I remember one day he saw a sign in a pizzeria window which read “WE HAVE THE BEST PIZZA IN TOWN!” Nothing wrong with that, right? Well, Dad felt differently and made no bones about it. He started a heated discussion with the pizzeria owner, demanding that the sign be changed to read “WE THINK WE HAVE THE BEST PIZZA IN TOWN!” Dad wouldn’t back down and the sign remained unchanged. And to make matters worse, he was banned from the pizzeria!
Times were rough in the early days; my parents struggled just like all young couples and faced more than their share of sorrow. They worked hard and saved their money, always putting the needs of family first. We weren’t rich but we had everything we needed.
My dad was a good guy; even though he could get on our nerves big time, he had a heart of gold. He adored his family and loved everything about being Sicilian. Still, one of his proudest accomplishments in life was the day he did the New York Times crossword puzzle – in ink!
We celebrated Dad’s birthday the other day; these are just a few of my memories.
“Ciao, papa! Buon compleanno! Ti voglio bene.”
NAR © 2023
Orig. Pub. 2021
Dad’s super-cool gift to me – Italian rock & roll!
I hope you’ll join me today
In The Groove
for more music
Italian style!
https://rhythmsection.blog/
A COLD CASE
Word on the street was Louie “No Nose” Lombardo was sprung from the slammer. He must have sung like a canary whistling a sweet ballad to earn his “get out of jail free” card.
His early release spelled big trouble; not only was Louie seeking revenge for his disfigurement and incarceration, he got wind that his sworn enemy Tony “The Cutter” Tedesco had been sniffing around his wife while he was doing time. Yeah, that rat bastard Tony gave new meaning to the term “double-cross”.
Louie and Tony weren’t always enemies. In fact, when they were kids they were inseparable, like brothers. They would ride their bikes down to the empty lot where they’d scrounge around for discarded cigarette butts with just enough life left for a couple of drags. They played stickball in the street with a broom handle and a Spaldeen. During the summer they’d jump on the rear bumper of a bus or truck and snag a free ride to Orchard Beach, laughing and holding on for dear life. When they got close, they’d jump off and sneak onto the beach through an opening in the fence.
Tony’s father, Tommaso Tedesco, was the mob mortician for Tedesco Brothers Funeral Home and you better believe he knew where the bodies were buried. He wasn’t called “The Undertaker” for nothing. Sometimes Tony and Louie would sneak in after a wake to check the big sofa cushions for loose change.
One day around Christmas Louie got nabbed in Woolworth’s Five and Dime trying to shoplift an angel ornament for his mother. When the store manager realized Louie’s father was the owner of Luca’s Ristorante, a well-known mob hangout, he looked the other way. He let Louie keep the ornament saying “He didn’t want any trouble”. He even gave Louie a paper bag filled with Christmas candy.
Louie’s father Luca Lombardo was the finest chef of authentic Italian food in the entire tri-state area and was held in high regard by the members of La Cosa Nostra. Luca knew what side his bread was buttered on; he kept the restaurant open late for syndicate bosses like Rocco “The Rocket” Randazzo. He and his soldiers were welcome at Luca’s any day, any time. It was a discreet, safe place and the police looked the other way.
For the first 19 years of their lives nothing or no one could come between Louie and Tony – that is until Rocco brought his daughter Rosanna to Luca’s restaurant. Rosanna could render even the toughest wise guy powerless. She was a vixen with long chestnut hair, flawless bronze skin, smoky green eyes and a body that could melt the mozzarella right off your pizza.
Rosanna was a real tease and Tony and Louie fell hard. She hooked up with both, enjoying the game of pitting them against each other, watching their animosity grow like angry dogs fighting over a bone. After stringing them along for over a year, Rosanna finally chose Louie.
Rocco gave the couple his blessing along with an extravagant wedding, a lavish honeymoon in Italy, a beautiful house and a bundle of money. Now that Louie was Rosanna’s husband, it wasn’t long before Rocco brought him into the family “business”. Seven months after the wedding, Rosanna had a baby and her jilted lover Tony was invited to the christening party. Louie paraded Rosanna around the room on his arm like a trophy while Rocco proudly displayed his first grandson. And all Tony could think about was whether he was the father of Rosanna’s baby and not her husband Louie.
The cacophony of music, laughter and cheering mixed with the crazy thoughts in his head was getting to Tony big time; he lost it and went ape shit. Tony and Louie started fighting. Pushing and shoving led to punches, then the switchblades came out. Suddenly Tony’s brother Angelo lunged at Rocco and Louie intervened, protecting his father-in-law by fatally stabbing Angelo. Seeing his brother murdered was the final blow for Tony; howling like an animal, he whirled around and sliced off most of Louie’s nose.
At his trial for Angelo’s stabbing death, Louie was charged with manslaughter and sent up the river to Dannemora. Rocco, indebted to Louie for saving his life, told him to sit tight and he’d take care of everything. “Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen” Rocco pledged. Louie whispered in his ear and Rocco replied “Consider it done.”
Rocco called in some favors, greased a few palms and made the Governor an offer he couldn’t refuse by reminding him of the sex scandal that Rocco made disappear. It all fell into place nicely; Louie was pardoned and released.
Two weeks later Louie was staring at a portrait of Tony next to his closed casket at Tedesco Brothers Funeral Home. The photo of his one-time best friend had to suffice; after being blown to bits by a car bomb, there was nothing left of Tony to look at.
The police have no leads.
NAR © 2023
Incorporated the words ballad, double-cross, render, bundle and cacophony.
#gb5ww #gmgblog
THE IMMIGRANTS
Francesco glanced down from his perch 60 stories above the streets of New York City; that translated into roughly 900 feet in the air. As he ate lunch, he talked casually to his companion, Giuseppe, who sat across from him on a ledge about four feet away. Francesco lit a Camel cigarette, tossed the box of matches to Giuseppe and both men lounged on their beds of steel. Francesco took a long drag on his cigarette, keeping his eyes open to maintain his balance on the 18-inch-wide metal plank. A whistle blew, its shrill notes informing the men that lunchtime was over.
Giuseppe pitched the matches back to Francesco. They rose to their feet, now old pros at this daily death-defying ballet they performed. When they first arrived in America, they learned very quickly that the jobs of police officers, firemen or train engineers were not meant for them; those positions were reserved for the Irish and English immigrants. The Italians and others who didn’t speak English were forced into manual labor – jobs in construction or sanitation where grunting and nodding were the main forms of communication. They took pride in their work, the resulting cathedrals and skyscrapers testaments to their skill and determination.
An errant gust of wind made its presence known; it swirled around the men’s feet and scooped up the wrappings from lunch, tossing the papers about before they slowly drifted out of sight. Both men held on to a nearby vertical beam, silently waiting until the wind stilled.
Looking below at the large wind flag, the men saw that it was white; it was safe to continue working. A yellow flag meant to exercise extreme caution while red indicated dangerous weather conditions. The crew worked through many different elements, but if a red flag was up, no one climbed the beams.
There were no harnesses to prevent a catastrophic fall, no safety nets should someone slip … nothing to protect the men, to save them. All they had to help them scale the beams were ropes dangling from above, good balance and guts.
Calmness restored, the men strapped on their tool belts containing welder’s gloves, hammers and tongs. A pulley system was used to hoist beams and buckets filled with iron rivets in white hot coals. Using their tongs, the men removed the rivets one by one from the coals, inserted them into holes in the beams and hammered them into place. After every hole was filled, the men climbed up to the next level and repeated the process.
When the end-of-work whistle blew, Giuseppe reached for the rope to begin the long, slow descent to solid ground. A slight misjudgment caused him to lose his footing and he slid off the beam like a marionette whose strings had been severed. Francesco yelled out in horror “No, Giuseppe, no!!” as he tried in vain to grab his friend’s arm. The crew watched in stunned disbelief as Giuseppe fell headlong to the sidewalk far below, his screams echoing throughout the canyon of steel.
Francesco slumped over, his head in his hands, silently weeping as a single mournful thought invaded his mind: he didn’t even know Giuseppe’s last name.
NAR © 2023
Please tune in today
for a very special
In The Groove.
https://rhythmsection.blog/
LA FAMIGLIA
“Course One: Escarole Soup. Course Two: Manicotti and Salad. Gina, what is this – Sunday dinner or a reception for the Pope?”
My girlfriend Gina showed me a copy of the menu her mother had planned for dinner. It was a seven course feast! “Do you eat like this every Sunday?”
“No, silly – only when we have company. This week it’s my dad’s side of the family. There’s a lot a people and mom always says it’s better to have too much food than not enough.”
“Wait a second. There’s going to be other people besides your parents? Like how many?”
Gina started counting on her fingers. “About 18, maybe 20.”
“The first time I meet your parents I’m also going to meet 20 strangers and you didn’t think to warn me??”
“Oh, don’t worry. They’re gonna love you.”
“No. They’ll be employing Sicilian interrogations tactics. They’ll chew me up and spit me out. I’m Irish with blonde hair and pale skin. I don’t stand a chance!”
Gina laughed. “Oh stop exaggerating. We’re not The Mob, ya know. Just a mob!”
And she was right. I couldn’t believe the number of people that descended on her house. They were loud, funny, loving and very welcoming.
Gina’s mom set the table extravagantly, using her best dishes, utensils and glasses. And the food was incredible. Besides the soup, pasta and salad there was fresh baked bread, an antipasto, a huge platter of meatballs and sausages, two roasts, a bunch of vegetables, fennel, fruit, nuts, a slew of desserts I couldn’t pronounce and coffee. Gina’s uncles and male cousins ate like there was no tomorrow and no one stopped talking the entire time – except for Gina’s grandmother who didn’t utter a sound and stared at me with beady eyes the whole day. Honestly, that tiny woman dressed in black from head to toe scared me to death.
As the woman cleared away all traces of dinner, Gina’s dad got up, went to the cupboard and returned with a beautiful box made of highly polished wood with the finest Italian marble inlay. Placing the box on the table, he opened it to reveal an assortment of expensive imported cigars. The men lit up and a bottle of anisette appeared out of nowhere.
Gina’s Uncle Vito produced a deck of cards from his vest pocket. “Ya know how to play Red Dog, Phil?” he asked me.
“Um … it’s Bill, sir. And no, I’m not familiar with the game.”
“Hey, no problem, Irish. We’re gonna teach ya. And don’t look so nervous. We may rob ya but we ain’t gonna kill ya. For some reason our Gina likes ya and if she likes ya, we all likes ya.”
While we played cards, Gina’s cousins Louie and Frankie played their accordions and the women danced; it was the most surreal and unforgettable experience of my life.
I watched as Gina’s grandmother rose from her chair. Slowly she walked over to me and looked me square in the eyes. She grinned and pinched my cheek till it was beet red. And la famiglia howled.
I swear – 53 years later her stamp of approval is still on my face.
NAR © 2023
Originally posted in 2019
Join me today At The Movies
for another interesting post
and a great music video.
https://rhythmsection.blog/
WHEN GYPSIES CRY
Normally I don’t take the subway to work but I heard there was a bad auto accident backing up traffic for miles on the highway so driving wasn’t an option. My train was already at the station when I arrived. Every seat was taken except for one in the corner. I quickly sat down as the train began filling up with passengers.
Glancing around I caught a glimpse of a man seated about fifteen feet from me reading a newspaper. He looked over in my direction and gave me a big grin, his light blue eyes twinkling. He bore an uncanny resemblance to my late father, Gino, and I was unable to resist smiling back at him. He was well-groomed, wearing a fedora with a white feather neatly tucked into the hatband. He had a thin mustache and I imagined he was a barber like my dad. He went back to reading his newspaper and when he turned the page I was surprised to see it was La Stampa, the Italian newspaper my father used to read.
Suddenly the subway stopped and the lights went out for a few minutes. When they came back on I looked over at the man but he wasn’t there. I looked all around but didn’t see him. We were stuck in a dark tunnel – where could he have gone?
The train started up again and at our next stop many people entered, including two women with five young children; they looked like gypsies. One woman was younger, obviously the mother of the children, and the older woman was their grandmother. The mother protectively held a toddler while the other children clung to her skirt and the grandmother clutched the handle of a baby carriage. The women whispered rapidly in a foreign language as their wide eyes frantically searched the train. They were clearly frightened as though they were running away from someone or something.
The ride was choppy and the children were getting restless; the women tried desperately to quiet them. At the next stop people brusquely shoved their way off and on. Suddenly a swarthy-looking man pushed the old gypsy woman, snatched the baby carriage and dashed out the train just as the doors closed. The hysterical mother screamed what sounded like “My baby! My baby!” but no one paid her any attention. I stood up to see if I could help but the train jerked to a start. I was thrown back into my seat, hitting my head.
The harsh train whistle jolted me and I was amazed to discover I was in my bed; the whistle was my alarm clock. It was only a dream! Sleepily, I shuffled to the door to collect my newspaper, then turned on the tv. Opening the newspaper, my eyes widened in disbelief as I saw the banner – La Stampa – the same paper my father used to read. The date was November 17, 1992, the day my father died.
A voice from the tv roused me from my trance: “A happy ending yesterday for a Romanian woman whose baby was snatched from a crowded subway by her estranged husband. Witnesses directed police to an alley next to “Gino’s Barbershop” where the husband was found hiding behind a dumpster. The baby was reunited with its relieved and very grateful mother.”
There on the screen was the same gypsy family I saw on the train! In the background stood my father’s old barbershop.
Stunned, I dropped the newspaper and slumped onto my bed. So it wasn’t a dream after all! From the corner of my eye I noticed something sticking out of the newspaper. With trembling hands I gently pulled out a white feather.
“Dad,” I whispered,“it was you.”
NAR © 2023
DOMINICK & PEPPINO
For this week’s challenge on Song Lyric Sunday we’ve been asked to go with novelty songs. I wanted to select two songs that I think some of us more mature bloggers may know, especially those of us of Italian descent.
The first song is “Dominick the Donkey” sung by Lou Monte, a funny sing-along Christmas record first recorded in 1960. It was brought to modern audiences in 2011, especially in the UK where Chris Moyles gave it regular play on his BBC Radio 1 breakfast show. In the run-up to Christmas of that year, the song reached #3 in the Christmas 2011 UK singles chart. Though “Dominic the Donkey” reached #3 in the UK, it never charted in the US.
Three years later, Lou Monte saw success with “Peppino, the Italian Mouse” another novelty song which peaked at #5 in the US. It had entered the Billboard Hot Top 100 Chart on December 2, 1962 and spent 10 weeks on the Top 100.
Here for your enjoyment are both songs.
Hey! Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
It’s Dominick the donkey.
Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
The Italian Christmas donkey.
(la la la-la la-la la la la la)
(la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)
Santa’s got a little friend,
His name is Dominick.
The cutest little donkey,
You never see him kick.
When Santa visits his paisons,
With Dominick he’ll be.
Because the reindeer cannot,
Climb the hills of Italy.
Hey! Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
It’s Dominick the donkey.
Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
The Italian Christmas donkey.
(la la la-la la-la la la la la)
(la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)
Jingle bells around his feet,
And presents on the sled.
Hey! Look at the mayor’s derby,
On top of Dominick’s head.
A pair of shoes for Louie,
And a dress for Josephine.
The labels on the inside says,
They’re made in Brooklyn.
Hey! Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
It’s Dominick the donkey.
Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
The Italian Christmas donkey.
(la la la-la la-la la la la la)
(la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)
Children sing, and clap their hands,
And Dominick starts to dance.
They talk Italian to him,
And he even understands.
Cumpare sing,
Cumpare su,
And dance ‘sta tarantel.
When jusamagora comes to town,
And brings do ciuccianello.
Hey! Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
It’s Dominick the donkey.
Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
The Italian Christmas donkey.
(la la la-la la-la la la la la)
(la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)
Hey! Dominick
Writer/s: Ray Allen, Sam Saltzberg, Wandra Merrell
Publisher: Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Lyrics licensed and provided by LyricFind
Pepino, oh, you little mouse, oh, won’t you go away
Find yourself another house to run around and play
You scare my girl, you eat my cheese, you even drink my wine
I try so hard to catch you but you trick me all the time
Cesta no surecillo a basoccella dinda mur
Ogna sere quella esce quanda casa scura
Endo dindo la cucina balla sulasu
A parrano malandrino pura un gabo sapaur
Pepino suracill ana parta scubari
Managa suracill a casa ma dai
Stasira da cucina nu poco di vino ci au lasciar
A quando si briaggo a Pepino giong apa
The other night, I called my girl
I asked her could we meet
I said, “Let’s go to my house
We could have a bite to eat”
And as we walked in through the door
She screamed at what she saw
There was little Pepino
Doin’ the cha, cha on the floor
Pepino suracill ana parta scubari
Managa suracill a casa ma dai
Stasira da cucina nu poco di vino ci au lasciar
A quando si briaggo a Pepino giong apa
Quella non ci piace u formaggio American
Quella va trova no poca Parmesan
La fatto ghiata ghiat gusto ena cor
Quando cella camina para probino caladur
Pepino suracill ana parta scubari
Managa suracill a casa ma dai
Stasira da cucina nu poco di vino ci au lasciar
A quando si briaggo a Pepino giong apa
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Ray Allen / Wandra Merrell
Pepino The Italian Mouse lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
NAR © 2022
TWO DAYS TO WAIT
She sat at her indestructible Singer factory sewing machine, hands flying like an octopus knitting a scarf.
I peeked around the corner into her sewing room. Without lifting her head, she sensed my presence. “What is it, principessa?” she asked.
“Can we go to Post Arrow?” The little family diner with a few kiddie rides was one of my favorite places to go. We’d get pastrami sandwiches, fries and ride the bumper cars, Ferris wheel and carousel – heaven on earth for an 8-year-old kid.
Without missing a stitch, my mother replied “Cara, can’t you see how much work I have left to do? Besides, dinner is already in the oven.”
I stood on the threshold saying nothing. My mother knew I was there but kept sewing at warp speed. When she looked up, she saw my red, swollen eyes and tear-stained face. Her usual stern expression softened a bit. “If I finish my work maybe we will go on Saturday” and she returned to the task at hand.
I drew a big red circle around Saturday on my calendar. Two days to wait.
First thing on Saturday I asked my mother about going to Post Arrow. Again she said “maybe”; she had to deliver her finished projects to the shop first.
Hours went by. I kept vigil at the window until my mother returned. She looked up at me and grinning, motioned me to come down.
“Andiamo, cara! Go get your daddy. Now we have some fun!”
NAR © 2022
DUTY-BOUND
NEW YORK CITY, 1920
“Manga il cibo sul tuo piatto, Sophia, o lo mangerai dal pavimento.”
(“Eat the food on your dish, Sophia, or you will eat it off the floor.”)
Without changing her expression or taking her huge brown eyes off her father Vincenzo’s face, three year old Sophia picked up a meatball, extended her arm over the side of her high chair and very calmly let it drop to the floor.
Silence. Everyone sat in suspended animation as Vincenzo deliberately put down his knife and fork and removed the napkin which was tucked into the neck of his shirt. Slowly he stood up, went behind Sophia’s chair and grabbed the back of her dress. He lifted her up and holding her feet with his other hand, lowered her face to the floor. Sophia’s mouth touched the meatball and she turned her face away, but Vincenzo pushed her face into the food, forcing her to take it into her mouth. Satisfied, he sat her back in her chair, returned to his seat and resumed eating. Sophia languidly chewed the meatball.
Hesitantly everyone resumed eating except Sophia’s mother Francesca who sat watching her daughter. At the end of the meal as the women cleared the table, Francesca placed a napkin over her daughter’s mouth so she could dispose of the uneaten meatball. “Mai più, Sophia. Fai il tuo dovere!” Francesca said. (“Never again, Sophia. Do your duty!”)
Francesca was a frail woman and as Sophia grew she helped her while Vincenzo worked 12 hours a day on construction. When Sophia was 11, Francesca came down with a terrible case of scarlet fever which affected her heart and kidneys and left her housebound. Early every morning Sophia would cook breakfast for the family and pack lunch for her father before she left for school. At lunchtime she would come home to check on Francesca and make something for them to eat before going back to school. After school she would stop at the pharmacy to buy Francesca’s medicine. Sometimes she would surprise her mother with a piece of her favorite candy. First she would care for her mother, then cook dinner before her father came home from work. When dinner was finished she would do her homework and get ready for bed. Since Francesca was sick, Vincenzo slept in Sophia’s room while she slept on the small sofa. It was the right thing to do – her duty – because her father worked so hard and needed his rest.
Eventually the family began struggling financially. Vincenzo decided that it would be best if Sophia left school and took a job in a sewing factory. Sophia would have preferred to stay in school, but she knew it was her duty to help the family. Francesca’s sisters would take turns checking on her while Sophia was at work. Occasionally they would bring food but they all had large families and were struggling themselves. Sophia still woke up very early to make breakfast and prepare lunch for herself, Vincenzo and Francesca. She worked from 8:00 until 6:00, then came home to cook dinner, clean up and care for her mother. It was a hard life but Sophia knew it was her duty.
Sophia was an excellent seamstress and her work was always done quickly and perfectly. In the time it took the others to sew one blouse, she completed four. And because her work was beyond compare, she earned more money. She was promoted to making dresses and suits and the other girls were jealous, calling her “your majesty” and “princess”. One girl was so envious of Sophia she began working hurriedly and carelessly, accidentally cutting off most her pinky with the large shears. It was not Sophia’s fault but everyone treated her like it was.
One Sunday after Mass Sophia’s cousin Gaetano introduced her to his friend Paolo Rossi. By now Sophia was 20 and had never been on a date. She was too busy doing her duty. The young couple were immediately attracted to each other, began dating and married in 1940, just after the start of the war. One year later their first baby was born and fortunately men with children were not being drafted so Paolo was able to remain at home. Tragically, the baby developed nephritis and died at the age of two – and a grieving father, now childless, was drafted.
Sophia was devastated; no husband, no baby. She devoted all her time to caring for Francesca. The days were grim but thankfully Paolo returned home safely and two more babies followed – healthy girls. The young family, Francesca and Vincenzo moved to a house in the Bronx and Paolo found work in a mechanic’s shop while Sophia stayed at home with the girls and her mother. Five years later Francesca died and Vincenzo became ill. Of course the ever-dutiful Sophia cared for him until his death.
In 1970 Paolo suffered his first heart attack. Three more followed over the years. He developed aortic and abdominal aneurysms and struggled with emphysema and bronchitis until his death in 1996. Sophia cared for him as a dutiful wife for all those years.
Dear readers, in case you haven’t realized by now I was one of those little baby girls born to Sophia and Paolo. Throughout my childhood and youth, my mother was constantly busy cleaning, cooking, sewing. She was a dutiful mother and took very good care of us, but I never felt a true mother’s love.
The first time I met my boyfriend’s mother, she was ironing. She immediately stopped her work, brewed a pot of coffee and placed a crumb cake on the table. We sat and talked for hours. That was an afternoon of fun and laughter and I felt the love in that room. I married that boy whose mother did everything out of love, not out of a sense of duty.
Sophia died in 2010. On her headstone was intricately carved her life-long creed: “FAI IL TUO DOVERE”.
NAR © 2019
The Elephant's Trunk 