Don't Sing at the Table

by Adriana Trigiani

  When I was a girl, Lucy rented part of the workroom to Zeke Salvini, a longtime family friend who sold linoleum. This arrangement was one of the small sidebar businesses she had through the years to supplement what she made sewing for a little extra pocket money. Along one wall of her workroom, Zeke stored big rolls of linoleum. Zeke gave me small, square samples of linoleum on a chain to play with. I think he may be partially responsible for my lust for interior decorating and subsequent swatch addiction.

  Lucy lost her wedding band in the workroom in the late 1960s when she was cutting a pattern. She was bereft, so Zeke took every one of the linoleum rolls (some twelve feet high) and unrolled them, looking for the ring. They never found it.

  It’s hard to believe it now, but Lucy was in her mid-seventies that summer. She did not seem her age at all, as she still worked full-time. She turned the shoe repair shop into a showroom to sell shoes after my grandfather died, keeping the sewing business going in the back. After my grandfather died, she thought about having another shoemaker come in and run the shop, but decided against it. She found additional sources of income, keeping the books for a local ice company.

  Lucy told me she felt lucky that her family lived above the shop, because she could run her business and tend to her family simultaneously. She also relied on her extended family of friends: the Ongaro, Uncini, Sartori, and Latini families looked out for her children, as she did for theirs. Lucy was far from her parents and blood family, but built a community of support around herself and her children. This was a key aspect to raising a successful family alone.

  Olga Bonanto and Lucy in Chisolm, Minnesota, circa 1940.

  Outside the showroom, a hallway led up a flight of steep, wide steps to the second floor, which was home. A window set into the wall of the kitchen (a lot like the one in the wall between the shoe shop and sewing room downstairs) overlooked the stairs, so Lucy could see who was at the entrance. These windows were time savers, and for the efficient, organized Lucy, raising a family alone and working, every moment was essential, as was security. These windows helped her screen who was coming in and out of the building.

  While the building was simple in design, and surely Lucy kept it that way, one element was grand and unforgettable. Throughout her home, the ceilings were fitted with skylights in the kitchen, the bedroom, and the bath. These windows provided light, and could be propped open for fresh air, but they also served as frames for the sky, which became a moving work of art through them. The Minnesota sky would float overhead, tufts of clouds on endless blue. During storms, when the sky turned black, the lighting was magnificent to observe through the glass—after they’d been bolted shut, of course, to keep out the rain.

  The living room faced Main Street. Long and rectangular, it was hemmed by a series of windows. Lucy had a long sofa and chairs in simple, durable beige wool fabric that faced a television set, and a fabulous ottoman, in circus-tent stripes, burgundy and beige leather with black piping, that I loved to play on.

  Next to the living room was a hallway that connected to the front bedroom and, down the back of the building, to a kitchen on the right and another bedroom across from it.

  The kitchen was all white. The skylight was centered over the table, surrounded by bright white enamel appliances. The kitchen table, a rectangle four by six feet, sat on a single engraved pedestal painted white, with matching chairs. The suite was a gift of the Morzenti family in Buhl, to express gratitude that Lucy had taken in their daughter when her mother was ill. Lucy told me that when she came to Chisholm, and through the years, that immigrant families coped by banding together, and doing for one another what family would have provided back home.

  The examples of bartering among the immigrants are legendary, and it was a system where everyone benefited from the exchange. Lucy would make your curtains, and in exchange, you might build her fence. Nothing was thrown away, as there was always someone who might use what you didn’t need any longer. This exchange brought a civility and network of support that my grandmother would honor all her life.

  Lucy was a fine cook and baker. She made northern Italian delicacies—gnocchi, a potato-based pasta, and hand-rolled pasta—in her kitchen. There was a savory roast and vegetables with roasted potatoes, followed by a sponge cake, every Sunday after church. Lucy worked hard to provide for her family, but she didn’t let on to her three children how difficult their circumstances were in the years after Carlo died. My mother remembers the Christmas after her father died, when the Salvation Army brought a basket by, with a turkey, food staples, and candy for the kids. Lucy thanked them kindly, and then instructed them to take the basket to a family who truly needed it. I can only imagine the worry she faced every night when she went to sleep, alone in a country without any family, without a husband, with three small children to raise and a business to run.

  One of Lucy’s solutions to saving money was to do as much labor herself as possible, including the chores around the house. While her home was warm and inviting, it wasn’t fancy. She did not invest money or time in renovating, or buying the myriad of appliances that would make her life easier. When the children grew up, they did the maintenance, and my aunt Irma would paint the walls. I liked how Lucy lived, and in particular, I loved her bathroom.

  The bathroom was painted a cheery yellow with a skylight positioned over the pedestal sink. There was an artful sloped roof with an alcove at the far end, a deep white enamel tub on claw feet centered in it, with a silver hose and nozzle the size of a large shower head anchored on a stainless steel holder. I never saw another tub like that one until I went to Italy. I imagine Lucy never changed the tub into a mod shower because it reminded her of home—of Schilpario.

  Beyond the bathroom, there were two rooms at the back of the building—Lucy’s bedroom on the far side, and opposite it, a workroom that could have easily been a fourth bedroom. Luckily Lucy had twin girls and one son, so three bedrooms was plenty. The workroom had windows along one wall. In the center of the room was a white enamel wringer washing machine, which Lucy operated herself. The deep drum of the washer would fill with water from a wide hose attached to the wall. Lucy would add detergent to the water first. The clothes would swirl around, and then, after a lengthy rinse, Lucy would put each individual item of clothing through the wringer, which looked like two metal rolling pins with a hand crank on the side.

  Once the garment was put through the wringer, she’d snap it and place it on a hanger or over a rack, a series of wooden dowels along the wall. The laundry process had a Zen quality to it. Even though the work took muscle and concentration, she reveled in it. I often think of her, and how she applied the same effort to her sewing as she did to mundane tasks. All of her work, regardless of its nature, seemed to bring her a sense of satisfaction. She didn’t fight against duty or chores or hard work. There wasn’t any resentment around her obligations, I never heard any complaints. She moved in harmony with her chores, as if having a purpose and being useful was its own brand of art.

  Because of the wringer washer, Lucy’s home was always filled with the fresh scents of clean camphor, bleach, and a touch of peppermint. There was no clothes dryer, so everything that was washed was hung and then pressed. Lucy left the windows open in the workroom, as the air helped dry the clothing more quickly. In the summer, the sun would pour in and dry the clothes in double time.

  On days when she wasn’t doing laundry, and the pristine room was available for other uses, Lucy made pasta. She rolled her pasta by hand in the kitchen, then hung it on the clean dowels to dry.

  Between her bedroom and the workroom was a door that led to a second-floor landing. That landing led to a set of wooden stairs that went two stories down to the yard. You could touch the branches of the shade tree from that landing, though I was too scared of falling to try. Lucy left that door open too, and the fresh Minnesota air would blow through her house. In fact, I remember the windows being open, day and night, to let the sweet air through. I had the same feeling ye
ars later when I opened the bedroom windows in her childhood home in Schilpario. The fresh Italian air was just like the breezes that blew off the pristine lakes of Minnesota. I love to leave doors and windows open, too, and I know this came from her example.

  That Dress

  One summer day, when Lucy was working downstairs in her shop, I went through her closet. I opened the wide door, and the clean scent of lavender and pressed linen greeted me. I don’t know what I was looking for, but I liked to snoop. Lucy with the lovely Italian accent had lived a long time, and I was sure she had some artifacts from the past that would be of interest.

  Her closet was unlike any others I knew. First of all, it was spacious. And secondly, it wasn’t crammed with clothes. Three hatboxes rested neatly on the shelf over the rod. There were two pairs of shoes on the polished floor—one pair of simple black leather pumps, and a pair of embroidered bedroom shoes, piped in black velvet on a cloisonné print in aqua, black, and deep rose. Her third pair of shoes—her work shoes, black leather lace-ups with a two-inch Cuban heel—she was wearing at the moment, down in the shop. I thought it strange that a woman who sold shoes didn’t have more of them. When the work shoes wore out, she would order a new pair, but not before she needed them.

  As her closet went, spare and practical, so did the rest of the house. In fact, there wasn’t any junk in her house at all—no tchotchkes, no clutter whatsoever. She didn’t save ribbon and wrapping paper like Viola, and there wasn’t a long pole in her closet with a choice of several winter coats to wear. Lucy had one. Granted, if you were going to own one proper coat, it should be like hers: navy blue silk wool with wooden buttons, an empire cut, straight sleeves, and a stand-up collar. It was very Givenchy, but it wasn’t French; it had been handmade by her in the shop below. She lined it in midnight blue satin, opulent, but no one ever saw the lining. Only Lucy.

  Lucy in the polka dot dress.

  The author in the polka dot dress at the Benton-Doughan wedding with Denise Waldheutter, center, and Cheri Bielke, right.

  The other aspect of her personal closet that amazed me was that she had three identical dresses. They were navy blue silk with white polka dots. Shirtwaist in style, the dress had a notched collar, short sleeves, tiny white pearl buttons, and matching buttonholes on the opposite placket; a nipped waist with a thin belt made from the polka-dot material gave way to a full skirt that was neither busy nor fussy, but draped beautifully and was exactly right. Appropriate.

  I was eleven years old, and this trio of identical dresses fascinated me. Lucy had created a uniform for church and social events, in the form of this dress. She would accessorize it differently for various occasions. Sometimes she wore a locket on a long chain, other times a pin at the collar. Often, according to the season, she would wear the dress with a navy blue cashmere cardigan from Italy, which was kept folded in her drawer, without a pull or a stain or a hole. Her only sweater looked new, and I knew she wore it a lot. She took care of everything she owned as though it was irreplaceable.

  I went down the stairs to ask her about the dress situation.

  Lucy was sewing at her machine. There was a bright work lamp over it, on a snakelike coil. She’d push and pull that lamp around, up, and down to see her stitches in the best light, then move it out of the way (after all, the bulb was bright and hot) when she released the wheel to wind the bobbin. When she finished a job and stood up, she’d swing out of her rolling stool, with its low back and handmade pillow seat, like a concert pianist who’d just finished a concerto on the stage of Carnegie Hall. She was one with her instrument: the sewing machine.

  When I came into the room (and I was so chic at the time—an eleven-year-old with style, wearing a long rope of wooden beads with a navy blue scooter skirt), she looked up at me and smiled. Beamed. Whenever I came into the room, she’d light up, so happy to see me. No one ever in the course of my entire life was ever as happy to see me as she was. Looking back, now, I realize that you only ever need one person who lights up that way when you enter a room. One person is all it takes to give a kid confidence.

  “Grandma, I have a question. Why don’t you have a lot of clothes?”

  She smiled. “I have plenty of clothes.”

  “No, you don’t. You have three dresses and one coat. And the dresses are all the same. You only have two pair of shoes. Three, if you count those.” I pointed at the plain black leather lace-ups.

  “How many dresses should I have?” she asked.

  “More than three.”

  She laughed. “How many can I wear at one time?”

  “One.” I was no fool. That was an easy question.

  “So how many do I need?” she asked.

  I thought for a moment. “Well, I guess the answer is one.”

  “So you see, I have too many.”

  I had to process this logic. After all, my fashion gene had kicked in, and here, my Lucy was a creator of clothing, she could make anything she imagined. Anything. I wanted to see her wearing the goods. And I wanted to see a lot. Her simple, straight black skirt and white blouse wasn’t enough.

  I had seen pictures of the dresses, skirts, blouses, suits, and coats she had made for my mother and her twin sister. I knew Lucy could make evening gowns of chiffon, sundresses of cotton pique with eyelet lace, and eventually an exquisite peau de soie silk wedding gown for my mother, which I was allowed to look at but never touch. The skirt on my mother’s wedding gown was a full 360-degree circle skirt with layers of white tulle underneath. Lucy was capable of high fashion. I knew Lucy had chic and cool in her, I had seen it, so why wasn’t she wearing her own couture? I didn’t even know how to express this to her; in my mind, it seemed insulting to point out that she didn’t have much. So instead I asked, “Why the polka dots?”

  “White polka dots on navy blue are classic. You can wear that fabric to a wedding or a funeral or a party, and it’s always just right.”

  Years later, when I moved to New York City and was making my living by day as an office temp to finance my theatrical dreams at night, I lived in a boardinghouse. I needed a dress to wear to weddings and funerals and the occasional fancy party (with the dual purpose of making connections and eating enough hors d’oeuvres at Manhattan parties so that I wouldn’t have to buy dinner later). “Beauty on a budget” didn’t begin to describe my circumstances. Like every girl without connections that ever moved to New York City to find a job and make a life, I was broke. Everything I made went to rent and playwriting. But I needed to look good, to give an impression that I was serious and had taste, and maybe, if there was a miracle to occur, that I was actually going places.

  I went to B. Altman’s to look for a dress. I scoured the racks. And almost without looking for it, I came upon a navy blue and white polka dot dress with short sleeves, a square collar, covered buttons, and a matching belt. The skirt portion was fitted around the hips and fell into pleats above the knee. It was the 1980s, so it had shoulder pads. At this point in the book, my friends are laughing as they read this, because they know The Dress; they have pictures of me in it, because I wore that dress absolutely everywhere, from the Benton/Doughan wedding in Wareham, Massachusetts, to a funeral in lower Manhattan, and every other event I was invited to in between.

  I wore it professionally on interviews, and socially to parties, and on days I will never forget, like the autumn day in 1988 when I signed with my first literary agent, the impeccable Wiley Hausam at International Creative Management. Whatever Lucy had wanted to impart to me about sticking with the classics and keeping things simple in the wardrobe department somehow got in. When I wanted to jazz up that dress by day, I wore white gloves with it. And when I wore it at night, I’d drape fake pearls like Coco Chanel. Lucy was right. I never had to worry if the dress was appropriate, because it was, and remains ever so.

  This effortless style is known as sprezzatura. Lucy took it a step further. When you have good taste, and you know what is required, you never need agonize about what to wear. Y
ou will hopefully find that one article of clothing that looks good on you, and says who you are, and that’s nice. But the important lesson is that having the right dress in your closet means you don’t have to waste time shopping incessantly for clothes, buying things you will never wear. The navy and white polka dot dress saves time and money, neither of which should ever be wasted. That dress also made me feel pretty, which is the best reason for wearing it, second only to emulating Lucy, who it seemed, had common sense and good taste, the two characteristics that make an otherwise good woman a lady.

  Chapter Three

  The Factory Life

  Viola at age 14, around the time she began working in the factory.

  Martins Creek, Pennsylvania, is a small village in the green flats of the northeastern Pennsylvania countryside on the way to Easton, which, along with Allentown and Bethlehem, completes a trio of cities known for steel, manufacturing, and university life (Lafayette, Lehigh, and more).

  A few miles down the road from Viola’s house, farther still from Roseto, and only seventy miles from New York City, Martins Creek was the perfect location for my grandparents’ new factory. It was far enough from the bustle of their friendly competition, and yet had an experienced workforce of machine operators who could cut, assemble, and sew fine blouses for the postwar American woman.

  Martins Creek was not unknown to my grandparents. Viola’s baby sister Lavinia lived there with her husband and their family, as well as her sister Edith (Ines), who, with her husband, owned and operated an atmospheric Italian restaurant called the Little Venice. It was there, at the bar, that my grandfather first heard of the availability of the empty factory nearby, resulting in their purchase of the building.