Don't Sing at the Table

by Adriana Trigiani

  I’m sure they hoped I would be a good Roman Catholic, but more than that, they hoped I would be able to listen to my inner voice and follow my heart. One led to the other for me. Who knew that trusting the voice would give me a job that I love and would sustain my family? Who knew that trusting the voice would help me make the best choice of lifetime partner, with the promise of commitment giving way to romance and hopefully, lots, greater, and even better sex? Who knew that trusting the inner voice would give me one good daughter and a peek through the window to the future in her eyes? This inner peace has also given me the ability to navigate grief, pain, loss, disappointment, and tragedy. I know it’s not about me; it’s about how I react. And when I am experiencing the worst—and believe me, it shows up uninvited—I turn to the voice within. I rest in the notion of that peace, and no matter what, the voice tells me that it will all be all right.

  You can find chapter and verse to back up God’s big plans for us, and tell us that if we follow a few choice beliefs, those beliefs will lead us home. That might be true, but none of these promises can be realized without the ability to go inward. And truthfully, when it comes to the concept of God, I only know that He made me, and maybe that’s all I get. This life.

  The gift of this crazy, fabulous hayride is mine, which, if I’m lucky and pay attention, will be shared with family and friends who want the best for me, and I for them. Then as a bonus, the ordinary moments that are also divine: standing in front of a blue ocean, holding your daughter in her pajamas on a winter morning when she’s not quite awake, or writing one good sentence in a sea of seven hundred pages of trying, reveal themselves like lone glittering stars on the darkest night sky. The gifts, in fact that keep on giving: the promise that you are not alone in this insanity, that you can love someone and hold on. But you need strength to hold on. The ability to be still gives you that particular strength, and the power to appreciate and, for a second, to hold the moment. If I get to the other side, and I find out that indeed that was the prize all along, I will spend eternity in bliss.

  I could only know these gifts because of the stillness.

  At the end of Viola’s life, I asked her if she had any regrets. She said, “I wish I would have had more children.” And I was shocked—after all, she’d had four children, which seemed like a lot. And furthermore, at that point, in the spring of 1997, I had none. Having a child was on my mind, and I suddenly felt bereft that she would never know my children. But I also knew that you can’t plan everything, even if you try. So instead of telling her that I was sorry that she would never see my children, instead I asked, “Gram, why more kids?” And she looked at me and said, “Because life is good.”

  And then she smiled.

  Afterword

  We worry what to give our children, agonize about what gifts to give them in the hopes of choosing something special that will build a memory for them. We trudge to theme parks, take them to musicals, unveil the wonders of the circus or the thrill of carnivals to give them an adventure, where they have to be brave while having fun. We want them to remember the blinking lights, the whirling Ferris wheel, and the glass boxes filled with spools of pink cotton candy. We want to give them moments, so hopefully, when they’re old, they’ll look back and remember the commitment we made to their childhood, to show them things, to fill their imaginations with wonder.

  We hope they’ll remember the thrill of riding on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, or maybe they’ll forget the ride, the circumstance, the day, and simply remember the feeling of security they had while holding our hands on the endless line. Maybe that’s the best gift we can give them, the knowledge that we will always be there. Or maybe it’s the only gift that matters.

  After Viola died, I went to visit her grave. I drove down to her house in early summer, when trees were in bloom, and the house and property were hidden by foliage. As I made the turn up the driveway, I felt she was there. I took a walk around the grounds, remembering the summer days, the chores, and our conversations. I used to address my letters to her: “Mrs. M. A. Trigiani, Head Nun, Little Sisters of the Poor Summer Camp.”

  I got back into the rental car and drove through the village, and into Bangor, and up to the stoplight. I was thinking about her when there was a tap on the passenger window. I looked over and saw a man. I rolled down the window, thinking he might need directions.

  “Are you Viola Trigiani’s granddaughter?” he asked.

  “Yes. You know she passed away.”

  “I saw it in the paper.” He introduced himself.

  “You know, she came to see me before she died,” he said. “I live in that house right there.” He pointed.

  I remember his house because next to it was an impromptu alley, a strip of grass with grooves made from the wheels of parked cars, two parallel dirt tracks with tufts of grass going between them.

  The man parked his cars in the alleyway. And they weren’t just cars, they were vintage models. There was a beauty, one that I admired since I was a girl. It was a hardtop Ford Fairlane circa 1960 in mint condition. My favorite aspect of the car was the wide turquoise-and-white harlequin shapes on the sides of the car. It looked like Commedia dell’arte pantaloons to me. Whimsical. And whenever we drove by, I’d look for the car, and tell my grandmother I wanted that car. Then we’d spar.

  “What would you do with that old car?”

  “Put it in your garage.” I’d tell her.

  And then we’d argue about the car I didn’t own. There wasn’t room in the garage, and besides, why should she be stuck with another vehicle to maintain? How would I afford it? Why would I need a car when I lived in New York City? The car was old. You never know about old cars—they might look good on the outside, but be clunkers on the inside. And on and on. It was a routine with us.

  The man looked at me as though he knew what I was thinking.

  “Were you the one that liked my Fairlane?” he asked me.

  “Yes sir, I was.”

  “Well, last March your grandmother knocked on my door. Said she wanted to buy the car. I told her I wasn’t selling it. She tried to bargain with me, but I stood my ground. Then she went soft and told me that it was for her granddaughter, who admired it. I was moved, but I still wouldn’t sell. She left me her number in case I changed my mind.”

  I thanked him.

  “I think it’s nice she wanted to buy it for you,” he said.

  I couldn’t say anything. I was thinking that a car was the highest gift you could receive in the Trigiani family.

  On the way to the cemetery, I thought of all the things my grandmother did in the weeks before she died. She gave things away. She dropped a herringbone car coat at her niece Violet Ruggiero’s house, because Violet had admired it. She made amends. She called her friends. She invited her grandkids to play cards with her in the hospital. She took visitors. She pretended not to be in pain, and when they’d sneak booze into the hospital, she’d toast them from a plastic cup.

  In her final days, Viola made life seem like a party that shouldn’t end, whether she stayed or went. I thought about the girl she had been, one who loved dancing, parties, and a life of glamour and fun, but whose path turned serious when her mother died so young.

  Her passing made me aware of precious time. I was lucky to have time with my grandmothers. These moments are my treasure, afternoons or mornings or bits of time at a family function when I was lucky enough to steal private moments with them. In my imagination, these moments swirl around one another and clump together; the days and years might somersault over one another, out of order and out of sync, but the message remains clear.

  I was loved, and I loved them.

  Whenever I wish, I can taste their cooking, hear their laughter, and know their love, just as they promised.

  When I was young, I worried that they would die. The thing I feared most didn’t happen, I was lucky to have them both into my thirties. They didn’t see my daughter born, but I’m pretty sure they sent her to me.


  And greedily, when they died, I wished for more. There are days when I would trade everything I have to be with them again. But I’ve learned that there is never enough time with someone you love. Ever.

  I look down at my hands a lot, and remember theirs—Lucy’s long, tapered fingers as she sewed, and deftly spun the wheel on the Singer, and Viola’s hands, at first artful and strong, and then in constant motion to ward off arthritis. Their hands did not rest; they were busy creating, stirring, crocheting, pruning, or kneading. When I attempt to follow their example and make something with my hands, whether it’s a meal or something crafty, I come in a distant second to my grandmothers, but I try. I owe them that.

  I learned how to be a woman from my grandmothers. They taught me their simple definition of feminism: make your own living. Rely on no one to take care of you. When a man controls the checkbook, he controls you. Be a good partner, an equal, and demand that he be a good partner too. Work for yourself, invent your own business, so you can set productivity, pace, and therefore profit. Pay your bills. Clean up your debts as you go; let the obligation to pay off the debt fuel your ambition. Own your own home. Have a moral code that elevates your thinking, and your behavior will follow. Use common sense. Modesty is the guardian of privacy. Defend your good reputation; you can’t get it back once it’s gone. Apologize when you’re wrong. Fight back when wrong is done to you, or to those you love. Loving one good man is enough. Know that you will see all those you have lost again, and beat back sadness with the knowledge. Take care of your parents, honor their wishes. Have a purpose and beauty will follow, you won’t have to work at it. Style is appropriate. Know what you like, cultivate your individual taste, and you won’t care what anyone else thinks. Fill a vase with fresh flowers from your own garden. Grow lilacs near a window, and your home will be filled with springtime when they bloom. Good manners are insurance that you will be invited back. Leave your children your values, not stuff. Do not be afraid to die, it’s natural. Take a chance, and when you fail, take another. There is no limit on risk; aim high and aim true. Be bold. Be direct. Be different. Remember who you come from; you owe them because they gave you the ticket to this adventure. Honor the debt.

  I try to live these mandates, and I fall short plenty. But I want to show my daughter how to live, not just tell her. Words evaporate in thin air like smoke, but actions galvanize the spirit and reinforce good intentions. I want to leave Lucia the intangibles—the gift of going inward, an example of peace and of connection—knowing that it is these things that will nurture her soul and make her strong.

  Women have found a way to survive and thrive that is unique to our sex. For me, and I trust for many of you, your philosophy of life, your approach to living, came from your relationship with the sages in your life, those women who came before you and made you feel you could achieve a great thing or master a small one, and either would be met with encouragement and then approval. Hold their wisdom close and follow their example.

  Maybe your sages didn’t come from your family. You might have been close to a teacher, or a boss, or a neighbor who taught you how to make something, and in so doing, taught you how to be someone. It never, ever occurred to me that I wouldn’t work, and that if the fates were kind, I wouldn’t be gifted a family of my own.

  Love your work, enjoy it. Hard work is good for us. Lucy and Viola loved their work; the mastery of their crafts brought them a sense of satisfaction. Work gave them something that they could in turn give to me: drive. Ambition fuels purpose, and purpose builds character, and character sustains a strong family. When it appeared that a task was dull, or that the development of a technique in my chosen profession could be repetitive and boring, they upped the stakes and encouraged me to push harder. They knew that a plateau was only a foothold upward to something greater. They turned this slog into an adventure.

  I miss them.

  I will long for the cool summer mornings when I’d go berry picking with Viola in the woods. The sun was barely up, but it threw just enough light to see. Raspberries grow deep in the brush, and you have to hunt for them. Sometimes we’d look and look, and no luck. I’d tell my grandmother that maybe there weren’t any raspberries this particular year—maybe there’d been too much rain, or not enough. “Have you checked the Almanac?” I’d complain. Viola would ignore me and push me deeper into the woods, and farther into the forest, certain we’d come upon them. I wasn’t so sure, but I followed her anyway.

  Over and over again, we bent back spindly branches thick with leaves, hoping to find them. We’d trudge up a gnarly path and push through more foliage, hoping for a glimpse of red. When you found one cluster, you knew that it would lead to the mother lode. This particular boondoggle seemed like a gold rush with no payoff. I wanted to give up.

  There were often thorns and sharp spikes growing in the bushes to turn us back. The slushy mud pits under the green gave me the creeps. I wondered what weird animals lived in the forest—what if one bit me? There was only a dried-up bottle of Mercurochrome and some old gauze in Viola’s crap emergency kit from 1932. I wondered if she thought about that. But Viola was determined, so I kept looking too, if only to prove to her that this year, there weren’t going to be any raspberries.

  I offered that she should put up something else—grape jam or apricot jelly. How about peaches? We had a couple of crates of those that her sister had dropped off. I even said, “Let’s just go to the store and buy berries.” With that, she looked at me and glared. I was missing the point.

  Just when I thought we’d never find them, she pushed back some dense green vines and there, embroidered into the thicket underneath, were the raspberries. There were hundreds of berries, sweet and plump, ripe and ready to pick, just like Viola promised, just as she had hoped. She let out a whoop! The pirate had found the buried treasure, the long-lost wedding ring suddenly appeared, and when you were penniless in a downpour at 3:00 a.m, you found a bonus twenty-dollar bill hiding in the bottom of your coat pocket to get you home. It might as well have been a million! Yes, Viola had struck oil, tapped the vein, and hit the jackpot. The raspberries had been there all along, and I almost missed them. They were buried deep, and full and perfect, just like rubies. And just as priceless.

  Acknowledgments

  A writer never knows who will pick up a book and read it. Please know that I am always grateful that you picked up this one. This is my first work of nonfiction; I found treasure upon treasure in the research process and in the wisdom of those interviewed regarding particular aspects of my grandmothers’ lives.

  At HarperCollins, I am published by the wise and dazzling Jonathan Burnham. Lee Boudreaux, my editor, is a dream and a gift, and a fellow mother who gets it. Lee’s right arm, Abigail Holstein, is terrific and works like there is no end to the shift—ever. Katherine Beitner is a joy. Virginia Stanley keeps me front and center with my beloved librarians and it’s a good thing because my mother was one! The jacket art was designed by the brilliant Alison Saltzman, who also created the cover for Lucia, Lucia, a favorite among my readers.

  Also at Harper’s my evermore gratitude to Brian Murray (great taste and beautiful manners at all times), Leslie Cohen, Kathy Schneider (she moves heaven and earth and crates of books), Michael Morrison (the champion), Angie Lee, Tom Hopke, Danielle Plafsky, Nicole Reardon, Kyle Hansen, Tina Andreadis (you want a Greek girl running your press), Jocelyn Kalmus, Cindy Achar, Lydia Weaver, Miranda Ottewell, Michael Siebert, Eric Butler, Emily Lotto, Doug Jones, Carla Clifford, Kathryn Pereira, Jamie Brickhouse (class act), Wade Lucas, Lauren Kopich, Alexis Lunsford, Jeanette Zwart, Andrea Rosen (special market queen), Josh Marwell, Brian Grogan, Kate Blum, Carl Lennertz, Carrie Kania (tops in trade paper and accessories), Jennifer Hart (delight with an Internet bullhorn), Stephanie Selah, Alberto Rojas (clone him), and Meredith Rusu. Sandi Mendelson and Cathy Gruhn send the message far and wide, with style and grace.

  At William Morris Endeavor, thank you and my love always to the flamboyant gamine: Suz
anne Gluck. Brava to the tireless Nancy Josephson, whom I adore. Thank you and love to: Caroline Donofrio, Mina Shaghaghi, Sarah Ceglarski, Cara Stein, Alicia Gordon, Philip Grenz, Erin Malone, Tracy Fisher, Pauline Post, Eugenie Furniss (faithful and true), Claudia Webb, Cathryn Summerhayes, Becky Thomas, and Jamie Quiroz, Raffaella de Angelis. Amanda Krentzman Graham Taylor, Casey Carroll, Michelle Bohan, Matt Smith, Juliet Barrack, Stephanie Ward, and Brandon Guzman. In Movieland, thank you to the brilliant Larry Sanitsky, Claude Chung, and the team at the Sanitsky Company.

  I am grateful for the additional materials that enriched the research of this book. Thank you Kate Benton Doughan, Andrea Bonicelli Hopkins, and Nolan and Ellen Perin for gorgeous photographs. Veda Ponikvar, the longtime great writer and editor of the Chisholm Free Press of Chisholm, Minnesota, wrote detailed profiles of Lucy Bonicelli through the years, which I relied upon for fact checking. Dr. Stewart Wolf’s heart study included in The Roseto Story was, as always, insightful. The New York Daily News, the Los Angeles Times, and the Bangor Daily News chronicled my grandmother’s 1957 belly landing in Honolulu in vivid detail. My beautiful great-aunt Lavinia Perin Spadoni and her Number One daughter, Monica Spadoni Matthews, provided family photographs and insight, which were most helpful. Lucy Communale, Viola’s lifelong friend from her first job in the mill, was a source of inspiration and insight. Yolanda Perin Trigiani took the time to write a concise and insightful autobiography, which I quoted freely within this manuscript. The Blouse Herald, a publication of the Slate Belt Apparel Contractors Association, Bangor, Pennsylvania, was a great help with the basics of mill operations in the 1960s, as were the memories of Gram and her cars as recollected by my beloved brother, Michael A. Trigiani II.