by C. D'Angelo
People rush by to escape the temperature, from the looks on their faces, but this is a needed break for me. It’s been hard to focus since all I can think about are the scenes I viewed last night. What was life like for my family living in Philly long ago? If it were just Grandpa, his dad, and Great-Uncle Vince in a tiny living space, without the added Serafinos? I allow myself to slip even farther from reality and let my daydreaming take over.
Young Grandpa, adolescent Great-Uncle Vince, and Great-Grandpa Gino were in their little apartment. The boys were quietly reading books at the brown nicked up wooden kitchen table. Only three chairs existed, instead of a more common set of four.
Their dad was cooking food for them. Was it dinner? Yes, dinner. The linguine was about to be thrown into the large black pot on the stove. Sauce was simmering on the other burner. There were only two burners. Stirring from one pot to the next continued back and forth for a few moments.
Great-Grandpa Gino scurried from the stove to the window briefly to close off the cold breeze flowing in through the bright yellow curtains. The whole room was beige, with paint chipping everywhere and visibility of rust-colored walls underneath. The room was dark with the weather’s dreariness and didn’t have any decorations. The only light seemed to be from the curtains.
No fridge was in the room, so a stick of butter was sitting on the tiny balcony of their wrought iron framed fire escape. Maybe it was so cold outside that the dairy had a chance to survive. How did Great-Grandpa afford the ingredients to even make dinner for the family when conditions looked so meager?
They spoke few words to each other until it was time to eat. The food opened the floodgates, though. Each boy was trying to out-talk the other.
“Let me tell you about my day at school today,” teenage Grandpa said.
Then, Great-Uncle Vince responded back, “No, I have so much more to tell you.” He rose out of his chair, but immediately sat down when Great-Grandpa gave him a look. That’s the universal look from all parents to sit and eat.
Great-Grandpa Gino smiled at him, taking a seat and letting the boys verbally fight out their position in the storytelling line. But when dinner was done, he insisted on them cleaning up then going to bed right away. It was past dark now and time to sleep.
There was one light for the entire apartment, and it was small and dim. Everyone slept on the other side of the room, not having another room in existence. The boys had to sleep together in a twin size bed, while Great-Grandpa Gino had his own bed, atop theirs, bunk bed style. Sheets were thin and dingy white, but they did have a heavy gray blanket and pillows.
Despite the bleak surroundings, all of my family members appeared happy. What a strange juxtaposition to imagine, but I have an overwhelming confidence that it was accurate. They loved spending time together and it showed in their smiles and energy with one another. Their daily routine was stable and secure for the teens.
As they went off to sleep and their dad read at the table, I wonder what tomorrow would have brought for them. Work I’m sure, but what else? Conversations with good neighbors? Written letters to and from their mom/wife and sister/daughter? I just hope they had the closeness I imagine and that they were happy.
I am long overdue for a grilled cheese sandwich and fries and this 1950s style establishment is the best option near my office. Maggie orders her standard tuna melt and we enjoy our Diet Cokes, sitting on the turquoise pleather seats near the jukebox. Elvis belts out “Teddy Bear” and I almost sing along. What a reprieve in the middle of the day.
“You are sure talking more with your hands today than usual,” she says while chewing her first bite of the melt.
Laughing because it is true, I respond, “Well, that’s me, as you know. Give me a break.”
“Mmmm-hmmmm.” Maggie can draw out her words like no one else, adding extra special sarcasm and drama just for me. “So, let me tell you about Ray.” She’s a to-the-point type person and today is no different. I love the lack of small talk. “He’s been surprisingly good to me. He opens cab doors for me, makes sure I am satisfied with the food when we’re dining out, and generally does all the chivalrous things any woman would want…”
Uh-oh. “What?” I say in a way that braces myself for the “but” that is coming. This is Mags and about a romantic interest, after all.
“See, he’s great, but he does this thing.”
Busting out laughing, I say, “There’s the ‘but.’ Oh, God. What is it now?”
“I know, right? It’s always something,” she says matter of fact then continues. “But Ray always wears his sunglasses. Even indoors.”
“Oh, no, you have to be kidding!” I scream across the table, but not loud enough to cause a scene. “He wears sunglasses. The horror of it all!” I make sure to act dramatic back to her, of course.
Cackling now, Maggie corrects me for my exaggerated response. “No, you don’t get it. We don’t live in Hollywood. Why does he insist on always having his sunglasses on, even on gloomy days? It isn’t summertime anymore, so what is his deal? It’s just weird. I don’t know.” She drops her head down.
I have seen this situation more than once with her, so I expect some strange trait she dislikes in her current dating partner, but I don’t expect this reaction. I have never seen her this affected. She must really like this guy, so I change my joking tone. “Does this mean you will be breaking up with him? Is this the deal breaker this time? I’m so sorry he does that.”
She looks back up at me. “I am going to try to be an adult this time. I like everything else about him, well, for the most part. I mean, he hums a lot, but that doesn’t get on my nerves as much as the sunglasses. It’s just…odd.”
“Well, I can name a few things about you that he may think are strange.” I wink in a purposely creepy manner so it’s obvious that I’m kidding. I want to bring up her mood like she’s done for me countless times.
“Like what?” She retracts her chin. Her brows furrow at the same time.
Oh, I’m not as obvious as I thought when I try to be creepy.
“How about that you bite your lips when you are thinking? That you start singing song lyrics when people say certain phrases? That you—”
She stops me by holding up her hand and rolling her eyes. “Okay! I get it. I am not perfect, I know.”
“No, those are just your things. Your cute little quirks. They aren’t bad, but maybe someone would think they are unusual, like you do with Ray’s quirks.”
She nods and looks like she’s processing what I said.
I continue, “Well, look, Ray seems like a good one. I like him. Brian likes him. You like him! Just don’t let his eyewear preferences get in the way of something real.”
“It does feel real this time, doesn’t it?” she says looking to the side and still appearing deep in thought. She takes a deep breath and says, “I’ll do my best.”
“So, this was what you needed to tell me?” I couldn’t help but laugh again. You gotta love her. I do.
“Well, yeah, what did you think? I mean, come on. It couldn’t be something you would think is big, Miss I’m So Deep I’m Finding My Roots.” Maggie flashes a mischievous side smile, squinting with one eye.
The rest of the lunch hour ends up consumed with me updating her on my ancestry search, making plans to hang out soon again, and touching on Brian issues, questions, changes, improvements, and whatever else fit into the time frame of lunch that still lingers. This time with Mags is just what I needed to carry me through the rest of the day.
Walking out of the diner and back to my office, I review my next client’s treatment plan goals from memory. It is always good for my mood when I can get out of myself and my own concerns, if only for a few hours. And now I feel like I can carry that on and be more present the rest of the day. Well, I can aim for it anyway.
Chapter 26
This month brings colder f
all weather and even colder attitudes from me at times. It must be a post quarter life crisis. Yeah, I made the term up, but it’s probably true. Well, it needs to end already. I’m tired of it. I demand it leaves now. Uh, pretty please?
It’s time to try something I haven’t done in the past. Yes, I’m still attempting to follow my own advice. That’s what I help the kids with at work; if someone keeps trying an action that hasn’t worked in the past, why the hell would it work now? By the way, I do not swear in front of them, so just take that word right out of there and imagine it otherwise. And just like the kids, I must be missing a change that’s in my power, so think, Rachel, think.
Come on. You can do it.
I shut my eyes tight and put all my effort into this intention for what seems like hours, though it’s only minutes.
Hmm, what about the Catholic churches in Genoa? I wonder if I’ll get anywhere by researching the churches that existed in the early 1900s. I’ll go directly to the source, since I can’t find any religious documents on the ancestry sites for my family. Yes! I know for a fact that my family was Catholic, like many Italian families back in the day, so I can bet on that at least. This can be a whole new route to try for family information. Thank you, God, Grandpa, Grandma, or however I got this idea.
After a few minutes online, I see that Genoa seems bigger than I thought, so narrowing down its churches may be a challenge. Even navigating the Italian websites are a challenge. Grr. Sometimes the page doesn’t have a button to translate the content, and I don’t know Italian, so I don’t know what is written at all. The page could say, “Stop looking for something you’ll never find, you American idiot. Find another hobby,” for all I know. To avoid that negative focus, I push forward and try to piece together the phrases from internet translating sites.
Oh, now I see. Yay, translation website. It looks like only two churches existed in Genoa during the time my grandpa was a child. I wonder if he lived nearby also. I’ll write that down in the journal really quick. Okay, come back to that, but first, stay on this track.
Maybe I’ll contact the church staff directly and see if they have any answers for me. I click on the email address on one church’s website and compose my query on whether my family’s records exist there. Oh, I better include a translated version of my narrative. What if the staff member doesn’t know English? I cut and paste my letter into the translation website then repeat the steps in reverse. After both the English and Italian versions of my email reside on the digital page, I click the send button and feel a sense of accomplishment.
Scanning the website of the other church option, I find that it doesn’t have an email address, only a snail mail address. I grab a piece of paper and a pen to write an old-fashioned letter, copying my email content exactly, in both languages again. As fast as I can move, I lick the envelope to seal it, triple confirm the mailing address, and set it by my keys so I can mail it tomorrow morning. I wish the mail carrier could pop by a second right now.
I also wish I could call the churches, so I don’t have to wait for responses. I don’t have an international plan on my phone, though. And again, I don’t speak the language anyway. Argh!
Since I’m on a roll otherwise, where else could I look online for places in Italy that may have records? I sit back down and think. The screen stares at me.
Maybe the city hall or a newspaper archive site. I have seen an advertisement about a newspaper archive online here in America. Well, anything’s worth a try.
I search a while for both. What a shock. Another void. The Italian city hall doesn’t have records online and no newspaper articles populate with any family member’s names. I am getting nowhere fast yet again. I think I’m a master of that now.
No, choose to concentrate on the positive. I made a step tonight that may pay off. I’ll have to hold out hope for a kind church employee to answer my email or letter. I just wish for it to be sooner than later.
Chapter 27
So, here we are. Christmas Eve at my parents’ house. How did the year go by swiftly, yet painstakingly slow? Actually, that seems typical lately.
As I sit at their kitchen table, I take in the aroma of the holiday food and listen to songs from Bing Crosby and Lou Monte in the background. Dominick the Donkey always makes me laugh. I’ll be a kid at heart forever when that’s playing.
Staring into the living room, I admire the soft-appearing Douglas fir, complete with the angel from Grandma and Grandpa’s old artificial tree. Dad insists that their topper will always be the one we use on our trees. I agree with this tradition, of course. She shines atop the sparkly tinsel and colorful lights as if confident in the miracle of Christmas. Why can’t she bring me answers as a Christmas miracle?
I reflect on how the days have inched by since I wrote the letter and email to the churches in Italy and how I haven’t reaped any rewards for my hard work. I’ll take anything at this time; a pointer in another direction, a lead…anything. I check my email spam folders obsessively every day and make sure to get the snail mail as well. And there’s always nothing. I am sure someone has to have written back and either it got lost in the ocean crossing or in the internet servers somehow.
I am so sick of waiting for a next step. At least my torturous delays haven’t been affecting me as much with Brian. Making different choices and trying to focus on logical, positive thoughts has helped me and therefore us, especially when the Christmas spirit takes hold. I’m glad I can remind myself that I enjoy this time of year, and that I can finally use some of my therapy techniques on myself.
Brian’s right by my side today, as usual. Tomorrow we will visit some of his family, but I’m thankful that he gladly spends the large Italian holiday of Christmas Eve with mine. Well, he would be a fool not to spend it here, with the incredible food we prepare.
The Feast of the Seven Fishes is an Italian tradition that my grandpa carried on and my parents continue to engage in as well. Right now, there are seven types of seafood being prepared, in addition to homemade soup, Grandma’s “aioli,” tossed salad, and crusty bread. I imagine the explosions of taste and let out a satisfied sigh.
Brian looks over at me, mid-cutting of the bread.
We exchange a smile and he goes back to his much-enjoyed task.
Baccalá is the staple fish every year and it’s making this year’s appearance across the room. It’s the one smell in this kitchen that I’m not too thrilled about. I never think it’s that tasty, but Grandpa demanded it every year, and other family members still like it. So, it continues to be made in his honor. I’ll drink my eggnog to drown out the odor.
Speaking of sugary treats, the desserts are plentiful in the Granza household, of course. Cheesecake and a variety of Italian cookies are the most common sweets to have on this holiday. Pizzelles are always one of the Italian cookies my mom makes. The crispy vanilla flavored flat cookie, shaped like a snowflake and topped with confectionary sugar, is easily my favorite cookie in general. I look over at them on the counter, ready to be devoured. I’m coming for you, babies.
Brian jumps right in today to help my mom, but she knows I would be more of a hinderance than a help to her smooth flow. I have my hands full trying to put up with Dylan anyway. He’s in the living room with Dad, where I generally hang out. He throws in stupid comments here and there to try to irk me, but I am not allowing it today. Literally. I left the room to come and sit here. I’ll just ignore him, unlike the attention seeking eight-year-old he acts like.
But after only a half hour, Dad calls out, “Rachel, come in here again.”
“Yeah, we miss youuu,” Dylan adds.
Fire fills my chest at the sound of his brattiness.
Parents always want the kids to get along. Grr. Well, it’s Christmas Eve, so I’ll try to make him happy. “Coming.”
As soon as I sit on the couch, Dad turns his body toward me from the other end. “Tell us about how your fa
mily research is shaping up after you found our original last name. I still can’t believe that one. When I told your Uncle Tonio, he was also in shock.”
“Aww, I hope they all have a great Christmas in sunny LA. I wish they lived here. Anyway, thanks for asking. Yeah, it’s pretty amazing.”
I will still ignore Dylan’s comments, but so far, he hasn’t made a peep. Does he want to hear how it’s going also? I furrow my brow in caution but proceed to spill all the details.
My dad’s face drops by the end of the short summary of progress, or lack thereof.
It feels like validation for how hard it has been to get to the reason Grandpa never wanted to talk about his youth. I’m sure Dad wants the information just as much as me. And, my dad could usually fix anything for me when I was a child, but adult issues are a whole different animal. I can see him racking his brain for an easy answer to solve all of my adult problems, now and in years past. He opens his mouth and holds back from speaking multiple times for this problem’s solution. I know he has no idea what to say to help his little girl, but his desire to help is bursting from his insides. “A” for effort, Dad.
He finally finds the words. “I think you will get there. You will find what you want. I guess it just takes time, honey.” I can see his metaphorical heart breaking for me when he gives up the brainstorming and makes that statement. He knows I always reached my goals in school and in my career, but this goal is more out of my control, making it my first—and hopefully last—feeling of such immense failure.
“I just wish I knew how to move forward. I am waiting for a letter of some form that may never arrive. My past and future seem to be in someone else’s hands and that isn’t okay with me.”
Letting out a loud groan, Dylan blurts out, “Rachel! Why are you so dramatic? I don’t even understand why this is that important to you. Can’t you just be normal like everyone else and not care about the past?”