Monday, November 22, 2010

Eulogy for a Rose


 
We lost Aunt Rose Boccuto last week. Many of us have one of those aunts or uncles in the family like Rosie. The one who never married, never had kids, never quite fit in. Eccentric, not quite normal, a bit odd. Perhaps cursed with misfortune. That was our Aunt Rosie, my mother’s oldest sister. She possessed an unforgettable, unique personality.

When we were young, Aunt Rosie was our unofficial babysitter during those long summer days when we would hang around in my Aunt Annamarie’s house, watching game shows and drinking Tab. We were smart alec adolescents and sometimes we teased Rosie and tried to get a rise out of her. One thing she hated was when we sat on the sofa which was covered in a thick sheet of plastic slipcovers. Apparently, she had paid for the slipcovers and wanted to preserve them. We’d wait until she could see us and then plop on the sofa, to her great consternation.

Aunt Rosie was ahead of her time in some ways, a full fledged vegetarian who never met a bowl of pasta she didn’t like. She was a fixture on South Marvine Street-willing to run errands for neighbors, always down with the latest gossip, and full of laughter and delight when she was introduced to a new baby on the block.
Rosie was a mystery too. She studied the Daily News religiously, kept up on current events and was much more intelligent than we ever really gave her credit. Even as a child I wondered what was going on in her mind. There always seemed to be something there—but what exactly, was hard to say. She'd burst into laughter at inappropriate times, or just stare into the distance with her big brown eyes.
I must admit that sometimes I got jealous when Aunt Rosie showered cousin Theresa with gifts of baby dolls, candy and clothes. Theresa was obviously her favorite and I can say now without a doubt that the two of them are now in heaven enjoying a bowl of gnocchi with tomato sauce followed by a butter pecan ice cream.
Here’s another thing about Rosie—she told it like it was. How many times did she surprise us with a comment or remark that we were all thinking but wouldn’t dare say. Not Rosie. She pulled no punches.
My commentary about Rosie would not be complete without expressing my gratitude to my cousin Denise for all of the work and care she so lovingly provided. Denise was there as Rosie got older and slower and needed a helping hand.
I don’t know if I’ll ever totally understand Rosie, but I realize that’s not too important today. She was essentially a child of God---innocent, imperfect, and one who called upon us to be patient, human, and compassionate. She was part of our family—and we were a part of hers. She did her best with what she had been given—and what had been taken away.
She leaves us today and enters a new realm—where she is finally free of the physical maladies that plagued her. Where her mind is released and at her soul is at peace.
We say good bye to Aunt Rosie and we want you to know, we will never forget your smile. We hope you pray for us now that you are in God’s embrace. 

Friday, September 24, 2010

THE COOKIE TRAY

  
















Every bakery in South Philadelphiafrom Termini’s to Cosmi’s prepared them---the Italian cookie tray. In our neighborhood, it was the centerpiece of celebrations—Baptism, weddings, First Holy Communion, high school graduations. A cookie tray on the dining room table signaled a special occasion as much as shined shoes and a haircut. 
      On my Confirmation Day, one arrived covered in cellophane like a glistening gift. Underneath waited tiny tasty treasures, impossible to resist. Mom slapped my hand away when I tried ever so slowly to grab one. “Not yet,” she scolded.
     “Just one,” I begged.
      I gazed at the tiny mountain of assorted treats---cookies covered in pignola nuts with a chewy moist center, butter cookies flecked with green and red cherries, mini biscotti, half moon shapes of almond and cinnamon. Here and there, jutted pastel-colored Jordan almonds---candy mortar holding it all together. Everything was dusted with a sprinkling of powdered sugar. Atop the white sugar rested swirls of festive pink and green cellophane.
              “Please,” I tried again.
              “Oh, all right,” my mother said, “Just be sure to take it out of the bottom.”
              My mother was never a stickler about my nutritional needs. She just didn’t want the tray to looked picked over when it was presented to the guests. 
              I was hungry, and itchy in my white polyester Confirmation dress. A bobby pin dug into my hair where my flowered crown sat.
             Roseanne Pecora, my all around caregiver, hair brusher, snack maker, was my sponsor---a kind of hip godmother. She stood behind me as I walked up the aisle at Stella Maria. I had just been slapped in the face by the bishop and given the middle name “Carmella.” I was officially confirmed—another sacrament ticked off the list.   The only thing I had to eat all morning was a Communion wafer. I wanted to try every cookie, but had to make a choice. Which one would I take as a free pre-party sample?
             I scanned the selection until I found one shaped like a ball, smothered in confectioner’s sugar, loaded with chopped nuts—my favorite. It was all over in half a bite---the sweet buttery flavor combined with the pleasant crunch created a sensation that seemed closer to heaven than the last two hours in church.
          “One more,” I said, hoping for a miracle.
            Mom shook her head while she glided an Avon mini-lipstick in shimmery coral over her lips,    
          “Nah, unh,” came the answer. “You have to eat first,” she said.
           But, I thought to myself, this is eating. I had no interest in the sausages in thick gravy, the simmering slices of roast pork, baked ziti---heavy, salty, spicy---a waste of stomach space. That was food that required forks and knives, food that weighed you down, that made your breath smell bad.     
         Relatives arrived, offering me smiles, congratulations and white envelopes stuffed with fives and tens. I smiled back, but my mind drifted to the tray, now tucked away on the kitchen table, and waited.
         Hours later, amid cigarette smoke and waning conversation, the smell of coffee perculating on the gas range heralded the start of dessert time. My mother slid the tray on the table and soon the chairs around it were filled with aunts and uncles, neighbors and toddlers leaning in to take a treat. I started with a rococo---meringue enrobed with peanuts and lingered over something filled with jam.   There were some I liked more than others, but none I wouldn’t at least give a try.
          Years went by and though I thought I would mature out of loving cookies, I never did. Those early days of cookie trays stayed with me and informed many of my food choices.
           More years went by. A man I loved proposed marriage and I said yes though he preferred eating chicken over shortbread cookies.
         A week before the wedding, I sat in a hospital room with my mother, dying of cancer. She wouldn’t make it to the ceremony, the reception, to wear the salmon colored dressed she bought at the Mansion House on Broad Street.
       Following surgery to repair a bone ravaged by her disease, a piece of her mind went missing. Hallucinations, a mental separation from the grim reality that only death would relieve her suffering. She imagined squirrels scurrying down the hospital hallways, saw her own mother, dead for 25 years, smoked phantom cigarettes.
       In the twilit room, her eyes closed, hands punctured with intervenous drips like a high-tech crucifixion, she turned to me.
      “I’m ready for the wedding, mom,” I said, trying to sound happy. “I've my gown,
the flowers, satin shoes, a French manicure.”
      She nodded, though I suspected she barely understood what I was saying.
      “Did you get the cookie tray?” she asked, and I told her yes, oh, yes, it was ordered and waiting at the bakery. All we had to do was pick it up.

Monday, August 16, 2010

THE ASSUMPTION



  I am standing with my mother and her friend Stella on the beach in Atlantic City, New Jersey. I’m 12 years old. Our toes sink into the wet sand, and we wiggle them free as the waves retreat. Stella searches the horizon, her, head cocked back, poised in a salute to the scorching August sun overhead. My mother's olive skin, like Stella's, has turned toasty brown after only a few days. On the other hand, I inherited my father's Celtic genes and am a splotchy pink.
         It is August 15, the Feast of the Assumption, 1973. We are waiting for the bishop to fly overhead inside a tiny plane to bless the waters in which we are standing.
         According to The Lives of the Saints, the Blessed Mother  "did not molder in her grave" but was" saved from all defilement and malady that weakens the bodily frame." Unlike other mortals, Mother Mary was taken "body and soul" into heaven. To commemorate her Assumption on this date, these New Jersey waters are blessed every year.
         My mother's stout and sturdy figure fits snugly inside her navy blue swimsuit. She is holding a Tupperware container so she can fill it with the sanctified seawater. Stella, the same height as my mother, no more than five feet, is in a flouncy floral, with a pleated skirt.
         "Katie, wasn't that procession beautiful today?" she says to my mother, who nods and smiles.
Earlier that morning the faithful had followed Father Palumbo and three altar boys down Atlantic Avenue. A group of Italian men, two elderly ones with short sleeve shirts buttoned to the collar, and a two younger ones with thick black hair, broad shoulders and skinny waists carried a statue of the Virgin.  The statue wobbled as its bearers strained to steady the platform covered in roses and white carnations. Women followed, fanning themselves with church bulletins, rosaries hanging from their fingers like vines.
We had all been at Mass, but my mother and Stella were more interested in the coming action on the beach. The “Blessing” was the real spiritual payoff; the part of the day when they'd have a something to take home. The soon-to-be holy water was a tangible, object that could be shared, saved for emergencies, something to show for their faith.
         I am full of doubt and introspection. The ritual offends my adolescent agnostic bent. Still it is impossible to sustain utter disbelief around Stella and Katie.
         We hear a buzzing sound, a puttering and then a roar. The plane passes. A white hand waves and disappears from inside the plan. People on the beach make the sign of the cross. I see Mrs. McGuire and her three sons, one in a wheel chair that the two others dragged to the beach. A frail woman in a low-slung beach chair at the water’s edge rubs her knotty arthritic knees with the water. She kisses her silver medal pinned on her cotton dress like a piece of hope. A young mother drags her toddler into the ocean and wets his hair.
 No one is expecting to see an angel or the Blessed Virgin. The sparkle of the sun on the water or the tail of a shifting cloud is enough of a sign for most of them.
         My mother splashes me. "Bless yourself, Patricia….You'll do good in school," she laughs, and I laugh with her.
         A few raindrops begin to fall.
         “Look Katie, it’s raining,” Stella says, “the Blessed Mother’s tears, good luck. She knows we’re here.”
         My mother's faith is simple and straightforward. She expects practical rewards for her devotion; and if they are not forthcoming, she'll settle for a sense of community within the Church where she is an active raffle ticket seller and cake sale baker. She has endured the burden of a drug addicted son by praying to the Blessed Virgin Mary. She hopes for the best and puts the rest in God’s hands.
         Now it is again August. 1989. The day after the Assumption, and Stella has saved some holy water to bring to my mother's hospital room. In her pale blue hospital gown, my mother’s chest is flat from her mastectomy three years prior.
 A new nurse on the floor addresses my mother as "Mr. Lawler," and I quickly correct her, enraged at the error, but still aware, that the bald head and wasted body seem without gender to a stranger. I have already summoned a priest, although my faith has long been broken in the brittle August days that are crackling outside, drying up my hope. But Stella is still lively. Her loud voice booms against the white tile floor. She is more familiar with death than I, and faces it head-on. This, she knows, is the last chance to say good-bye to her good friend and she doesn't waste a minute on silent stares of anguish.
         "Katie, Katie," she says, "I've got some water from the shore, the priest blessed it yesterday." Stella presses a small vial into my mother’s hand and closes it for her. My mother's breathing comes in full gasps as if she is trying to suck the whole scene inside of her.
         Stella compresses their life together in this short time. She repeats old stories—The Mummer’s Parade, the way they danced together at weddings, how they both loved Burt Lancaster movies, all of this --- until my mother is alert enough to smile. Stella, a mother of six, knows the most important thing for Katie to hear is that her children will be all right. Her daugther Carol is married to my brother, and like him, an addict. Stella knows the sorrows of motherhood too. And they both look to Mary because she suffered with  her child too. It is the hour of reassurance, of letting go, of peace. That my wedding a week ago was perfect and I am happy. That my brother, though still afflicted, is trying to find work.
I am talking to my mother as well, fussing with the water pitcher, changing channels on the overhead tv.  I won’t tell her the meaning of her life. It is as if by holding back I can save her.
         Stella leaves that evening and doesn’t return. I spend the next day merely watching the defilement and malady of the body that brought me to life.  A nurse comes in and delicately as possible offers to up the morphine drip to end my mother’s suffering, and I believe she means my own as well. Alone, I agree.
An hour later I get the call. I am told that at the last moment, she sat up, looked towards heaven and fell back to her pillow. I chose to believe Mother Mary came to her, took her and is with her still.          
        
        

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Summer of 1982, Atlantic City, The Golden Nugget


Walter sidles up behind me and slips his fingers inside my cummerbund. “Would you like to have breakfast later?”
It is 4:00 am. in early July.
“Maybe,” I reply warily. “First, I’ve got to seat this table.”  I feel his hand slide from the band and brush my hips as he saunters away from my station.
Walter, 21, a first-generation Russian immigrant, is a waiter at the Corncuopia Room at Steve Wynn’s Golden Nugget Casino in Atlantic City and I am the hostess. Dining establishments in casinos are almost always designed around a particular theme---a time and place in history—and this one is no exception. I am dressed as a Gibson Girl, long skirt, six-inch cuffs, puffy sleeves, jabot, and the waist-cinching cummerbund. Walter wears a white shirt with a garter over his sleeve and a satin vest. We are costumed in a Gay 90's theme, to recall a time when ladies and gents frolicked on bicycles built for two, listened to the harmonies of a barbershop quartet and sipped root beer floats.
I wonder if the patrons of The Golden Nugget really notice anything about this place, especially at this hour. The red-haired woman waiting for a booth wearing a Rolling Rock baseball cap and rhinestone studded sweatshirt doesn’t seem to care. “Just lost my disability checks at the friggin’ slot machines,” she croaks to no one in particular.
Walter and I are more than half way through the graveyard shift.
A flamingo-colored sky smothers the night outside. The wide window bank beyond the Cornucopia exposes the dawn and the stone sea gives the new morning an unsteady floor. The tentative day is a sight the whole crew waits for. But it is not the beginning for us, not a brand new morning. Instead, it is the end of dishes smeared with Boston Cream Pie, the end of requests for extra plates to split the Salisbury steak entree, doggie bags, and ashtrays. It is the end of “Hey hons” from stout men in velour jogging suits and the loud emphysematous laughs from the pin-thin woman fresh out of nickels.
The shift starts at 11pm and ends at 7am; the casinos close at 3pm and re-open at 7am. While the hardcore gamblers wait for the games to begin again, they while their time having a meal at The Cornucopia. The hours never bother me. I feel energized by the atmosphere, mirrors, glass, money, the red squiggly designs, like giant viruses, on the carpets.
The end of each shift brings me one day closer to law school. I am trying to make as much money as I can before September toward tuition, books and transportation. As hostess, my command of influence in the dining area reigns supreme. Who sits where determines which wait staff earns the most tips. I quickly learn how to size up diners  and determine their tip potential.
Two men in open neck stretch nylon shirts and gold crosses will, for example, leave up to a 50% gratuity for a female waitress. Macho men with sexy dates leave good tips for either male or females. But the riders from the "roach coach" casino buses either leave no tip or one so small it is almost humiliating to accept it.
I try to be fair—spread it around as much as possible, but my objectivity is compromised by Walter’s attentions. When I spot high rollers delirious from a win, I take them out of a long line of waiting customers and seat them in Walter’s area. I also score at $10 tip for myself.
“Do not seat me another table from a roach coach,” Dee, a dark-haired waitress breathes down my neck, referring to the casino bus crowd.
They disembark from the casino bus holding crumpled coupons redeemable for a free buffet. They drag plastic shopping bags bulging with newspapers and banana peels. There seems to be a collective assumption among them that the tip is somehow included in the coupon.
Duly threatened, I gently lead a group of bus exiles toward the back of the restaurant out of Dee’s station.
As I return to my station, I hear, “Don’t wear that nail polish again.” It is assistant manager Jeff McGuire. Apparently, Gibson Girls did not sport chipped neon orange nails. Ever since Jeffrey found out that I was going to law school in September, he’s been picking on me.
“What are you doing in the kitchen, Miss College Girl?” he yells.
“That table’s not cleaned. You can’t seat people there yet, Brainy,” he chides, pressing his fingers against his sparse blonde moustache.
To escape his scrutiny, I sneak into the kitchen, open the giant stainless freezer door, dig a spoon into a vat of rum raisin ice cream and cram it in my mouth. Out of nowhere, I hear his whiny voice. “What are you doing? Are you eating ice cream? There are people waiting to be seated! I should fire you right here.”
I can’t reply. My soft palate is pulsing with a surge of cold and sugar that freezes my brain and momentarily compromises my vision and impairs my ability to speak. Gulping down the ice cream, I return to my station.
A phalanx of people are lined up for their four am strip steak and baked potato, extra butter. I wipe a clot of ice cream off my cheek with a laced cuff. At the back of the line, I see Marie Pecora’s son Bernard---Viet Nam vet, drug addict, unemployed--standing with two compatriots. I walk towards the crowd, past the tattooed biceps, ringed pinkies, burning cigarettes; past the scent of Brut aftershave and penciled eyebrows raised in indignation.
“Hi Bernard. Right this way.” One tooth missing, the remaining ones in good shape, his smile warms the last bits of my frozen throat. Bernard had left for Viet Nam 15 years before, sane, slim and sound. During his tour of duty, he was stationed near the Mekong Delta, loading river boats. Whatever happened there, changed him, mind, body and spirit. His eyes burn a blue-green fire, scorched with memories of his days in the war that gnawed his brain and left him lost
 “Hey, Patrish,” he says, sounding just like his mother Marie calling from her front porch when she saw me walking home from grade school.
“I’ve got a table for your and your friends,” I say, touching his broad shoulder.
“Really? But look at the line,” he sputters.
“Follow me,” I motion with my oversized menus.
Bernard looks around, grins and pulls his shoulders back as I escort him in front of the throng, no waiting, and seated him at a booth near the potted plants. It’s the least I could do considering what he sacrificed for our country in a war everyone wished never happened.
Jeffrey is furious and Dee almost slugs me when she realizes they are  in her station, but I consider it a small act of civil disobedience in tribute to my past and with a nod toward the future.
I don’t care about Jeff’s threats. The summer is whizzing by and there are not enough days left to fire me and hire a replacement.
I’m not afraid of being fired and I’m not afraid of the workload at law school. The idea of it is as sweet and irresistible as the rum raisin ice cream. I am leaving when the summer ends and Jeffrey and Dee are staying behind.
Close to 5:30 am, I find Walter sitting on an Abbott’s milk crate smoking a Raleigh and reading what looks like a 600-page book in Russian. War and Peace?
He looks up at me, as I chomp down on an ice cube. His hairline starts low and thick on his forehead and flows back like a muddy river. In his yellow eyes, pulled back at the sides in a Sino-Soviet slant, I think I see the ghost of Ghengis Kahn.
“My feet are fucking killing me," he says, wincing.
“Oh, Walter,” I say, crouching to his level. “I’m going to miss you when I go.”
“You’re already gone,” he answers and digs his black boot into the cigarette he flicks to the floor.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

REDS




MOST DOGS BELONG to a family, but Reds belonged to the neighborhood. Up and down 11th Street, across to Johnston, to Marconi Plaza, and along the storefronts of Oregon Avenue, my dog Reds followed on the heels of my mother Katie Lawler in an unmatched display of canine loyalty. When Katie, sometimes shoeless, sometimes in her nightgown, wandered the streets, Reds was never far behind. Reds didn’t need obedience school or a dog whisperer to know how to behave. She waited patiently for scraps of meat from the butcher, sat quietly while my mother paid visits to her friends, and greeted passersby with quiet curiosity.
On those occasions when Reds went off on her own, all my mother needed to do was stand on the front steps of our open porch and call out “Heeere Reds!” and in a minute or two, along she came, tail wagging.
She never had a leash. She didn’t need one. She never was inside a vet’s office. She ate Alpo or whatever was on sale at Pantry Pride.
Reds first appeared on our front porch, a soaked puppy seeking shelter from a thunderstorm on the night that the Beatles played at the JFK Stadium. Once she was towel dried, offered a slice or leftover roast beef and invited for a cuddle on the sofa, it was instant mutual love for every member of my family.
She had a beautiful tender face with soulful chocolate eyes and soft rust-colored fur that hung in elegant fringes along her flank. But what was most lovely about Reds was her personality. Any kid in the neighborhood could pet her, chase her, ride her like a pony, even pull her tail and she would cheerfully oblige. Never a snap or a snarl. She’d sit by your side and listen to your worries with rapt attention, a faithful friend with whom you could share any secret. Reds was a queen among lots of other great dogs in the neighborhood: King and Frosty, Sparkles and Lady to name a few.
If I had to guess what mix of breed she was, I’d say Cocker Spaniel mixed with Irish Setter---there was definitely a dash of hunter in her. What riled Reds were the squirrels who scurried down the trees on Mollbore Terrace. Upon spotting one, Reds would freeze, point and charge with all her might. Most of the time, she’d miss the squirrel by a split second, but one afternoon she surprised all of us, including herself, by catching one. From that day forward, all you had to say was “Where’s the squirrel?” in an excited tone and Reds would stop whatever she was doing and fly out the screen door searching for quarry.
All that wandering around the streets did end up getting Reds in trouble more than a few times. Suffice to say she was popular with certain male dog suitors. As a result, Reds had about five litters. From her first pregnancy, she delivered a single pup on the day Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon; the new addition was quickly adopted and named “Luna.”
            Years passed and Reds aged gracefully, slowing down on the squirrel chasing and spending more time indoors, though never far from my mother. On a late summer afternoon, Reds appeared on the steps of the backyard and lied down on the concrete landing under the awning. Panting heavily, she looked uncomfortable. Her dark eyes opened and closed rapidly. Someone said she’d been struck by a car, but no one knew for sure exactly what had happened.
My mother and I waited with her. Reds wouldn’t come inside so we let her rest there as night fell. We stepped into the kitchen to fix her a bowl of water. When we returned, she was gone. And she never returned. She disappeared as mysteriously as she had arrived. My mother told me Reds didn’t want me to see her die. She wanted us to remember the way she’d always been.
When I pass the New York pooches, dolled up in rhinestone harnesses, rain slickers, and argyle sweaters; pedicured, pedigreed and pampered as they sniff the sidewalk at the hands of their hired dogwalkers. I think of Reds’ self-sufficiency. When two passing dogs growl and yap at each other, I think of Reds’ gentle and serene composure.
Since Reds, I’ve had several dogs and cats, all unique and wonderful in their own way, but Reds will always be the most cherished to me---a symbol of a carefree childhood, of simplicity and trust. I comfort myself with the thought of my mother walking barefoot on a cloud in heaven next to Reds---no leash needed---tethered by something stronger—their undying, unique and unconditional love.




Friday, June 25, 2010

The Maloiks or The Day I Killed Gil


06/24/2010

Monday, June 14, 2010

My Readers Comments on "South Phillyisms:" It's all about love

I heard from a lot of my South Philly readers after posting "South Phillyisms."One of the most common comments dealt with the way mothers called their children "Mommy." And Grandmas called their grandchildren "Grandmom."

Example: A child has a fever. Her mother says, "You don't feel good, mommy." Or a grandmother says to her grandson, "C'mere grandmom, give me a kiss." It's a special, dear, unique way of bonding. In one word it communicates our heritage and demonstrates how closely we identify with our loved ones.  It says "I am you. You are everything to me."

Can you remember your mom calling you "Mommy" and do you remember how loved you felt when she did? Post your comment here on southphillyscribe.blogger. I would love to hear from you.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

SOUTH PHILLYISMS

Although I've lived in New York for 21 years, I often rely upon the rich and memorable phrases that I learned as a child in South Philadelphia to express emotions that no standard English word can convey. Here is a list of my favorites:

You're enjoying a fine forceful spray under fire plug, but realize to your horror, that the water has shimmied the waistband of your pants down, or (if you're a girl) your top has suddenly become see-through. To which, your mother or grandma calls out "Pesch-Ma-Shame." I love this phrase for all the subtlety and tenderness it evokes. Within is the notion of Catholic guilt associated with one's body, but at the same time, there's something oddly loving and accepting about it.

The word "sceve" is not exclusively used in South Philadelphia, but has been heard in many Italian American neighborhoods. Still, if a fly lands on your proscuitto, your classmate has body odor, blackheads, or stepped in dog poo, the only words in South Philly that will do are "I sceve." Variations include "scev-otz" and "scevey." The word "sceve" is much more effective than modern terminology such as "that's gross" or "disgusting." To sceve implies more than a mere sensory offense. There's the implication of an almost moral outrage when one sceves person, place or thing.

I was often referred to as a "Medigan" because of my fair complexion, light eyes, etc. It's a shortened, Italianized version of "American" and I hated being reminded I didn't share the olive, swarthy, never-got-sunburned skin of my cousins and friends. That's what you get for being half Irish. No one ever believed that I was the daughter of the dark haired, dark eyed, Roman-nosed little Italian woman who pushed me in a stroller up and down 7th Street.

My grandfather Rosario, who died at the age of 101, moved to the United States when he was nineteen. He sired ten children with my grandmother Theresa DeGregorio, all born on the second floor of the their storefront on 12th and Porter. You'd think that 10 kids and a wife would keep him busy and content. Rosario, however, always had a "comare" also known as a "goomah" or "goomar." The word was said with a wry chuckle, and as a kid, I couldn't quite understand what they really meant. The truth was Rosario turned out to be the genetic Johnny Appleseed of the neighborhood, and now know I have way more cousins and aunts than were officially counted for at Sunday dinner.

There's also a variation of this phrase. Whenever I wore an unbecoming dowdy dress, glasses, or had a bad haircut, I ran the risk of being called "Cumare Jenny." Any woman whose sex appeal fell into the negative numbers, whose chance of marrying was less than zero, who preferred thick cardigans, flat shoes, and no make up, might be labeled as such.

My mother and aunts argued, traded gossip and gathered in the kitchen around sizzling pans of veal cutlets. When one of them got on the other's nerves, they'd say "Go Shit in Your Hat!" When they took offense, were unconvinced or otherwise dismissive of a remark, they'd say "Your Sister's Ass!" While this was not a strictly Italian use of language, they were shared by the Boccuto sisters with zest.

When my daughter was born almost 14 years ago, I suffered from a bad case of post-partum nerves. At night, as she lay in the crib and a hush fell over the house, I comforted her, and more truthfully myself by repeating the phrase "Ninna No." http://www.mamalisa.com/?lang=Italian&t=es&p=2168
I only just recently learned that the phrase translated from Italian into English means "lullaby." I can still hear my mother repeating those words to me before I drifted off to sleep. Good Night.

Roller Skates

24_roller-skates-1

It was a glorious day for roller-skating. Denise, my slightly older cousin and I were gliding down South 11th Street, the narrow blacktopped corridor of our childhood. She, of course, had the form-fitted white boot version. I wobbled on the metal brace skates. None of that mattered. It had rained all morning and now, the sun was drying the pavements, The scratch of straw brooms on the concrete made a soothing familiar sound, as a few women in the neighborhood gathered wet leaves, pebbles and cigarette butts and put them in dustpans. The wheels of our skates turned and rumbled.
"Let's go to Bigler Street," Denise said, grabbing my hand.
I sped up and almost fell, but grabbed her and she held me up. Denise, athletic, even at nine and half, waited until I caught my breath. An automobile drove by and we pressed our bodies against the parked cars until it passed. Another one approached, a green Gremlin, and came to a stop.
"Excuse me," the man in the car said to us.
We skated over. I had to take hold of the rear view mirror to steady myself on the slope of the street.
"Do you know where Broad Street is?" The man's face was unfamiliar, pasty, red-rimmed eyes with glasses.
"Broad Street, yes," I said. Who didn't know where Broad Street was.
Denise began to tell him to turn right, but stopped short.
"Have you ever seen one of these before?" the man asked. There under the glare of a 60-watt flashlight was his penis. He was holding the spotlight right on it. My stomach flipped and then I flopped. Denise screamed.
Flaccid or erect, I cannot say. Big or tiny, I don't remember, but ugly, yes. Scary as a sea monster, hairy, fleshy, shocking.
The car sped away. The two of us sped the other way, arms flailing, and my wobbly legs, now weak, buckling. Denise was faster, but I kept up. We reached my house in less than a minute and then realized that we'd have to tell my father--- obsessively shy man who never saw an R rated movie in his life.
Denise and I managed to climb up the steps in our skates, holding onto the wrought iron railing.
My father was in the kitchen, frying eggplants, sipping a beer from a juice glass, his brown Ortlieb's bottle under the table.
Luckily my mother appeared from the backyard where she was hanging sheets.
Denise did the talking. "A man just showed us his bird, Aunt Katie."
Now we were laughing a little, inside the shade and coolness of my home. My father just listened, his blue eyes shifting, avoiding my gaze, clearing his throat, turning the eggplants, sipping.
When the police cruiser arrived to take a report, the neighborhood buzzed. Denise's mother came over. Mrs. Cannely happened to be passing and stopped in.
"What'd he look like?" the cop asked.
"He was sitting in his car," I said. Didn't the cop know that all I could remember was the ghastly white thing between his legs?
Eventually, the excitement died down. Dusk settled under the trees of Mollbore Terrace amid the yellow flicks of fireflies and cigarettes.
Denise and I took off our skates, and giggled nervously between tastes of DeLeo's ice cream, our fragile innocence slightly diminished. The world we lived in - neighbors, grandmas, aunts and uncles seemed less safe as night fell.
A few years later, I saw that man again recognized him instantly as he worked behind the counter of a drugstore on Broad Street. I was there to buy cough drops.
I gasped, my eyes widened.
As I steadied myself to complete my purchase, the floor felt slippery, my balance compromised, as if I had on new pair of roller skates.