The might of the wooden spoon

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My two recent posts on friends and music were the result of some recent musings on what I have learned to appreciate in my 74 years on God’s green earth.  (I like the term “musings”.  It sounds so much more scholarly and intellectual than ruminating or pondering; I must remember to use it more often to describe my ruminating and pondering.)  This small story explains how I came to appreciate the might of my mother’s wooden kitchen spoon.

My mother never laid a hand on me.  The few times when corporal punishment was deemed a necessity to assure my development into a stable and well balanced adult, a small wood spoon would somehow appear in her hand.  I remember clearly one such incident.  I was four or five years old, and the dastardly deed, of which I have no recollection, apparently warranted the spoon.  I was standing at one end of the dinning room table and she was at the other end, the spoon clearly visible in her hand.  “Come here” she said quietly, and when I didn’t move she said it again, increasing the gravity in her voice one or two notches.  Now even at that young age I was perceptive, and I knew this was not going to end well for me.  Running from her would not work, I tried that once and hit my head on the table, nor could I convince her that she was mistaken in her interpretation of the events leading up to this confrontation.  So I did what any bright and doomed young boy would do; I shamelessly pleaded and begged for forgiveness, vowing that I would never, ever do it again – whatever it was I did.  I promised I would be a good boy forever and ever.

All to no avail.

It is difficult to imagine this tiny lady yielding a wooden spoon.  Today I can only imagine how she had to struggle to keep from laughing as her distraught boy tried desperately to plead his way to safety.

That tiny lady died 23 years ago and I still miss her fiercely. 

PAVAROTTI AND MOM

My mother was a big fan of Luciano Pavarotti.  She had a modest collection of his records and tapes that she listened to, and was delighted when Patience and I told her we had purchased tickets for all of us to an upcoming concert in Philadelphia.  

The concert was in a sports arena, which has since been torn down, and as we were walking up toward our seats my father, slipped and fell, face down on the concrete steps.  His face was bruised and bleeding; an attendant quickly arrived to help and offered to take him to a first aid station, to which my mother replied, “oh he’s ok, lets get to our seats”.  She had NO intention of missing any of the Pavarotti concert for a few bruises.

Yesterday I watched a Tribute to Pavarotti on a DVD, which included video of one of his concerts, and all I could think of was my mother, and how much she would have enjoyed the opportunities our new technology provides us.  It was another reminder of the good fortune I enjoy, that was not available to her.

1985

1985

 For "good measure" I have to include this photo of me from the early 80's when I still had hair and it was brown.

A Pavarotti Wannabe

MOM (Excerpt from a work in progress)

My mother was born to Amalia (Emma) Vassalotti and Ansalmo Rondinelli in Philadelphia on the twenty-first of December 1915.  For my entire life, we celebrated her birthdays on Christmas Eve, only to learn after her death in 1991 that she was actually born on December 21.  That discrepancy has never been explained.  Another surprise was learning her name was Mary Josephine, and not Josephine Mary. She was the youngest of five children – 3 boys and 2 girls, and her father, of who very little is known, died shortly after her birth.   Her mother re-married to Gaetano Madorna, a widower with 6 children. (They had two more, Tommy and Eleanor.)   Their small row home in south Philadelphia had only 3 bedrooms, and at age 11 my mother and her 3 older brothers, Carmen, Alfred, and Sammy, moved into a nearby apartment; she left school after the 6^th grade to run their small household.  Her older sister, Grace, had married and was starting her own family.  For the remainder of her life, Grace was the real mother figure for my mom.

Jo Rondinelli - living with 3 older brothers and being an 11 year old adult.  Fortunately she was with 3 brothers who adored her and cared for her.  But still.......    

I love this photo.  It shows determination and a will, far beyond her 11 years, completely in keeping with the amazing person she was to become.

Josephine Rondinelli Renzulli...A Tribute

I have been sending out an e-newsletter from Gallery 5 about once a month for the past 2 years, occasionally posting them on this blog. Yesterday's letter evoked such a remarkable response that I thought I would share it with my blog readers.

Josephine Rondinelli Renzulli...A Tribute

Mom, dad, and me at my graduation from Jefferson Medical College

Last month marked the 20th anniversary of my mother’s death. She was my age when she died, an age that has suddenly assumed much more significance for me. I think of her often, almost daily, and give quiet thanks for all that she has given me. She loved art and music, and could sit at a piano or pick up a mandolin and play a tune “by ear”. (Sadly the music gene snuck right by me.) She was always drawing or painting, and constantly encouraged me in my own efforts, providing me with the necessary materials to do so.


She and my father did everything they could to see that I had the opportunities that they never had. I can still feel and sense their pride when I graduated from medical school, and fifteen years later, when I told them I was leaving my practice to become an artist…They simply asked If I was absolutely sure of that and their support and encouragement never skipped a beat. I owe them so very much.


And I will always wonder, what could she have been, what could she have accomplished, given my opportunities? Far more than me, I am certain of that.


Here are four of many paintings:

 

If you would like to receive the Gallery 5 e-letter please email me at wfrenzulli@mac.com.

IN MY MOTHER’S HOME

I have been in south Philly many times before,. Not Philadelphia or south Philadelphia, but south Philly; that is what it has always been, and always will be. I am visiting my cousin Danny who lives on S. 12th st., just blocks away from his childhood home. Usually when I visit we sit around the kitchen table and drink red wine and eat cheese, peppers, bread, and other goodies until it’s time for dinner, which is always pasta, salad, and a variety of “side dishes”. (As far as I’m concerned, with pasta, there is no need for anything else, except some sausage, meatballs, or other gravy meat.)

But tonight I wanted to take Danny & Linda out to dinner, preferably to one of the restaurants with singing waiters, and so we walked the two blocks to Franco & Luigi’s place. There, in the intimacy of their dinning room, we enjoyed both the mouth watering food and the joyful sound of Italian songs...and for all of the times I have been here, tonight was a special evening for me. I was aware, as never before, that this was the place where my mother was born and raised, this neighborhood was her “hometown”. I was in my mother’s home, and my experience here was to pay homage to her.

My mother was born in this city in December of 1917. We always celebrated her birthday on Christmas eve, and it wasn’t until after her death that we learned it was actually on the 16th of the month. Her father, who she never knew, died when she was 2 years old, leaving her mother with 5 children. My grandmother soon remarried to a widower with 5 children, and shortly thereafter they had 2 more of their own. Because of the lack of space and resources, my mother, at age 12, and three older brothers moved into an apartment of their own where she assumed the role of cook and housekeeper for her siblings. she spoke little of this time in her life, and much of what I have learned came to me second hand from family stories told by others. When I learned enough to ask her questions about her early years she would reflect on that time with an obvious fondness for a life that was as good as it was difficult. (I am mindful of her tendency to protect me from life’s unpleasantries.) I saw the smiles, not the tears, when she would talk about uncle Sammy and uncle Alfred with a filial affection that I will never know.

That apartment is within one block of where Danny and Linda live...I pass it many times in my visits to them. Also within one block is uncle Sammy’s house and the houses where uncle Alfred, uncle Tommy, and grand mom and aunt Eleanor lived. I remember clearly the childhood visits to the city, the sights, the sounds, and especially the smells of grand mom’s kitchen.

Tonight, more than any other time here, I feel surrounded by my mother, her history and her stories connecting me to this place as never before. Oh how I long to honor her; to acknowledge all that she has given to me. Tonight is one small celebration of her. I want my life to be a celebration of her. (7-18-04)

Graduation from Medical school...1965





Before she was my mom