For the love of trains and the love of family

At  9 o’clock on an unseasonably cold, damp, late Sept. night the Rondinelli brothers. Danny and Joey, and I are sitting on the porch of a B&B in Cresson Pennsylvania, a small town in the west central part of the state, watching freight trains roll by in the chilling darkness.  We are yards away from the triple track mainline of the Norfolk & Southern RR where at least 3 trains an hour roll by - any less and the innkeeper will refund 50% of your room charge.  In the several hours we been sitting here there were more like 10-12 trains per hour.   Fortified by the Jim Beam in our plastic cups, which Danny so graciously kept full, we were actually enjoying ourselves, in spite of the miserable weather.

Danny and Joey are true rail-fans, and like many others, have been making an annual pilgrimage to the Station Inn, a former boarding house for railroad workers, converted to no nonsense Bed and Breakfast serving the boys who have never outgrown their love of trains.  I am a retired model railroader and do not consider myself a railroad aficionada, but I enjoy spending time with my cousins, so I agreed to meet them in Cresson on my drive to Maryland from Paducah.  I arrived early in the afternoon as we had planned.  When it was obvious the cousins were going to be late, I checked into the room they had reserved, a single room with a bath and 3 small cots.  I immediately laid claim on what I considered the best of the three, and went downstairs to wait.  A light rein was falling with unseasonably cold temperatures, and unfortunately the cloths I packed were not up to the task.  A brief walk around the neighborhood revealed several tap rooms, a small food market, and a liquor store, all rather depressing.  I returned to the Inn and watched the trains rumble by while I waited for the Rondinelli boys.  I quickly realized that all of trains soon began looking like the one that came before.  The only difference was the direction they were traveling and whether there were one, two, or three locomotives doing the work.  Of course the serious train watchers knew better; they would listen to the communications between the engineers and the traffic controllers on special radios, in addition to the monitor the Inn provided over a loud speaker.  This was some serious stuff to them.

Late in the afternoon the brothers arrived – I don’t remember the reason they gave for being so late but I don’t think it impressed me.  They checked in and we set out to find dinner.  We stopped at the first taproom we saw, ordered drinks and asked to see the menu.  The drinks were satisfactory, but the menu came nowhere close to meeting our high culinary standards.  After two drinks we moved on and had a similar experience at the next stop, 2 drinks, nixed the menu, and moved on.  On our third stop we found the mother lode.  We enjoyed an elegant dinner of hot wings, Jalapeno Pepper Poppers, fried clams, and deep-fried mushrooms, Cauliflower, and cheese, all washed down with assorted adult beverages.  We had our standards and we proudly stuck to them.

Fortunately, all of this took place within 2-3 blocks of our B&B, so driving was unnecessary.   We made our way back to the Inn, stopping at the local spirits shop where Danny purchased an economy size bottle of Jim Beam.  Thus fortified, we bundled up and made our way to the porch for some very serious train watching.  What we do for family!

The highlight of our stay was the Inn’s famous breakfast of pancake and eggs.  The reputation of their breakfast is well deserved.

NEW YEARS EVE 1954 or learning the power of the grape

Our house was filled with family and friends gathered to welcome in the New Year.  While some were scattered about the kitchen and living room, most of the adults were crowded around the dining room table, filling the house with talk and laughter and enjoying the food and wine that was present in abundance.   I’m not sure just how things got started, but at some point I felt I should be able to have more than a sip of wine without sneaking it by my parents, and to my surprise, they agreed.  After that my memory of events is rather limited and hazy.  I don’t know how much wine I consumed, probably not very much, but enough to do a job on me.

I remember having a silly grin on my face that would not go away as my mother led me through the dining room and upstairs to my bedroom.  I’m pretty sure there was significant laughter as I passed by our guests.  To my credit, I did not throw up; apparently I was a tiger even at that tender age.

I don’t think I felt very well the next morning.  The wine must have loosened my tongue because my mom and dad asked me about Irene, a classmate with whom I was severely smitten, and who I had never spoken about to my parents. 

After that episode I had no interest in consuming large amounts of wine or beer.

Looking back, I’m convinced that my mother saw the wisdom in allowing me to make a fool of myself in the safety of our home.  She was a devious saint.

THE RUGGED INDIVIDUAL?

There is a popular notion of the rugged individual, the self-made man, who through tenacity and hard work achieves incredible success (usually measured by monetary worth).  This idea is admired and held up to us my many serious conservative politicians today with the inference that those who are poor or otherwise financially devastated simply have not worked hard enough to rise above their circumstances.

This view is as correct, as it is incorrect. 

Success, no matter how it is measured (and that is subject that requires its own discussion), usually does require tenacity and hard work.  It doesn’t simply happen by itself.  Even those individuals with the good fortuned to have been born into mega successful families must work hard to continue the family enterprise.  But there is something that is missing from this praise of the self-made man and it is this; with few exceptions the rugged individual admired by so many conservatives is someone who has worked hard to take advantage of his or her opportunities, opportunities for which they cannot take credit

What are these opportunities?   Growing up in a stable and loving family and a culture that values work and education.  Receiving a genetic inheritance that provides emotional in intellectual stability, and a childhood free of poverty and crime.   Add to this the availability of education.  These are the foundation on which success can be achieved, and they are given to us or denied us at birth.  They are ours not by any effort or choice on our part.

Are there exceptions?  Of course.  I’m sure there are individuals who overcame the lack of these opportunities to create a successful life for themselves, and I’m just as sure that they are indeed exceptional individuals.

I believe the successful life is achieved by working hard to take advantage of the opportunities available to us. .  We can take credit for the hard work.  But should be equally humble and grateful for the opportunities we were given.  This humility is absent in the current public dialog.

Two who were blessed with opportunites

THE GIFT OF FAMILY part 5 of 5

I am an only child because a major obstetrical disaster directly related to physician blunder prevented my mother from having more children. For the first 18 years of my life ours was a family of three plus, the plus being the occasional aunt, uncle, or cousin who lived with us for several months or more in the farmhouse that my grandfather built.  Between my many cousins and the large family on the farm across the road I was unaware of being an only child during my early years.  It was experiencing the relationships my parents had with my aunts and uncles that instilled in me an appreciation for the bonds of family, bonds of love that withstand the unavoidable conflicts and separations by time and distance.  These same bonds now connect me to my many first cousins and their children.

I remember clearly a time during my high school years when there was a rift between my father and one of his sisters; it lasted about a year and later no one could remember what it was about (at least that is what I was told.)  During that time my father always insisted that I go visit my aunt, and never uttered a disparaging word about her in my presence.  Family was more important to him than any disagreement with his sister.  I find it very difficult to understand how some families can be so torn apart - bonds severed or perhaps never developed.  However, as an only child I suppose I cannot understand the issues and tensions that can develop between siblings.

The Renzullis

The Rondinellis

I am grateful for the family I had, and still have.

These gifts that I have been describing in a most simplistic and brief manner, alone or together are all a reflection of the gift of love.  Without a foundation of love, they would not be possible.  Love is the greatest gift we can give or receive.

THE DILEMA…I am what I am part 4

Many of my jeans no longer fit me.  I have only one pair of slacks – at least 15 years old – that I can wear, and that is because of its elastic, expandable waist- band.  None of my suits fit, and many of my shirts can just about be buttoned around my expanded mid-section.  I cringe at what I see when I look in the mirror, and every night I lie in bed vowing that I can do and I will do, whatever it takes to lose this uncomfortable, and unsightly belly.  And everyday, as lunchtime approaches with the first pangs of hunger, I completely disown that vow.  Did I make a vow?  What vow?  That must have been someone else getting in my head.

I love food and I love eating.  I enjoy the flavors of my favorite foods, and the goal of abolishing hunger is quickly replaced by the desire to maximize the pleasure for my taste buds.  This experience plays out every day, at every meal, whether I’m eating alone, with Patience, or with others.

Food nurtures the soul as well as the body.  Growing up in a family and community of immigrants and first generation Italian-Americans I learned that all social interactions – gatherings of family and/or friends, weddings, funerals, and casual impromptu get-togethers  - all centered around food.  It could be as simple as coffee and pastry or as elegant as a full course meal, but the sharing of food and the kitchen or dinning room table was inexorably linked to the interaction of family and friends. 

So now, in my battle with the expanding waist line, I not only have to overcome the sensual attraction of wonderful flavors, but also a cultural heritage that has stained the fibers of my being.  And that’s not all!

The aromas of the kitchen – garlic sautéing in olive oil, basil, oregano, and Parmigianino cheese – all evoke memories of my mother’s kitchen and her wonderful cooking.  And it is impossible for me to sit before a plate of pasta and not remember my father.   Cooking and eating has become an important link to my past and to my parents.  Whether it is the satisfaction of preparing a simple dish of pasta with olive oil and garlic, or the small fruit glass of red wine at lunch, I am, for that brief moment, with my mother and father.  I am what I am.

My weight…oh yea…well I can deal with that tomorrow.

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.

VALUES

Values is a word tossed about with a demeaning casualness in today’s public dialog but is rarely actually defined by the speakers, be they congressmen, candidates, media talking heads, or anyone else with a political agenda.  Since our country is engaged in so called cultural wars it must be assumed that these values are self evident, which of course they are not.  This results in assumptions that lead to misunderstandings and division.

When I hear someone say a political candidate “shares my values”, unless told otherwise, I believe the reference is to abortion, gay marriage, and/or religious faith (usually Christian). One could not be faulted for inferring from public dialog that our citizenry is composed of 2 camps, the faithful who oppose gay marriage and abortion, and people of little or no faith who do not, an inference that is utterly false.

I do not belong to any church. I do not believe homosexuality is a sin or a choice. I am in favor of gay marriage, and I believe in a woman’s right to make her own choice regarding abortion.  Does this mean I have no values?  Of course not.  I have a set of values around which I have lived my entire life, and I am quite confident that many others, regardless of church or political affiliations, share them:

Love for others

Commitment to family, marriage, and friends

Compassion

Understanding and tolerance for ideas and people who differ from me, and

Respect for beliefs of others

Forgiveness

Honesty

Trustworthiness

Integrity

Humility

Gratefulness

Charity

Thoughtfulness

Willingness to learn and accept change

A personal faith (to be described in a future post on this blog)

These are the values that determine who and what we are, our personal character and our place in the community of men and women.  They have found their way into the fabric of my life from many sources: my parents and my extended family and friends, personal experiences learning and practicing the craft of medicine, reading extensively the spiritual writings of others, and simply – or not so simply - navigating the corners in my life.

From HAVE I TOLD YOU TODAY THAT I LOVE YOU…words to my children…

“Your relationship with others will be as varied as the people you encounter and will be determined by many factors, not the least of which will be your own personality and psychological style.  But regardless of who and what you are, there are certain basic tenets that I would urge you to follow.

Be respectful of others, regardless of their position in our socio-economic conscious society.  Be your real self with both the room maid and the hotel manager.

Be tolerant of ideas, beliefs, and behavior that differ from yours; no one has a monopoly on the truth.

With grace forgive the weaknesses of others and do not judge what you may perceive to be their shortcomings.

Forgive first offenses.  Overlook minor slights.

Enable and nurture; be one who helps other achieve their own selfhood.  Act in such a way that others will feel better for knowing you.

 Be honest toward others.  Do not present yourself to be other than who you are.  And do not deceive or use others to achieve your own way or goals.”

I cannot claim to be one hundred percent faithful to these standards, but I try, because they are within me, and not imposed by some external authority.

THE WINE

Salvatore Renzulli...1939...the year I was born

Until prohibition in 1920 my grandfather produced, bottled, and sold his Father & Son brand wine to the nearby cities of Philadelphia, Camden, and Wilmington. As a young boy I can remember a few of the remnants of that enterprise still on the farm. One was a large wooden barrel with straight sides and an open top that stood about 10-12 feet tall with a diameter of about 5-6 feet.. A small open door on the bottom was just large enough to allow me to crawl inside to hide from the wild Indians I was fighting.

Another was a large (remember the sizes I recall were that of a young child) press that today I would estimate was 4 or 5 feet high. The photo below is a much smaller version that has survived the many years; my father used it to press the hams dry when he made prosciutto and salami.

Every year my father and grandfather would make 4 or 5 barrels of wine, which were kept in a small alcove with a dirt floor in our cellar. It remained in the barrels, coming upstairs in a plain gallon bottle to be consumed with every meal. I would occasionally help myself to a taste using a Mason jar lid. I thought it was cool, but the truth is, I didn’t like it. Unfortunately one year, I was a teenager at the time, my father messed up and all the wine ended up as vinegar. In a fit of anger he opened all the taps and let the 3 or 4 barrels of wine drain onto the floor. The basement never smelled the same after that, and he did not make wine again until some 15-20 years later. I still have the wooden taps they were used in the barrels.


My father resumed his wine making in his late 60s, and continued until just a few years before he died at age 82. He always made the maximum amount allowed by law…up to 200 gallons a year, giving a lot of it away to family and friends. Like so many Italians and Italian-Americans, wine was in his DNA…it was simply a given in his life. He is gone now, beyond my reach, but not my memory, and I drink a small glass of red wine with my lunch every day to pay homage to him.

About a year ago someone brought us a bottle of wine, a label I did not recognize, and as soon as I opened it the aroma of the Niagara grapes immediately brought me back to our farm, the grapes, and the wine. It was the first time in years that I experienced that fragrance.

Commundardo and Spartico in the wine cellar, circa early 1970s

FAMILY & FRIENDS…the Philadelphia connection

Yesterday I left Maryland and headed to Philadelphia, stopping in Wilmington to pick up friend Obie. We arrived in south Philly about 1 o’clock, found a rare parking place on 12th street and made our way to Danny and Linda’s.


Danny and Linda's house

Danny and Me

Danny and Obie

As expected, we found the results of Linda’s efforts on the kitchen table …bread, olives, cheese, roasted red peppers, artichoke hearts, and a bowl of fresh blueberries. About an hour later we were being led to our table at Café Beau Monde, a creperie at 6th and Bainbridge streets. My cousins, Obie, and I have been coming here on our Sunday visits for the last 5-6 years; the crepes are delicious and the martinis even better.



After a most delightful lunch we walked a bit on the very funky South street, past the condom shop, the tattoo parlors, and cafes, eventually finding the Delhi street, where my mother, and Danny’s father were born (mom in 1917 and uncle Alfred in 1910). We all agreed that it is very unlikely that their were condom shops at that time.


Mom and Uncle Al's birth place.


Delhi st. looking south


Delhi street looking norht...yes, that is a Whole Foods store. Delhi street is one block long.

Today...south Jersey, more cousins, and pasta. Life is good.

GOING HOME

Tomorrow morning I will leave on a 12 day trip to visit family, friends, and roots in what was once my corner of the world. The trip will end with my 50th class reunion at Lebanon Valley College...now that is hard to believe.


watercolor by Julio Rodriguez

It will always be home, not Elkton, Maryland or Wilmington, Delaware, but Landisville, New Jersey, even if the only Renzullis remaining are resting quietly under the oak trees at Friendship cemetery. But cousins Joan, Angelo, and Dan are only a few miles away and visiting them has become one of several “traditions” that have come to define my trips home since moving to Paducah 9 years ago. My friend Obie and I will drive the 30 plus miles from Wilmington through flat, pristine southern New Jersey farm land to Joan and Angelo’s home where we will spend the next several hours enjoying memories, wine, and an abundance of good food…always some pasta.

Another tradition also involves cousins, this time from the Rondinelli side of the family. Obie and I will drive another 30 miles, this time north into south Philly to Danny and Linda’s house. Danny’s brother Joe who now lives in central New Jersey will also be there, and once again there will be wine and food (it is impossible to sit at their kitchen table and not have Linda place not one, or two, but three or more tasty morsels before us…bread, cheese, cold cuts, peppers, and even broiled lamb chops…all of this before dinner!) From there, Danny, Joe, Obie, and I drive to a café about 12 blocks away (6th and Bainbridge) where we enjoy our annual repast, martini’s and crepes. Family obligations can be demanding, but I refuse to renege on my responsibilities.

A third agenda on every trip home consists of a visit with my dear friend Hal, a man with whom I have shared my journey and my soul for over 40 years. I cannot imagine how it would have been without his presence. We will sit and talk, drink some coffee and talk some more. Probably go out to lunch where we will talk even more. It is a relationship that is quiet, trusting, and without any demands; we are aware of our history and our commitment to one another. On some occasions, I can arrange for Hal, Obie, and I to go out to dinner, and having the pleasure of dinning with two very special friends, I am reminded once again of my very good fortune.

I cherish these visits, returning to old friends and familiar places, eating and drinking, laughing, and rejoicing in mutual memories. But as important as they are, they are steps behind the primary purpose of these trips…to be with my daughters and their families. When I decided to move to far western Kentucky I knew I was placing time and distance between us. I told myself that this was OK because of the wonderful relationship I have with my children, in part because it was true and in part to avoid feeling guilty about doing so. Recently I find myself missing the times we had together, especially the shared dinners. I don’t know if this is a function of my age, or evidence that still another chapter in my ever-evolving life is about to begin. Whatever the reason, it is something I will have to resolve for myself.

PASTA QUEST DAY...week 3...DAY 17

5-22-11


Sunday pasta…spaghetti with a pork based gravy.

This is the meal that makes the whole house smell good enough to eat. There was a time…almost magical when I look back now…when I could tell my mother’s gravy from aunt Dolly’s, aunt Era’s, aunt Mary’s, and uncle Fatty’s. Of course hers was my favorite, but they were all wonderful, and I bet all of my cousins could say the same thing!

INGREDIENTS:

Spaghetti
Olive oil, garlic, onion (optional), and red pepper flakes
28 oz. can of San Marzano whole, plum tomatoes
Basil, dry or fresh
“Splash” of red wine
Pork neck bones

PROCESS:

Brown the meat in olive oil, remove, and deglaze pan w wine if needed. Add all scrapings and residual wine to the meat. Add oil to the pan, cook onion and garlic until soft (add red pepper flakes if desired). Add tomatoes and herbs and cook for 5-10 minutes then add the meat to the pot, cover, and simmer for 2-3 hours. Cook with lid off to thicken sauce if needed.

COMMENTS:

I can’t possibly rate this meal. Whether I use pork, or chicken, or sausage, this gravy and the spaghetti never fail to take me home…to my parents, our farm, the kitchen, and the 3 of us sitting down to dinner on a Sunday afternoon. It is so much more than just a dish of pasta; it is a lifetime in a meal.

OK, so I’m getting a little sentimental now, but isn’t that what family meals are about? Certainly it is what I am about. Every pasta dish I prepare is a link to parts of my personal history that I do not want to lose.

WINE AND VALUES

Armed with a glass of wine, I am ready to do battle in the cultural wars over the issue of “values”. Forget the role of wine in the new testament, since it is clear that only really crazy people take the bible literally, and some of them still use grape juice in their sacraments. I will make my case solely on my own personal experience which, with all humility, I consider to be very valid.

Wine to me means family. As a young boy I helped my father and grandfather pick the grapes in our vineyard. I wish I could say that I stomped around on them in my bare feet, but alas, that pleasure was denied me. I did however play in the huge upright barrel that remained from the commercial wine making days; access was through a small door that opened near the bottom. I remember it as huge, but it was probably about 8-10 feet tall and 5-6 feet across. But I digress.

Like so many first generation Italian-Americans, my father made wine every year, even long after the grapes were gone. In fact he did so his entire life excluding the few years his health prevented it. There were always 5-6 barrels of wine in our cellar. In later years the wooden barrels were replaced by 5 gallon glass and plastic vessels. A gallon of red wine was a fixture in our kitchen, often on the floor by my father or grandfather at dinner time and the wine was sipped from small juice glasses, never the wine glasses we see today.

When aunts, uncles, and cousins came to visit they never left without first having coffee, wine, and more often than not, food. For many years I would visit my uncle Ferrar and the visit always began with a glass of wine along with some bread, cheese, and perhaps peppers and/or salami. Of course he made his own wine, as did my uncle Ren (Communardo, but everyone called him Ren...quite understandable.) who left the farm and moved to Long Island and soon had his own grape arbor in the back yard.

Wine means the warmth of friendship and sharing. I do enjoy a glass of wine alone, at the end of the day, but I enjoy it more when I am sitting with one or more friends and neighbors in our kitchen or on our porch. It is a quiet way of saying, “I am glad your here with me”. It is a gesture of friendship and hospitality.

Family, friendship, hospitality...sounds a lot like love to me.

Ferrar, Ren, and Spartico (my father) sometime in the 1980s

the same three as they were way back when..

A partial family gathering at Uncle Ren's. The grape arbor can be seen on the right.

WE WERE THREE

mom, dad, and me

Looking for a reason to remain here in my study, cooled by the ceiling fan, I began going back over old journal entries and found this entry from a year ago.

THE PAST IS ALWAYS WITH US, AND THE FUTURE IS NOT FAR BEHIND

Good grief! Who knew that turning 70 would provide so many issues to deal with (and write about). I will be lucky if I can get all the emotional and psychological stuff dealt with before I reach 80.

I have 9 months left in which to milk this 70th birthday. No one gives a shit about 71!

I’m 70 years old and rarely does a day go by that I don’t think about my mother and father. Oh how I would love to go back into time and reclaim those years that I took for granted. With the wisdom that accompanies retrospection I realize how precious and special they were. But of course that is what the years bring to us, the wisdom to appreciate that which is has past, family, friends, community, and perhaps greatest of all, freedom from responsibility. My childhood was wonderful and glorious because my parents carried the burden of responsibilities for me, for themselves, my grandfather, and the farm. I realize now, in the latter years of my life, that for them, the years were tough and stressful, and that they protected me from their almost daily struggles.

I cannot help but feel some degree of guilt for not realizing this sooner, but mostly I feel gratitude, gratitude to them for being the parents that they were and giving to me all that they did. I imagine they knew that my turn to shoulder responsibility would come soon enough.


Graduation day at Jefferson Medical College

WHAT A WONDERFUL DAY

The best experiences in life are usually unplanned. First, some background:

It has become a tradition on my trips back home (Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersey) for me and my dear friend Obie (Wilmington) to travel to south Philadelphia early Sunday afternoon to visit my cousin Danny and his brother Joe who comes down from central NJ. After a few glasses of wine, some cheese, bread, and other goodies, we go to our favorite cafe at 6th and Bainbridge for the best martinis and crepes east of the Mississippi river. I called Danny a few weeks ago to let him know I would be back east this past weekend and we arranged for our usual outing. Before leaving on Sunday I called Danny to let him know that our friend Hal would be joining us. It took only a few minutes of phone time for me to know that he had forgotten about our visit, and had planned on a dinner at home with Linda (Danny’s saintly wife), daughter Michelle, Joe, and their sister Emily and one of her friends from the convent.

After letting him hang on his own forgetfulness for awhile, I declined his invitation to join them and said that we would be coming for a brief visit before going off to the cafe and would not disrupt his family plans. Now I knew all along that Linda would not allow us to leave their house, and was not surprised - or embarrassed- when she insisted we stay for dinner, telling me she had already started cooking for us. I only hope I can do justice in describing what followed.

First, there was the usual wine, bread, hot peppers, and cheese. But in addition she set out a plate of broccoli rabe that 48 hours later still haunts my taste buds. Just when I thought it could not be any better, a platter of small lamb chops, broiled in olive oil and balsamic vinegar appeared, and then I knew...yes Virginia, there is a heaven.

And the day only got better. For about two hours we enjoyed the company, the wine, and Danny’s vodka martinis. (Danny, Joe, and Emily’s parents are both gone. Their father was my mother’s brother, and they lived together with 2 other brothers when they were teenagers how that came to be is another story.)

Then the call came, Linda telling everyone to find a place at the table, and the serious dinning began. Before us were bowls of ravioli. fettuccini, meatballs, pork and beef from the gravy, and salad. And the feast began, with Pavarotti and others filling the room, the conversation and laughter flowed as easily as the wine. It was truly a most wonderful day. I do believe that their was love in everyone's eyes as we relished Linda’s food and each other’s company.

WE'RE BACK!

LEIF AND CLEO


LEIF, CLEO, AND GRANDAD


BETH, CARL, ME, CLEO AND LEIF

I can't believe it has been five days since my last post. But I have a good excuse...we have been preparing the house for a visit by 2 daughters, husbands, and 4 grandchildren. Beth and clan arrived late Wednesday, and Amy and her family mid-day on Friday.

Thursday we spent several hours in the studio making clay mono types.


Cleo's

Leif's

Carl's

Josephine and Spartico

Family has been on my mind a lot lately, and in filling out the application for a passport today I had to go look at some documents relating to my parents. One thing led to another and I ended up looking at some old journal entries, one of which I am posting this morning, written in November of 2001.

How can I put into words all that my mother and father meant to me? There is no doubt in my mind that everything that I am, everything that I have accomplished, and everything that I may accomplish, I owe to them. I was blessed with a mother and father and a large, warm extended family that provided an unending source of love and nurturing. I had the good fortune of growing up feeling good about myself, something that sadly is not afforded to all children.

I want to write about them, but can’t. Although my mother as been dead for 11 years, and my father for 7 years, I still cannot bring myself to try to put their lives to words. There are none I can call forth that will do justice to who they were and to all that they meant to me.

Mom.....wise and perceptive...especially regarding people...imensely creative...fun loving...caring....bold and courageous....unafraid of the unknown....uncomplaining....encouraging...putting others’ needs before her own, to a fault.

Dad...warm and caring....generous...family above everything...passionate about politics, gardening, and anything Italian....always a farmer....to the left of liberal...anticlerical.

Neither of them pretentuous...they were real and unassuming with no need to pretend or to impress...everyone was treated the same way-with warmth and respect.

DAMN IT DAD...!

I loved my father, I loved him dearly, and am so grateful that I took the time to tell him so and to show my love. But that did not prevent me from getting spitting mad at him. He would do and say things that he knew annoyed me, and only later did I realize that he would do so with a devilish grin I could not see. I should have known, because my father was the worlds greatest tease. He teased everyone, my mother, his grandchildren, and all of his nieces and nephews, so why wouldn’t he tease me.

My father’s life was difficult, with more than one man’s share of disappointments. Some were the results of choices he made, others from unforeseen circumstances, including disabling coronary artery disease at a relatively young age. He relied on my mother for so many things, and when she died it left him a lonely man. This placed a lot of pressure on me,an only child, for I could not escape the feeling that he was depending upon me for his happiness, and I did not want that responsibility. I
thought that was fair to me. I would gladly help him in any way I could, (he lived in a small home on our farm that he and my mother moved into several years before she died.), and willingly accepted my responsibilities as a son, but I did not want to be held responsible for making him happy.

Then came the stroke. He had weakness but no paralysis in an arm and leg, and rather dense aphasia (inability to find words to speak). For a man who loved the company of family and friends with wine, food, and conversation, this could be devastating. After a brief period of rehabilitation he came home from the hospital to live with Patience and me. And that marked the beginning of the best years of our lives. My father was happy! He was not the depressed, frustrated man we expected to take home with us. I was happy because of his attitude, and because I was able to do for him what he and my mother did for my grandfather who lived with us during my childhood. Patience was happy because she knew my father adored her. Until he died, which fortunately was sudden, but with enough time for us to be with him, we were a family in every sense of the word.

Because of his poor health for so many years I had plenty of opportunity to think about his death, and always, I imagined the grief and the guilt I would experience. Guilt because I could have been a better son to him, more forgiving of what I perceived to be flaws in his character. But I was in for still another surprise. There has been no guilt, only the recognition of what a warm and loving man he was. He loved his family and friends fearlessly, and he loved humanity. He was giving and caring, and treated everyone with the same respect and humility. It recognize now the precious gifts he has bestowed upon me. No father could do more for a son.

Josephine and Spartaco

I am 68 years old, and there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of my parents. (My mother died in December, 1991, and my father in the autumn of 1995.) I don’t know if this is unusual for someone my age, if it is because I was an only child, or if it is because I am such a sentimental softy. I suspect the real reason is because they were such remarkable people, and that they gave me so much. Ironically, with all the writing that I do, writing about them is very difficult for me. Perhaps because I’m afraid I will not do them the justice they deserve.

What follows is one way around this obstacle.

THIS I BELIEVE

I believe that I am the person I am because of my mother and father.

I believe that what I have accomplished of any worth, and may yet accomplish, is due to my parents.

I believe that anything of value that I may pass on to my children is simply what my parents gave to me.

I believe my parents taught me about love. They taught me about tolerance and forgiveness, and they taught me about humility. My parents showed me that a person of worth treats everyone with the same respect and warmth and that your behavior toward others is not determined by their socioeconomic status.

I believe that the greatest of the many gifts they bestowed upon me was a sense
of self worth and self esteem, which have allowed me to take the paths I have followed in my life.

I believe that my life is a reflection on my mother and father, and therefore attempt to conduct myself in a way that will honor them. I want to be worthy of the gifts they gave me.

I believe all of this with every fiber of my being.