Letter VII to Roxie Memoir by Betty Finocchiaro
My dearest Roxie,
Been thinking of you. Hope all is going well, Kid.
You know, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be one of eight kids in a family. My mother grew up that way. Honestly, when they all got together, it was bedlam. Everybody tried to outtalk the other one. I just had my little brother and all I got from him was small talk.
Do you remember how my mom's family lived up and down the east coast? And how our house was the crash site for reunions? A couple of brothers and sisters wouldn't think twice about dropping in at three in the morning, the others following the next day. Our house was too small to accommodate everyone, so they slept on the couch and on the floor in their own sleeping bags. I remember waking in the morning with bodies lying everywhere. Aunt Alice would creep into my bed and hold me in a bear hug. They would stay for a couple of days and the shouting and laughing could be heard houses away. I loved it. There's nothing like family that loves, laughs, and at the same time, argues with one another. They thrived in this kind of world. But strange as it may seem, my Uncle Max rarely joined us. It took me years to realize he truly was the Black Sheep of the family.
From the day after their arrival, the cooks crammed into my mother's little kitchen, and the cooks were my Mom, Dad, and itinerant cooks because if you remember, I told you the kitchen was small. So they had no recourse really, but to intermittently stir the pot. It didn't take much for a meal to become a festive occasion. Everyone got into the act. It was chaos with purpose and love. Always the love, the way Italians are guilty of. Soon the kitchen was buzzing with laughter and determination. My uncle John, who was married to my mother's youngest sister Jay, was the primary cook, which was his profession anyway. In fact, he was one of the cooks in the kitchen at Hammersmith Farm in Rhode Island on the day that John and Jaqueline Kennedy were married. No big deal, all in a day's work. Of course, I found that to be exciting and to this day, I still have the picture Uncle John had sent me of he and all the cooks in that famous kitchen. I guess they felt like celebrities too. By the way, Uncle John and I kept up a correspondence well into my teenage years. Many years later, one of his sons, Conrad, took me on a tour of Hammersmith where we both got a feeling of living history or maybe touching it, simply by knowing that my uncle, his father, cooked in this very kitchen for two of the most famous people in the world. Tell me Roxie, isn't it something pretty wonderful to feel that in some odd way Conrad and I touched history?
As I was saying, before I interrupted myself - and you – on these drop-in visits a meal was put together fit for a King. Baked Lasagna usually topped the list, sausage - stuffed chickens , bitter vegetables blanched and sauteed in olive oil, side dishes piled high with olives, pickled and hot peppers, cheeses and a myriad of other exotic dishes. Of course, the wine flowed and funny, but I remember my father coaxing me to "taste." Italian children knew they could drink a small amount of course, so it never became an issue. Now that I think about it, few of my friends nor I craved it.We drank "sodas" instead. The meal always finished with Italian desserts and black coffee, always the coffee.
From the time I was a little girl, about seven or eight years old, my Aunt Alice, who was Mom's middle sister, would take me to Fall River, Massachusetts for a few days. Now, this was no small thing in my young life. You see, Aunt Alice happened to be my favorite aunt. She was fun, laughed easily andseemed to find joy in everything around her. She never had children of her own, but adopted me and all of the nieces and nephews that followed.
Roxie! I just realized what I wrote. "She never had children of her own." What a laugh! Maybe that's why she was always so happy. Could that be the secret? Just kidding. Aunt Alice's whole disposition was contentment with her life. She was sunshine on a cloudy day.
I think back to how my heart would stop, literally, when she would ask my mom if "she could take Betty with her when she left"- to Fall River of course. I would stop breathing waiting for my mother's response, which lucky for me, was always "Yes." I'd scurry around as fast as I could gathering clothes, toothbrush, etc., before my mother had time to think it over. Then, my aunt would get the bright idea to have me sleep with her and her husband, Uncle Andy, cuddling me as close to her as possible on the outer edge of the bed. My uncle complained to my aunt to "get that kid out of this bed, Alice!" Aunt Alice's famous reply was always the same. "Go to sleep Andy Baby." I can still hear Uncle Andy's grunt.
My aunt gave me my religion. She imbued me with a faith that stays with me to this day. Knowing what I know now, experiencing the life I have with my Michael today, I don't know how else I could survive the traumas I sometime face. You know Kid, maybe this isn't for everyone, but without having the kind of faith I observed in my aunt, remembering it and trying to live it as closely as she did, I really don't know if I could make it in my world today. As I said, maybe it isn't for everybody, you know, but that's O.K. I feel fortunate that I saw my aunt's strength and lived in it's shadow a good part of my young life. A lot of people would do well with an Aunt Alice looking over their shoulder.
When I turned 17, my grandpa died. I was visiting Aunt Alice and Uncle Andy. So on the morning of his death, and as was her custom, we headed over to her church. Walking to a bus stop, the air warm, as it usually feels when snow first falls, a Cathedral-like silence fell over the town. Whirling snowflakes encircled us with stenciled designs of beautiful shapes, some shadowed in various hues of blue. A truly Norman Rockwell scene. If I could apply the word "magic" to the morning my grandfather died, then it will have to be as present as in a prayer.
Roxie, sometime I feel guilty complaining about my mother's crazy family, my mother especially. But I actually began to understand as I got older. They were just human beings with all of the anxieties and turmoils like people before them and those who have followed. I can't fault them for anything. They loved as strongly as they argued with one another. And woe to anyone who crossed a sibling. The beginning of the 20th century came in with prosperity, followed by the Flapper dance era. The good times ended with the Great Depression. They were kids at that time. They had little defenses. A male- dominated society for the women. A life-long struggle for the guys who had to be the "bread-winner" for his wife and kids. On top of it all, education was not a priority. I believe that much of theirinsecurities lay in that fact and it explains loud and clear to me why Uncle Max with the knowledge he had acquired by taking night classes, was deferred to by the whole family. It was to be my generation who was encouraged in academia.
One day I'll write you about Uncle Max He sometimes reminded me of a tragic Greek figure. I don't believe I ever saw him smile. He just seemed bitter about everything. It makes me wonder and even feel sad that he appeared to live a wasted life. But of course, that's just my feeling.
I'll get back to you soon Roxie. Its great to have these brief writing encounters with you. I sort of relive my life over again and the best part is that I can block out any part of my past like it never existed. That's the charm of sharing my memories.
Take care Kid.
Betty
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Fat Cat and the Crows
Drawing and Limerick by George Asdel
Some crows were teasing the cat
We see you're getting fat
Come get this fish
or sit if you wish
She pounced and knocked them flat
Mushroom Meditation by Elizabeth Buckner
"Merci,Julia Child, pour la recette"
I say as I gently clean the skin
of each Baby Portabella
with a damp paper towel
then carefully snap off
the stem and set it aside.
I shed tears as I peel and mince
sweet Mayan Onions and local shallots
purchased from a Dad look-alike
at our Farmer's Market
I cut parsley with scissors and
think of Mom who always used
this herb at holiday meals.
As the onions, shallots,and stems
slowly sautein butter and olive oil
I reflect that I am not preparing
Tarte Tatin,up until now
my usual holiday offering
for the deserts have long been allocated
to my daughter's in-laws.
As I grate the cheeses
I watch the cattle graze
in the adjacent pasture
and ponder their marvelous
milk products: butter, cream
and especially cheese--
Asiago, Gruyere, Parmesan, Swiss--
a few of les fromages
that enhance recipes.
I cube a baguette
of yesterday's Pain Francais
re-bake in a low, slow oven
then crush into crumbs,
meditating on "the staff of life"
sometimes strewn on a path
for lost children to follow
out of the forest in their search
for the fairy tale promise
of home and "happy ever after".
I muse as I mix the wets, the drys
the herbs and the spices, brush
the mushroom caps with melted butter
position them side by side, 6 rows, 4 abreast
in greased pans to await their cargo
of savory stuffing, which I spoon
into the baby "bellas"
crown each one
with a pinch more Parmesan
a swizzle of melted butter
then slide the shallow baking boats
into an oven set to sail on a sea
of 370 degree heat for 15-20 minutes
until transformed by oven alchemy.
When first I brought
this treat to a holiday feast,
the family, collectively transported
by the taste, became euphoric
coveted their share
and requested annual repeats.
ofLes Champignons Farcis.
Even though I have shared la recette
they say that only I can create
this ecstasy for the tastebuds
this mushroom magique,
Cobwebs by Curt Hinkle
I should go through the house
With a broom
And knock down cobwebs
High in the corners
Where mosquitos
Go to die
But then I remember
My Irish grandmother saying
It's bad luck
To kill a spider in the house
You supposed to catch them?
Extradite them to the yard?
Carry out sentence there?
She taught me to roller skate
Running beside me
Overweight, in sensible black shoes
And used words like
Gumption, Traipse, and Dassant
Grandma would let me
Mine the chocolate vein
From a half gallon of Neapolitan
Unthinkable at home
She could be depended on
For protection from
The wrath of Mom
And when I whined I couldn't this
Or can't do that
She told me through clenched teeth
"Can't - shit his pants."
My sister and I saw her last
86 years old in a rest home
Recovering from a broken hip
Sleeping when we came in
She awoke as Adrienne fixed her covers
"Where's your arm, Grandma?"
It had escaped down the sleeve hole
Of her light nightgown
She smiled hugely up at us
And said
"It got cut off in the fight."
Guess I'll leave the cobwebs be
It's bad luck
To kill a spider in the house.
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