Our Father

I saw him today. His face looks ashen and drawn. Our eyes met often in conversation, and once from across the room as he looked up at me, hearing my laugh. His eyes haven't changed. They are still big and dark and powerful. All-knowing. I have spent my life encapsulated by them. What do you look for in the eyes of someone so revered? What do you find? For me, it has always been approval. Even after living half a century, I look for that in his gaze. Today, I found it. Despite battles with quiet fear, it rests comfortably, triumphant, behind the panes of his soul's window.

"Excuse my honesty ..."

At work today, a man called who I haven't seen in over 17 years. He was managing a construction site at the time and called us in for advice and an estimate.  I vaguely remember meeting him. But when he called today, I immediately recalled his name and that we met before, long ago. I never dealt with him again after that one job. He is older by about 20 years. Anyway, during the course of our conversation, amid the technical questions and inquiring how business has been, he said something that I will never forget. Very hesitantly, apologetically, he said to me ... "I still remember the day you and your husband came to see me, and excuse my honesty, but what struck me was, how beautiful you were." I thanked him. A generous compliment. I don't think he realized how choked up I became. I don't think we realize how honesty needs no excuse. Or how powerful it is until we are held in the grip of it.

Privacy is such a lonely word.

The basement bathroom. It's far enough removed from the ordinary Saturday afternoon activity, I conclude, and seems like the only place at this moment that offers a safe haven. Locked behind the door, I switch on the fan to use as an audible buffer. The light stays off. My bullet goes on to the third of seven settings. No sooner had the left side of my flushed face settled comfortably into the plush throw rug when my zone was jarringly interrupted by a knock on the door and my 13-year-old daughter's voice.

"Mom? Mom, what are you DOING in there?"

"I am going to the bathroom!! What do you WANT?"

"The UPS guy needs a signature. Are you okay??"

My voice sounds loud and frustrated over the hum of the fan, although the other buzz had stopped. Suddenly.

"Yes! Just sign it!"

Later, when I surfaced, my daughter comments. I can't help hearing suspicion in her voice.
"Um ... going to the bathroom? You sounded like you were in pain."

"Sometimes going to the bathroom can be painful." What else can I say? It was the first thing that came to mind. And most likely, one of the first things she chooses to discuss with her therapist in years to come.

Day three in Maida.

Nonno pours espresso, thick and black, while Giovanna pins whites along the terrace clothesline. She has finally changed her blouse from the lively floral printed sleeveless to a plain blue tee.  Nonno still wears the button down he sported at the airport upon our arrival. Change is not common here. 

We hike the steep road leading to the town square, "la piazza". Tall, rugged walls of slate gray rock to our left, a guardrail bordering our right. And beyond, the Appennino mountains rise and then fall, offering a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea. The town is a series of dilapidated layers. Nonno leads us to the house where he was born. It resembles a large stall made of weathered burnt orange brick, pale stone and cement. One floor, one door, and a terra cotta shingled roof out of which sprouts vines and weeds and tangled thorny branches. Nine children lived in that house, once upon a time. He points to a small courtyard just below, and tells my kids that this is where he kept his donkey, many years ago. 

"And my girl-a-friends, I bring here, too," he confesses only to me, smiling. I smile, too, and imagine his inspiration point ... Two teens, bathed in moonlight, sharing romance atop a scrappy, work-worn mule. 

"You know better but I know him ... "

Things are back to a relative normal.

Yep, he was here. There was proof of that everywhere.

But now he's gone. And so are the breadcrumbs he habitually left on the kitchen counter. The ruckus of semi-pro boxing that blared from the television at deafening decibels. The awkwardness of my laundering giant, oddly-stained tightie whiteys.

He was teary-eyed as I loaded him onto the minibus headed for JFK International. He thanked me profusely, apologizing. It was sad. I have to admit, I will miss the guy. He is, after all, family. He means well.  And there's a lot to be learned from cohabiting with anyone for any period of time. Living with him was no picnic, to be sure. But for him, living with us was no bowl of cherries, either.

Arrivederci, Nonno. Ti vogliamo bene.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7BgzrfUA8lo

This takes the cake ...

Allow me to set up the scene ... leftover strawberry shortcake sits on a plate, covered in plastic wrap, on a shelf in my fridge. Cake is coated with an inch-thick layer of whipped cream and giant red, ripe strawberries.

In shuffles Nonno, as it is close to lunch time. I see him open the fridge, reach in and begin to hear the familiar sound of lip-smacking, which to me is like nails on a chalkboard. I leave the house in disgust.

Later, I go to open the fridge. My hand feels something crusty on the handle. There is red, sticky, dried strawberry glaze and whipped cream covering it. Inside, a pastry case crime scene. The plastic wrap has been torn away from the cake and left open, revealing a huge gaping void in the center of the layer cake. Pieces of vanilla pound are scattered everywhere, crumbs of cake matter lying lifeless atop soda cans. The trail of terror continues as I discover crumbs leading to the sink, where the entire faucet head and handles are also smeared with berry glaze and whipped cream, now dry and beginning to yellow. More morsels of the cake killer's victim clog the drain.

I stare at the carnage in disbelief. Grabbing a fistful of cake is something I didn't think anyone would ever do, unless they were 1) a neanderthal or 2) really stoned. I guess I can add "eighty three years old and clueless" to the list.

Make-a Shake-a Hands

In a basic Italian conversation, I can hold my own. My kids are not bilingual, but over the years have learned a fairly decent collection of Italian words and phrases, mostly vulgar. We do not encourage they practice those.

One of the first words they learned was Nonno, the word for "grandfather", which is coincidentally what my gut reaction is on hearing the news of his arrival. Although my version sounds like NoooooooNooooooo!

He brought cheese. Again. And who doesn't love an abundance of unmarked, hand-packaged, smuggled-in-luggage-for-15-hours cheese?

The cheese. This time, it spawned hard candy.

He has settled into his routine. Morning begins with a breakfast of coffee-soaked chunks of thick Italian bread. I don't know which is more disgusting, the sight of the mushy bread floating in over-microwaved, burnt cappuccino or the lip-smacking and slurping sounds he makes as he spoons it into his mouth. The GoDaddy Super Bowl ad's smooch fest audio pales in comparison.

Our dog is the sweetest pup you'd ever want to meet, and submits lovingly, belly-up, to everyone. Except Nonno. She growls and barks at him constantly. She won't even take the bacon he offers. Maybe the way he yells "Make-a shake-a hands!" at her has something to do with it. MAKE-A SHAKE-A HANDS! Then, when she runs away, VA FA NAPOLI! Which means, in essence, go to hell! As if it's HER fault.

"Make-a Shake-a hands? Not on your life."

After breakfast, he takes the keys to the only available vehicle, one of our company vans, and sets out for a day of come what may. It's only been a week, and we've had to disconnect the "How is my driving?" telephone number listed on the back, due to "unusually high call volume" and a few death threats. Even the Asians were calling.

At this point, I'd rather be in Napoli.