I’m listening to the kids in next room, a mad jumble of giggles, video game carnage and nerf wars with some funky kung fu moves thrown in for good measure. They’ve demolished a huge tray of fruit. I should mention they are all 10 years old, happy, joyful kids with a lot of talents and yet-to-be realized potential. They will still actually talk to adults and allow us a glimpse into their world, for which I am ever-grateful. It’s been a boatload of fun watching them grow up.
Maybe it’s Spring that’s causing me to think of my own childhood and relatives who are no longer with us. Easter is a joy-filled time of hope. It’s sometimes tough to reconcile hope with death. Two of my aunts and an uncle died around this time of year. They were part of the pantheon of my childhood. Aunt Sperry, short for Speranza, which means Hope in Italian, actually died on Easter Sunday a few years ago, at the young age of 89. Somehow, that date seemed fitting for her, as she was a devout Catholic, very active in her church Women’s Guild. I think she was the Vice President for 30-odd years.
She was an excellent cook, and a huge fan of Englebert Humperdink and Tom Jones. She was a tiny little woman, standing only 4′9″. It’s funny to realize that our son at 10 is taller than she was at her max. height. She loved music, sang, played the guitar and the organ. She had a wonderful sense of humor. Most of my memories of her include boisterous laughter, and always hugs and lots of great Italian food.
She made this weird egg stuffing on Thanksgiving that people raved about. In all the years we spent holidays together, I don’t think I ever actually ATE her egg stuffing. It was just too far removed from Mom’s awesome bread stuffing for me to even give it more than a nibble or a sniff. She was STACKED, like seriously Dolly Parton-esque proportions. I remember being at her youngest son’s graduation party when she and the other female family members and guests of that generation started going on about the women at the Tom Jones concert throwing underwear on stage. I cannot explain to you my embarrassment, shock and horror upon hearing that my wonderful little Auntie (at 12 I was already 5′5″, towering over her) - who wouldn’t even say “hell” or “damn” – confessed with a giggle that she would LOVE the opportunity to throw her bra onstage at Tom, but worried that the size of it would injure him and interrupt the concert! Thinking of her giggle, I realize that her beloved grand-daughters, my darling God daughters, each have her laugh and her wonderful off-beat sense of humor.
Going to church as a kid always meant I got to sit next to Auntie Sperry, who taught me the Rosary on her beautiful crystal beads. We always sat in the same pew, near a beautiful stained glass window of Jesus. She had a unique way of pronouncing “buried” during the Profession of Faith, over-stressing the ‘u’ so the first syllable sounded more like burn without the n, unlike the typical Central Massachusetts “berried”. Sometimes during Mass if I listen very carefully, I can still hear her saying it, in her own way, her voice mingling with the voices around me, yet separate. Sometimes it will bring a tear to my eye; but most times it makes me feel safe and loved, like I felt when we would sit at Mass together all those years ago.
I remember Aunt Sperry walking down from her house to the Catholic school on Wednesdays to get me after CCD class when I was in elementary school. We would sometimes stop at the local Italian Spa, Renda’s, for a snack. We walked the 3/4 mile from the Church to her house, chatting about my day at school, sometimes singing as we held hands. I really loved spending the rest of the afternoon with her. I can’t tell you that we did anything remarkable, we really just spent time together. Rest assured, it was always fun, and most importantly, I always knew I was loved.
I was the baby of the family, the only child of the baby of the family, the miracle baby born 18 years after my parents married, long after they and everyone else gave up hope of Rose and Gene ever having kids. I grew up fairly isolated, with few friends and almost no playmates. For all that, my cousins (29 first cousins at last count) and my aunts and uncles were a big part of my life. They added a richness and color to my childhood that I took for granted at the time and later resented when familial ties became strained and dysfunctional.
Thinking about them now I feel incredibly blessed and sad for our son, who has only one uncle and no first cousins. Yes, he has honorary uncles and aunts, but it’s a different world. There is no weekly gathering at Grandma’s house for Italian cold cut sandwiches on fresh Italian bread, right from the bakery, Moxie, “real” perked coffee, and loud cross-conversation and laughter in a house filled with aunts, uncles, cousins and friends. He will never hear Italian spoken in the dialect by his first-generation relatives, nor will he experience the mini-impromptu concerts by Auntie Sperry, Uncle Henry and occasionally Uncle Larry, the professional musician. He won’t sit at a table with his cousins and do whatever the boys in my family did. He will never taste my Grandmother’s homemade ravioli or capaletti or risotto ala Milanese. I have the recipes. I have the songs on CD, sung by the famous Italians of the 40s, 50s and 60s. Dino, Frank, Al, Tony, Louie, who almost feel like extensions of our family. I feel the presence of those loved ones most strongly when I put on the cds and cook, using recipes which have been in our family for generations, or when I go to church, or garden. I wonder sometimes if he will miss what he never had, and if the play dates and sports teams are enough to fill that void. Guess we’ll know in another 20 years. In the meantime, it’s time to crank some Louie Prima and cook dinner.