The year, 1950. Summer. A warm early morning. The kitchen of Aunt Florence Pierdominici (P-air-dough-MINN-chee, the second i, obviously silent) was filled with tempting bouquets of basil, oregano, onions and green peppers frying in olive oil, and fresh Parmesan cheese, grated from a large block shipped from Parma, Italy, to her Oak Park, Illinois, address.
She loved wearing flowery dresses with dark backgrounds. Each morning, rising before anyone else, the less than five foot tall, squat, bespectacled, dark haired woman stood before a gas stove, right hand holding a large spoon which she occasionally dipped into a pot or pan and stirred. The left hand pressed the side of her ample waste, which I assumed helped her maintain a vertical position.
When anyone entered her kitchen at any hour, she invariably prodded them with, "You hungry? Eat something. It'll do you good. There's plenty to eat." Her answer to any and all human complaints, "Eat something. You'll feel better."
Only two events caused Aunt Florence to exit that home, family funerals or weddings. Nothing else could coax her outdoors. The kitchen was her domain. No questions asked. No answers given.
The most accomplished cook I've ever met, she started preparing lunch and evening meals early mornings for husband, Leo, sons Robert and Roy, and daughters Agatha, Lydia, Lorraine, and Mary. Another son, Jerry, the eldest, lived on the west coast. He had married "a blonde California divorcee," said Aunt Florence with bottom lip contorting. Jerry had served in the army during WWII and was now a long distance truck driver.
An eight-inch black and white TV with rabbit ear antennae on a nearby countertop was turned on. Around 8 a.m., Arthur Godfrey talked about little of import, but Aunt Florence hung on to each meaningless decree. Answering his questions aloud and laughing at his mind-numbing jokes, she might have left Leo for Arthur. Maybe not, if she had to exit that kitchen.
A man of few phrasings, Uncle Leo offered softly spoken one sentence orders to family members and one-word answers to anyone quizzing him. Balding with wisps of grey hair, he studied the stock market's ups and downs in a morning Chicago newspaper as he sat on his stuffed chair in the parlor. Whenever he and his wife spoke to each other, it was in Italian.
One day, when I asked him about the Mafia, he handed me a dollar bill and finally spoke more than one word. "Go to the drugstore and buy yourself an ice cream cone," he said. "Maybe Roy wants one, too. Ask him."
Owner of the Marcella Macaroni factory on Chicago's south side, Leo employed a number of workers, including Robert and future son-in-law, Emil, who would eventually marry Leo's most beautiful daughter, Lydia, prettier than Elizabeth Taylor in her youth.
I never witnessed Leo drive an automobile although he owned one. Robert acted as Leo's chauffeur in a large, shiny black Cadillac. Robert's personal ride was a new 1950 2-door Mercury with a flathead V-8. Twin exhaust pipes protruded beyond the chromed rear bumper. Robert was the first person I knew who talked about Smithy "Cherry Bomb" mufflers.
In the Navy during WWII, he was stationed on a vessel that sailed Lake Michigan, its home port, Chicago. He was the first bigot I ever met, calling Negroes, Niggers. He hated them so much he maintained two cardboard boxes filled with newspaper clippings, concerning blacks breaking the law. He brought the boxes out of a nearby closet in order to prove his point that Blacks were horrible people. I asked him why he didn't also clip stories about white criminals. "You don't know nothing about Niggers," he replied, "because you live up north."
However, when his father introduced me to some longtime black employees at the factory, (Incredibly, they worked alongside Robert) Leo and they appeared to be natural and comfortable in each other's presence. They mainly chatted about their kids. One worker bragged about his daughter attending college and a son in law school.
Family was also of utmost import to Leo and Florence. Leo was allowed to criticize their children while Florence invariably stuck up for them. Mary, the youngest daughter, was three years older than I. Roy, the baby of the family, was my junior. The other children had been adults for some time.
The Pierdominici home was the Smullen base camp whenever mother and a few of her offspring visited her relatives. We dared not visit the Smullens who also lived in Chicago because they didn't like "The Dago."
Mother brought with her numerous salami sandwiches and cookies because train meals were too expensive. We'd board the Hiawatha in Wisconsin Rapids, head to New London, disembark there and wait for the express train to take us first to Milwaukee and then to Chicago. Robert was at the Union Station, waiting to ferry us home in the Cadillac.
I slept upstairs in in a twin bed in Roy's bedroom. His Big Ben alarm clock's loud "Tick" and seemingly louder "Tock" kept me awake. I'd toss and turn but somehow, though, I got to sleep, and in the morning I'd descend the stairs and enter the kitchen.
"You hungry?" asked Aunt Florence. "Eat something. It'll do you good. There's plenty to eat."
She loved wearing flowery dresses with dark backgrounds. Each morning, rising before anyone else, the less than five foot tall, squat, bespectacled, dark haired woman stood before a gas stove, right hand holding a large spoon which she occasionally dipped into a pot or pan and stirred. The left hand pressed the side of her ample waste, which I assumed helped her maintain a vertical position.
When anyone entered her kitchen at any hour, she invariably prodded them with, "You hungry? Eat something. It'll do you good. There's plenty to eat." Her answer to any and all human complaints, "Eat something. You'll feel better."
Only two events caused Aunt Florence to exit that home, family funerals or weddings. Nothing else could coax her outdoors. The kitchen was her domain. No questions asked. No answers given.
The most accomplished cook I've ever met, she started preparing lunch and evening meals early mornings for husband, Leo, sons Robert and Roy, and daughters Agatha, Lydia, Lorraine, and Mary. Another son, Jerry, the eldest, lived on the west coast. He had married "a blonde California divorcee," said Aunt Florence with bottom lip contorting. Jerry had served in the army during WWII and was now a long distance truck driver.
An eight-inch black and white TV with rabbit ear antennae on a nearby countertop was turned on. Around 8 a.m., Arthur Godfrey talked about little of import, but Aunt Florence hung on to each meaningless decree. Answering his questions aloud and laughing at his mind-numbing jokes, she might have left Leo for Arthur. Maybe not, if she had to exit that kitchen.
A man of few phrasings, Uncle Leo offered softly spoken one sentence orders to family members and one-word answers to anyone quizzing him. Balding with wisps of grey hair, he studied the stock market's ups and downs in a morning Chicago newspaper as he sat on his stuffed chair in the parlor. Whenever he and his wife spoke to each other, it was in Italian.
One day, when I asked him about the Mafia, he handed me a dollar bill and finally spoke more than one word. "Go to the drugstore and buy yourself an ice cream cone," he said. "Maybe Roy wants one, too. Ask him."
Owner of the Marcella Macaroni factory on Chicago's south side, Leo employed a number of workers, including Robert and future son-in-law, Emil, who would eventually marry Leo's most beautiful daughter, Lydia, prettier than Elizabeth Taylor in her youth.
I never witnessed Leo drive an automobile although he owned one. Robert acted as Leo's chauffeur in a large, shiny black Cadillac. Robert's personal ride was a new 1950 2-door Mercury with a flathead V-8. Twin exhaust pipes protruded beyond the chromed rear bumper. Robert was the first person I knew who talked about Smithy "Cherry Bomb" mufflers.
In the Navy during WWII, he was stationed on a vessel that sailed Lake Michigan, its home port, Chicago. He was the first bigot I ever met, calling Negroes, Niggers. He hated them so much he maintained two cardboard boxes filled with newspaper clippings, concerning blacks breaking the law. He brought the boxes out of a nearby closet in order to prove his point that Blacks were horrible people. I asked him why he didn't also clip stories about white criminals. "You don't know nothing about Niggers," he replied, "because you live up north."
However, when his father introduced me to some longtime black employees at the factory, (Incredibly, they worked alongside Robert) Leo and they appeared to be natural and comfortable in each other's presence. They mainly chatted about their kids. One worker bragged about his daughter attending college and a son in law school.
Family was also of utmost import to Leo and Florence. Leo was allowed to criticize their children while Florence invariably stuck up for them. Mary, the youngest daughter, was three years older than I. Roy, the baby of the family, was my junior. The other children had been adults for some time.
The Pierdominici home was the Smullen base camp whenever mother and a few of her offspring visited her relatives. We dared not visit the Smullens who also lived in Chicago because they didn't like "The Dago."
Mother brought with her numerous salami sandwiches and cookies because train meals were too expensive. We'd board the Hiawatha in Wisconsin Rapids, head to New London, disembark there and wait for the express train to take us first to Milwaukee and then to Chicago. Robert was at the Union Station, waiting to ferry us home in the Cadillac.
I slept upstairs in in a twin bed in Roy's bedroom. His Big Ben alarm clock's loud "Tick" and seemingly louder "Tock" kept me awake. I'd toss and turn but somehow, though, I got to sleep, and in the morning I'd descend the stairs and enter the kitchen.
"You hungry?" asked Aunt Florence. "Eat something. It'll do you good. There's plenty to eat."
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