Aunt Mary Antonelli is mother's eldest sister, about the same physical size as Fat Aunt Florence, low to the ground and stocky. Since we have two aunts with the name of Florence, we call the Italian aunt, Fat Aunt Florence and the Irish aunt, Skinny Aunt Florence. Mary and her husband, Louis, "Louie," and Florence and her husband, Leo Pierdominici, visit our home in Wisconsin Rapids for one day only, mere days before the Antonellis and their children are to move permanently to California. Mary insists before they make the move they visit "Jean-ah," which she calls my mother.
Louie plans to open a "restaurant, or two," he says, "or I’ll bask under California's sunny sky on the money I made by selling my restaurant."
Uncle Leo laughs. The pair make quick visits to our A&P supermarket and the Meat Mart, close to the Wisconsin Theater on Grand Avenue. Without any help from the women, they create a stupendous dinner in our kitchen, including making pasta noodles by hand.
One uncle pours olive oil into a pot and sets it on top of a lighted gas burner. They use mother's chopping knife and with the flat of its blade crush garlic cloves and toss them and the resultant garlic juice into the pot. Everything sizzles.
Next they cut up Italian sausages into small pieces and toss them into the pot. More sizzling. Next, they slice tomatoes, and chop onions and with them, pour all the contents of a large can of tomato juice into the pot. Leo pours sugar into his palm and discharges the grains into the pot, finally rubbing his hands together over the pot. Louie adds a number of herbs and sprinkles salt, pepper, and Parmesan cheese into the mix. The aroma is mouthwatering. As I wait and watch, Louie dips a tablespoon into the sauce.
"I'll let you test it," he tells me. I make a move to the spoon. "Wait," he warns, "let it cool off." Finally, he allows me a taste. The flavor is out of this world.
In awe, I remain in the kitchen and watch them mix flour and water and eggs and begin to knead and finally roll out a flattened mass, looking like pie crust mother makes. They then cut the flattened mixture into strips. I have never seen noodles made. I have eaten few since then.
After my father returns from his house calls and it's time for supper, the uncles toss the noodles into another pot with boiling water and plenty of salt. "You have to serve 'em al dente," Leo advises after he tests a noodle by biting into it.
"What does al dente mean?" I ask.
"To the tooth."
He reads my unspoken response well.
"Firm. They have to be firm."
"Mother's aren't firm. They're soggy."
"George." Oh, oh Although I think Mother's in the parlor, sitting on the couch and gabbing with her sisters, she now stands, her arms akimbo. She's giving me that look.
Time to keep my mouth shut and observe these two master chefs without commentary.
I see Aunt Mary only twice in my youth.
Years later, our ship moors at Alameda, across the bay from San Francisco. My hometown buddy and shipmate, Machinist Mate Richard "Dick" Zwicke, and I visit Aunt Mary who lives with her son, John "Johnny" Antonelli, his wife, Margery, and their children in San Francisco.
In the Coast Guard in his younger days, Johnny says our uniforms bring back memories. "We always got the Navy's hand-me-downs, ships included," he says, following that with some funny anecdotes occurring to him while he's in our country's hand-me-down coastal navy. Johnny wears a never ending smile. Added to that, he has the gift of gab, and it's obvious to Dick and me that everyone in his family and all his next door neighbors, to whom he purposely introduces us, love him.
A salesman for the Bulova watch company, he wears a one-off Bulova wristwatch with black face and four diamonds imbedded in the hour, half hour, and quarter hour slots. It's obvious it's high class. "Bulova awarded this to me for being its most successful salesman," he says.
I retain fond memories of the visit, but it's the last time I see Aunt Mary or any of the Antonellis.
* * * *
Rose Colacicco.
Do not speak her name out loud, for she is dead.
Whispers will only do.
"Don't use her name around your grandpa," warns Cousin Agatha in a hush. Agatha is definitely not soft spoken, until now, that is.
"Why?"
"Just don't, or you'll get this." She thrusts out a fist, held upside down and doesn't have to say anything more.
Cousin Robert, the family bigot, tells me in his Mercury automobile, "Grandpa couldn't take Rose into a grocery store because she was in a buggy. So, he left her in the buggy on the sidewalk while he went into the store to do some quick shopping. That's when a crazy nigger grabbed Rose and stabbed her with a knife."
Robert hates black people much more than he can love anyone else, including himself.
I pursue my investigation and ask Cousin Lydia. Her forehead's ridges remind me of a farmer's freshly plowed field. "I don't know if I should tell you, Georgie, but mother told me Rose died, but nobody killed her. I think she stepped on a nail and didn't tell anyone She got lockjaw and that killed her. After that, grandpa had a nervous breakdown. He stopped barbering, and all he would do is sit on a chair and look out a window of their upstairs apartment. According to mom, he'd say absolutely nothing to anyone."
"Not even to her or Grandma?"
"No, not even Grandma. She loved your Grandpa so much she took care of him, but somebody had to earn money in order for the family to eat. So, Grandma took charge. She did sewing and earned barely enough money to feed her family. She had to get away from the place where Rose died. Maybe the move would help Grandpa. They moved to Utica, New York, before they moved to Chicago where Grandma got a job at Hart, Schaffner, and Marx. It's a company that makes expensive men's suits."
"She sewed button holes which I've been told is the most complicated sewing job of all. Much later, Grandpa was able to get a job at the casket factory. Please, Georgie, please don't mention this to either of them."
I'm too ignorant, young, and inquisitive to leave well enough alone. Finally, I ask him, "Grampa, could you tell me about Rose?"
At once, I realize where mother gets that look because Grampa looks at me in that very same manner. He doesn't say anther word for the rest of the day. It is only until the next afternoon he greets me amiably.
It is only when I am the same age as Grampa when I ask him about Rose that I actually learn the cause for her demise. An internet search by my younger brother, Peter, aids him in discovering an official New York state document. According to a physician, Rose Colacicco's death was caused by Tubercular Meningitis.
Louie plans to open a "restaurant, or two," he says, "or I’ll bask under California's sunny sky on the money I made by selling my restaurant."
Uncle Leo laughs. The pair make quick visits to our A&P supermarket and the Meat Mart, close to the Wisconsin Theater on Grand Avenue. Without any help from the women, they create a stupendous dinner in our kitchen, including making pasta noodles by hand.
One uncle pours olive oil into a pot and sets it on top of a lighted gas burner. They use mother's chopping knife and with the flat of its blade crush garlic cloves and toss them and the resultant garlic juice into the pot. Everything sizzles.
Next they cut up Italian sausages into small pieces and toss them into the pot. More sizzling. Next, they slice tomatoes, and chop onions and with them, pour all the contents of a large can of tomato juice into the pot. Leo pours sugar into his palm and discharges the grains into the pot, finally rubbing his hands together over the pot. Louie adds a number of herbs and sprinkles salt, pepper, and Parmesan cheese into the mix. The aroma is mouthwatering. As I wait and watch, Louie dips a tablespoon into the sauce.
"I'll let you test it," he tells me. I make a move to the spoon. "Wait," he warns, "let it cool off." Finally, he allows me a taste. The flavor is out of this world.
In awe, I remain in the kitchen and watch them mix flour and water and eggs and begin to knead and finally roll out a flattened mass, looking like pie crust mother makes. They then cut the flattened mixture into strips. I have never seen noodles made. I have eaten few since then.
After my father returns from his house calls and it's time for supper, the uncles toss the noodles into another pot with boiling water and plenty of salt. "You have to serve 'em al dente," Leo advises after he tests a noodle by biting into it.
"What does al dente mean?" I ask.
"To the tooth."
He reads my unspoken response well.
"Firm. They have to be firm."
"Mother's aren't firm. They're soggy."
"George." Oh, oh Although I think Mother's in the parlor, sitting on the couch and gabbing with her sisters, she now stands, her arms akimbo. She's giving me that look.
Time to keep my mouth shut and observe these two master chefs without commentary.
I see Aunt Mary only twice in my youth.
Years later, our ship moors at Alameda, across the bay from San Francisco. My hometown buddy and shipmate, Machinist Mate Richard "Dick" Zwicke, and I visit Aunt Mary who lives with her son, John "Johnny" Antonelli, his wife, Margery, and their children in San Francisco.
In the Coast Guard in his younger days, Johnny says our uniforms bring back memories. "We always got the Navy's hand-me-downs, ships included," he says, following that with some funny anecdotes occurring to him while he's in our country's hand-me-down coastal navy. Johnny wears a never ending smile. Added to that, he has the gift of gab, and it's obvious to Dick and me that everyone in his family and all his next door neighbors, to whom he purposely introduces us, love him.
A salesman for the Bulova watch company, he wears a one-off Bulova wristwatch with black face and four diamonds imbedded in the hour, half hour, and quarter hour slots. It's obvious it's high class. "Bulova awarded this to me for being its most successful salesman," he says.
I retain fond memories of the visit, but it's the last time I see Aunt Mary or any of the Antonellis.
* * * *
Rose Colacicco.
Do not speak her name out loud, for she is dead.
Whispers will only do.
"Don't use her name around your grandpa," warns Cousin Agatha in a hush. Agatha is definitely not soft spoken, until now, that is.
"Why?"
"Just don't, or you'll get this." She thrusts out a fist, held upside down and doesn't have to say anything more.
Cousin Robert, the family bigot, tells me in his Mercury automobile, "Grandpa couldn't take Rose into a grocery store because she was in a buggy. So, he left her in the buggy on the sidewalk while he went into the store to do some quick shopping. That's when a crazy nigger grabbed Rose and stabbed her with a knife."
Robert hates black people much more than he can love anyone else, including himself.
I pursue my investigation and ask Cousin Lydia. Her forehead's ridges remind me of a farmer's freshly plowed field. "I don't know if I should tell you, Georgie, but mother told me Rose died, but nobody killed her. I think she stepped on a nail and didn't tell anyone She got lockjaw and that killed her. After that, grandpa had a nervous breakdown. He stopped barbering, and all he would do is sit on a chair and look out a window of their upstairs apartment. According to mom, he'd say absolutely nothing to anyone."
"Not even to her or Grandma?"
"No, not even Grandma. She loved your Grandpa so much she took care of him, but somebody had to earn money in order for the family to eat. So, Grandma took charge. She did sewing and earned barely enough money to feed her family. She had to get away from the place where Rose died. Maybe the move would help Grandpa. They moved to Utica, New York, before they moved to Chicago where Grandma got a job at Hart, Schaffner, and Marx. It's a company that makes expensive men's suits."
"She sewed button holes which I've been told is the most complicated sewing job of all. Much later, Grandpa was able to get a job at the casket factory. Please, Georgie, please don't mention this to either of them."
I'm too ignorant, young, and inquisitive to leave well enough alone. Finally, I ask him, "Grampa, could you tell me about Rose?"
At once, I realize where mother gets that look because Grampa looks at me in that very same manner. He doesn't say anther word for the rest of the day. It is only until the next afternoon he greets me amiably.
It is only when I am the same age as Grampa when I ask him about Rose that I actually learn the cause for her demise. An internet search by my younger brother, Peter, aids him in discovering an official New York state document. According to a physician, Rose Colacicco's death was caused by Tubercular Meningitis.
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