Nonno

Forty one years ago tomorrow my grandfather died in my father's arms. A little more than thirty eight years after that day my father would die in mine. Nonno would be one hundred and thirty two years old were he alive today. My vividest memories of him involve those dominated by the senses of smell and touch, the former, I understand, being closely related to that part of our brains dealing with remembrance. In 1955, a typical visit to my Nonno and Nonna's house on "The Hill" (a sleepy semi cul-de-sac across from the huge and lengthy stone wall of the east side of New Calvary cemetery, separated from it by and mostly parallel to a small segment of the then cobble-stoned 58th street in Woodside, Queens, N.Y.C.) would, of a Sunday afternoon, involve many pleasant and some not so pleasant odors, tactile treats or at least curiosities, and sights and sounds too that a pre-kindergartener reveled in, free for a few months more, from the bland socialization of ethnically neutral rules and the credo of "learning to play well with others" that an urban American public school education entailed at mid-century. Not that I was a free spirit roaming my father's parents' home fearlessly and heedless of adults and others. Mischievous cousins, my brother and I whooped it up assuredly, but this was balanced by fretful aunts and my high-strung mother and even the occasional cautionary talk by my serene Dad and uncles of varying temperaments that ensured that my socialization was well along if not yet moulded in quite the same way by the aforementioned didactic forces.

But back to the fun: Nonno would greet one and all with a big wet kiss. This was your first adventure into this very different world of the senses. What was that salty/peppery, sneezy phenomenon that assaulted your nose's little receptor cells when Nonno "smooched" you? And wow! Why did his face hurt your face? You knew he liked you a lot, but why did the encounter scratch so much? At 76 then, Nonno was working, but only occasionally in his garden of fig trees and "basilico" or on the little patch of land that he owned and grew zucchini on behind our former backyard (we lived only a block away until '51), and was retired for all practical purposes. Shaving was neither required nor fussed over at this stage of his life, hence the scratchiness, especially for one whose skin was still little different than a newborn's. A fondness for imported, powdered snuff (that he kept in a small silver box or one of dark wood and of the horn of an animal and trimmed with silver too), had formed a habit almost as ancient as he was and explained the wrinkling and wiggling of the edges of my nostrils (much like those of the baby rabbits Dad gave us, and then upon Mom's veto, to Nonno one Easter) whenever they came near to his.

Nonna was yet another "trip" for one's quickly developing olfactory nerves. She was ten years Nonno's junior and a mesomorphic woman, (unlike Nonno with his slight rotundity), prematurely white haired (since her thirties) of grinning, gregarious ways and quite sly. She worked very hard and perspired freely with her summer dresses more often than not revealing a drooping white strap from her slip below one of the outer garment's shoulders. Her kitchen's odors seemed to follow her into any room in the house to which she often and energetically ambled. A moist buss from Nonna came to mean that tomato sauce, olive oil, various cheeses, fresh fruits and vegetables plus her sweat, spittle and cologne were all part of a strong and exotic mix that was uniquely hers and that, were you magically struck blind and deaf a moment before entering her door, you'd know, even before being embraced, that you were in her presence.

Their house itself became this familiar but special universe of unique adventure, its furniture and infinitely varied objects mostly available for a little one's inspection like a huge prop box backstage from where a period play was being performed. A particularly fond memory and microcosm of this analogy was a heavy drawer of a utilitarian piece of furniture in the dining room between the living room and kitchen whose height was just right for the line of sight of a curious pre-schooler. In this amazingly cluttered space one could play undistracted for what must have seemed hours to impatient grownups. Herein, small objects abounded, earmarked for attention and some future usefulness by Nonno and Nonna, but their histories told a story of the passage of time, inertness and benign neglect. Not truly ancient "stuff", but to a child's eyes, here was a wondrous treasure trove of mysterious, enthralling gewgaws and gimcracks of really not then distant earlier parts of the twentieth century that were experienced as seemingly endlessly singular curiosities that no toy store could equal in riveting one's attention and that were free of prohibiting boxes and scolding clerks. The waxy white head of a helmeted knight, still scented after its long ended function as the top of an after shave lotion bottle, a Junior Birdmen of America rubber stamp, electrical wires hopelessly tangled, mousetraps, buttons galore, military shoulder patches from the relatively recent greatest war in human history, with a sprinkling of Axis forces' patches and metal accessories included with the U.S. forces' items, matchboxes, cartoons for grownups with bilingual gags (English and fractured French) imprinted on paper cocktail napkins, and countless other marvels to our way of thinking: these were just a very few of the surprises in this "grab bag" of things.

There was, within and right by the entrance and big door to the house (which was at the top of a long set of stone and concrete steps), a large glass candy dish on a tall narrow table by the room's light switch, never empty of green and purple globes of cellophane wrapped treats: sweet "marbles" that never disappointed. One was immediately in the living room upon crossing this threshold and was standing on a huge red carpet, its brilliance perhaps dimmed by time and dirt, and with an indeterminate design of black and gold flowers. There was big stuffed furniture: easy chairs covered with doilies, coffee tables and a hassock, drapes (for the big picture window as well as, from ceiling to floor: for the archway to the dining room and behind a very big sofa) and covered radiators, an Admiral black and white television/radio/phonograph encased by dark wood forming enclosing doors with brass handles and definitely not portable, two floor lamps with pull chains: one with three light bulbs and one of them of painted red glass, the aforementioned massive sofa covered by dark green toothbrush-like tufts of material, similarly scratchy to Nonno's beard for a five year old's arms and legs, a towering china closet in a corner (technically off limits, but its many curiosities, including dolls with porcelain heads and a translucent blue cream pitcher with a Shirley Temple decal/photo on it, accessible with an indulgent adult's supervision). Hanging on the walls were photographs and paintings, the former in gilded ornate frames: an image of my father in a sailor/soldier suit, complete with puttees and a child's size rifle by his side and one of him several years older yet perhaps still not in his teens donning a three piece suit, his hair parted in the middle, confident and poised. This photo was actually above the second floor landing looking down upon anyone ascending the stairs which was located in the far right corner of the living room. A window on this landing was a mute reminder of the oft told tale of the early morning that Dad was aroused by a shouting Nonno who, in the adjacent bathroom, had fallen backwards into their old free standing bath tub while shaving (thus indicative of an earlier time). Dad had somnambulistically charged forward from his bedroom just opposite the landing, not turning left, and had run through the glass pane, not defenestrating, but of course magnifying the emergency for the cops and firemen who responded. But I digress (the abundance of memories must share culpability): Nonno's living room contained a closet that was really a tiny separate storeroom as it had its own window to the outside and for some reason was blocked completely by the big dark green couch. This area had once contained many bird cages wherein Nonna kept an aviary of canaries before I was born. Another family story was the occasion of my Uncle Dom's wedding in 1941 when his soon to be brother-in-law, Aloysius, a convivial man who enjoyed a glass or two, was alone on the couch when he thought he heard birds tweeting. When his wife arrived soon after, he complained to her, but an interval of silence at that point, resulted in the strong admonition to ease up on the imbibing and "Wishy's" quick agreement was nudged along by fear for his own sanity.

The paintings mentioned included two that were always gazed upon by me and my brother no matter how often we passed them. One was in oil on a fairly thick, rectangular wooden board. It was a possibly eighteenth century scene or even earlier of a couple seated and languishing amorously alongside a dinner table covered by a white cloth and in an outdoor setting, perhaps a park. Wine and fruit on the table and a picnic basket with other items on the ground completed the scene. The other was an amateurish water color of a modern day couple embracing ardently in a close-up exhibiting the cufflinked male's arms disproportionately long however passionate was his (and her) body "language." Seven more rooms and a delightfully mysterious attic and an even spookier unfinished basement, plus a two-car garage comprised the rest of the house and I could detail the items in and happy memories evoked by each one, but time and the original intention of this essay compel me to return to the person for whom it is entitled. Who was Nonno, beyond being one of many subjects for my joyous reminiscences of a blossoming world of childhood sensuality that was, and usually without intentional disabuse of the illusion by loving adults, my inviolate, and solely my "oyster?"

Nonno was, of course, a man and an extremely hardworking one who came to New York about 1906 from Arinella near Palermo, Sicily. The family history tells of his first meeting with Nonna taking place aboard the vessel they both were passengers on: in steerage. One of his first jobs was in the Ladies' Feathers business (if the that's the correct description). I believe he was self-employed in this field at some point. It was clearly a time when women of all social ranks wore feathers, mostly those of ostriches, on their headwear. He also worked on the construction of one or more of the subway tunnels connecting Brooklyn and/or Queens to Manhattan, serving as a "sandhog" in a job that no doubt entailed routinely considerable risk but no more perilous than his work with dynamite both in New york and back in Italy. His main, lifelong career was that of a grocer and fruit and produce vendor, a calling in which my father assisted him at an early age (before his teens) and which Dad continued and soon after also, by opening his own stores by the mid-1930s. Nonno, like Dad, worked 12 to 16 (or more) hour days, six days a week for decades. They were men of a certain fortitude that, even in my prime, I don't believe I could have matched. Reality, economics and a total incredulity about a mindset that would have countenanced help from the government or assistance from any non-family entity, however altruistic or benign, were what powered them and enabled them to live their fiercely independent and wonderfully giving lives for their family's sake. He was also, evidentially and genetically, so much like my Dad. I can only belatedly express how much I love him, anachronistically, and in a sense, impossibly, unlike through the eyes of the child that I was. Like Dad, I can now see that he was no saint and yet saintly. Like Dad, I can now see how gentle he was, though living in a world demanding great physical endurance and affording little time for navel gazing and self-analysis. I can see why Dad loved him so much and was devoted to him both as a business partner as well as a son. Their communication of love was not of the verbal or effusive kind. Their bond was total and was not conditional or merely for mutual advantage. It was very deep and was reflected in the story of the window accident: Dad was committed unstintingly, even in his sleep, to protecting his father. I experienced this feeling with Dad myself, but I always envied the longevity and scope of their relationship that was truly lifelong. My closeness to Dad was there, but it did not deepen until I sensed the start of his declining years. I am grateful for having learned to not take him for granted in these later years.

Like Dad, Nonno, perhaps not amazingly, was a real and really good guy. I'll bet, even had I not been his grandson, that he would have tolerated the prank of the doily that I stealthily placed on his balding pate while he snoozed one Sunday in one of those easy chairs in his living room. And even if, as a stranger's kid, I had also upped the ante, as I actually did, by trying the trick again with a small cloth square of olive drab camouflage mesh from one of our toy Army tanks we played with on the rug beside his weary bones, I believe he would have, as he actually did, chuckled and mumbled something in Sicilian and gone back to sleep. I prefer to believe though, that he was especially tickled, even quietly overjoyed, that this was his grandson learning the playfulness of love and trust. May he continue to rest, now in blissful, everlasting peace with Dad and with all my family members who have departed this vale of tears.