The Immigrants ? My Father?s Parents

My father was named after my grandfather, having the greatest
resemblance to him. The family of seven lived in a small row home on
Chadwick Street in South Philadelphia. My dad was the fourth in line
and was taught the tailoring trade by his father. Aunt "Ray" (a
nickname) was also taught the trade. My grandparents only spoke
Italian.

Like my grandfather, dad was a proper, good natured and quiet man,
enjoying the occasional nap. By the time I grew old enough to remember,
that was my take of grandpop's personality. He laughed and doled out
Hershey Kisses. During visits, dad would talk with him by the front
windows. Grandpop would fall asleep during the conversation; dad waited
patiently until he awoke. He served in the Italian army during WWI and
became a prisoner of war. He joked about eating grass and sewing lice
inside the enemy's uniforms. He was proud when the Italian government
awarded him a small pension. Grandpop earned a living in the USA
working piecework in the sweatshops; he made clothes for his family.
Dad also inherited some of his mother's traits.

Grandmom was a short, heavy woman, about a size 26 housedress. Grandpop
made her house dresses. Her original blond hair still mixed in the
gray. She spoke loud and fast. She was clumsy, banging pots and pans,
and wore a big smile. She raced about the kitchen whipping up the best
in simple Italian cooking. When family came to visit she refused to eat
at the kitchen table. She'd sit by the window at the far end of the
long, tiled kitchen and jumped up when someone finished their plate or
looked like they needed something. She'd pull out bottles of Frank's,
Kaiser rolls and sharp cheese insisting that we "yeet, yeet, manga!"
Dessert was fried dough with powdered sugar, or ripe peaches soaked in
wine or vermouth. Sometimes she'd slice Neapolitan ice cream. Children
were allowed wine at the dinner table; I thought all kids were
permitted. She shuffled plates onto the gray, metal table like a deck
of cards; she never lost a plate. If you got in her way you were going
to get knocked over. She was frugal and saved coffee by funneling the
pot's contents into an empty vermouth bottle. Grandpop would cut
discarded items before throwing them in the trash so that she wouldn't
recycle them. She loved her washing machine. It resided in it's
original location in a the corner of the kitchen; it also doubled as
the coat rack.

Grandmom was great at entertaining us just by her very nature. Dad
would buy her a coconut, and have us hand it to her. She bored a hole
with a corkscrew, drained the water, and opened the cellar door. She'd
slam the coconut against the cellar wall. If it didn't break, she'd run
down the steps and do it again and collect the pieces! It was great
fun; we bought her plenty of coconuts. Dad would also quiz her with the
test for citizenship. She knew all of the answers having passed ages
ago. "Who was the president during the Civil War?" She'd reply, "A bra
hama Ling a ling!" My other favorite answer was, "Mas za chew zettes!"
Dad would bring her to the foot doctor. Driving in "la machina" the
car, caused major panic. Grandmom would bless herself chanting, " Oh
Deo! Oh Deo! Oh Deo!" until we parked. It was this lethal energy dad
inherited.

Her backyard was small with high cinderblock walls. There was one
bricked area for a garden; that was devoted to the fig tree. An Italian
home is just not right without a fig tree. The leaves hung over the
walls to the alley. She kept a large compost area, and faithfully
dumped coffee grounds, vegitable cuttings and grease; it was the
blackest compost I've ever seen. Tomato, basil and pepper plants grew
exclusively in this compost, planted in several large buckets along the
wall. They were beautiful!

My grandparents cellar was a shared workspace for two of my uncles. A
large home-made work table and back board was neatly arranged with
tools. Metal buckets with handles were handy for organizing and
carrying supplies. Uncle "Middy" (a nickname) constructed lighted
signs, cutting plexiglass and riviting metal. Uncle "Al" (another
nickname) was an electrician. He later became head electrician for the
city of Philadelphia. The back section of the cellar was the place
where annisette and root beer was made and bottled. I only saw this
area as storage since I was one of the younger grandchildren. I was
also fascinated with the subcellar. A large painted trap door opened to
a small ladder where an empty oil tank resided.

Holidays and Sundays were loud and busy in this house. It always
smelled of coffee, annisette and pizzelles, and memories waft through
my brain bringing me back there. Celebrations with Italian cream cakes
and extinguishing candles in creative ways, laughter and more noise
than can make it possible to think, playing on marble steps or running
through the alleys fill the tiny house in my mind to this day. There is
no going back, but the immigrants live in and are a part of me.