Don't Sing at the Table

by Adriana Trigiani

  Do not shame a child.

  If one of her daughters wanted her to make a stylish dress, Lucy would take her to the fabric shop and let her choose the material. If the material was too expensive, she would show her an alternative that they could afford, without shaming the girl or making her feel she couldn’t have something lovely. Of course, the other vendors in Chisholm knew of Lucy’s circumstances, and often would barter supplies in exchange for work Lucy could do for them. Lucy never made a fuss about what she could not give her children. She presented alternatives, and this taught her children to be flexible.

  I’m your mother, not your pal.

  Lucy’s mother had a place of honor in the family, not one of familiarity. Lucy looked up to her own mother, sought her counsel, and followed her lead in all matters at home. Lucy stayed close to Giacomina through letters and phone calls. There was a bond between them that time and distance would not break, but they were not friends; Giacomina definitely had the seniority.

  Hopefully, your child will see you surrounded by longtime, loving, and supportive friends. Friendship, and the development of the skills that lead to it, will have been set in motion by example to your children by your wonderful relationship with your adult circle of confidants. You have lived; therefore you have made your friends, choosing them, gathering them on the road of life like daisies.

  Friendship is a luscious component of a happy life, and one of the great gifts of being alive. Friends who are your age and around it, who remember the things you do, who share travels and experiences with you, and who carry your insights and secrets through the years, just as you share theirs, are treasures.

  Friends who are older, maybe your parents’ age or beyond, who provide a mature perspective to your problems and can relate to what you’re currently going through, are just as valuable. There is no template for friendship; it is defined by what we like and what we need, what we can give and what we can accept. Enjoy those friends your whole life long, but don’t include your children in that circle.

  Give your children the gift of choosing their own friends.

  As a mother, you need not be one of them. Your child looks to you to lead. Your child looks to you to be wise. Your child looks to you to show her the way. You should be one step ahead of your child, or one step behind her, observing. Your child will have friends to walk with in lockstep, and this should bring you as a parent great satisfaction. You have, in another important way, given your child a good example of one of the fruits of growing up and adulthood—the ability to surround yourself with like-minded people who bring out the best in you.

  You gave birth to your child, not to a friend.

  Keep your mother-child relationship sacred, and with it the glorious boundaries that shield your privacy and hers. Your child will look up to you, and you will have achieved another milestone in creating a confidence in her that will help her separate from you and achieve independence. If we do our jobs well, our children move on from us and create their own lives, relationships, and families, hopefully, by our example, surrounded by friends who also help them be the best they can be.

  Don’t sing at the table.

  There’s an Italian proverb handed down on Viola’s side of the family, Chi e canta a tavola e piu stupido che fuma a letto, which translated means, “He who sings at the table is more stupid than the one who smokes in bed.” As a child, this was said to me when I was being silly at meal time. In a sense, it’s an aphorism about the importance of boundaries. All Viola had to do was raise an eyebrow, and my behavior went from the Three Stooges to Helen Hayes in The White Nurse. When she went for the Italian phrase, you knew you had either performed beyond expectation or were in hot water. When we were at the table, we were there to eat, not to perform, or interrupt, or fool around. Therefore, to this day, I don’t sing at the table, and I don’t encourage my daughter to break into song over antipasto either.

  Fill your home with music, flowers, and beauty your child will remember.

  Our homes are reflections of what is going on inside us. Lucy taught me to share my home and to have it at the ready for guests.

  The most beautiful homes I have ever visited were comfortable, clean, and welcoming. The host was happy to see me, and made me feel that for an hour or two, I could put my feet up and revel in the oasis of calm. It didn’t matter about the interior so much. There could be clutter, but good seating to welcome guests. The furniture was comfortable; if something spilled, no big deal and no problem! (I don’t imagine anyone feels comfortable putting their feet up in a fancy palace.)

  The teapot, handed down, with cracks in the porcelain, did not need to be new because behind it was a family story, told with relish, in hilarious detail. A freshly baked cake for company on a cake stand found at a yard sale is more delicious than any dessert course in a five-star restaurant. When a hostess focuses on her guests and makes them feel at home, you know that when company goes, they have been uplifted by the experience of the host’s largesse and calm. Such visits always made me feel that I should try to do the same in my own home.

  Do what you can and know that it’s just right.

  From time to time we feel we cannot entertain company because we can’t do it up expensively. Let go of this notion for the sake of your children. You want your home to be filled with visitors, good friends, laughter, and fun. Choose a meal that isn’t pricey and invite your friends over. Let them see you make a nice brunch of French toast, coffee, and fresh-squeezed juice. It doesn’t have to be lavish. Have a dessert party. Let your children serve the guests. Generosity is a habit, as are good manners. Teach them how to set up a proper tray, with cups and saucers, napkins, plates, and utensils. A child as young as three can carry cloth napkins from one room to another. Soon you’ll be able to give your children a nod when company arrives unexpectedly, and they’ll go and make the tray themselves. Think of guests as part of your home life, and soon you will be richer for the experience. Children need to see you in action, making your guests comfortable and showing them that they matter. This habit starts in the home.

  Open your home to friends.

  These days, folks eat out a lot, so the experience of fine dining is not unknown to us in general. Like you, I can remember dinner parties in the homes of friends far more than any restaurant or party room. There is something about a friend making dinner for others that is special, right from the heart.

  Lucy’s door was open to company throughout the day. Built into her workshop were two easy chairs that faced her sewing machine. She’d put down her work and enjoy a cup of coffee and a slice of sponge cake with her visitors, who dropped in regularly and unannounced. These visits brought the world outside into Lucy’s shop. Everything was discussed there, and yet kept private. If you told Lucy a secret, it went no further. Lucy made every person who came into her shop feel valuable and important. This is the first lesson of parenting that she taught me. Every child is important—every single one. And by extension of that, so is every person you meet.

  Support your child’s interests and talents.

  The basic needs of the child must be met, and just as importantly, the parent must figure out how to nurture a child’s individual voice. This enterprise is often trial and error: violins came and went at Lucy’s home, and sports across the board were played, until her son winnowed down his athletic prowess to basketball. Once my uncle’s amazing athletic talent became apparent, Lucy worked with him on the ideals of sportsmanship and fair play, leaving the development of her son’s athletic skill to the coach. To this day, when I meet men who played with my uncle, or saw him play, they comment on his manners, his sportsmanlike conduct, and his leadership under pressure. This was a credit to his mother.

  Without a father in the home, Lucy had to navigate how to raise a son by herself. Without close family nearby, she had to lay down the law, but also make her children feel they were not alone. She reached out by making herself a reliable member of the community. She stayed front and center
in business, and the good people of Chisholm provided her with an extended network of people who cared about her children and their well-being.

  The friends who were Lucy’s friends before she was a widow remained close and constant. Her children had strong male figures to look up to, and the very same men kept their father alive with stories of things that he had said, and things that they had done. The Ungaro, Sartori, Bonanti, and Latini families stayed close, and through the years, the children’s father was not forgotten but celebrated through these strong men. Lucy’s determination to provide security for her children extended to their individual needs.

  The author, center, with her brothers and sisters minus baby Francesca at Viola’s house in the late 1960s.

  Self-education is a lifelong commitment.

  Lucy went to the library regularly, until she could no longer walk there. Public libraries are the jewel of small-town life, a place to gather and exchange ideas, a place that welcomes you if you’re alone and looking to read a light, entertaining story. The Chisholm library housed various newspapers from around the world, knowing the town’s immigrant population appreciated reading their news in their native languages. There was an innate respect in American libraries for immigrants, and a sensitivity to their needs, and the families they had left behind. The public library system contributed to the ongoing education of immigrants and welcomed them wholeheartedly to pursue knowledge as part of the American way of life. My grandmother could not fathom Chisholm without a library, and wherever we live, we should not either.

  When you can, walk.

  Viola would often save her money and walk instead of taking the trolley from Pen Argyl to Bangor. From a young age, she equated physical labor with “clearing her head.” A long walk was therapeutic; her body was engaged, so her mind was free to sort through the demands of the day ahead, or to reflect upon her work on the way home. It’s good for the body and the mind, and to pass the time, Viola often repeated prayers by saying her rosary. This form of meditation soothed her, and was a habit she maintained until she died.

  Earn your place in line.

  Every summer in Roseto, Pennsylvania, the church sponsors a festival in honor of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. In the last weekend of July, a carnival and celebration culminated in the Procession, a parade of believers saying the rosary in honor of the Blessed Lady who watched over their community and protected them. Viola was a member of the Ladies’ Sodality, who were front and center in the parade, walking behind an elaborately embroidered banner with the crest of their organization sewn into the silk. The ladies of the sodality walked two by two, and occasionally mothers or grandmothers in the group would let their daughters and granddaughters walk with them, even though they weren’t members of the organization. When I grew old enough to understand, I asked Viola if I could walk with her, and she said, “No.” I brought up other girls my age who were walking with their grandmothers, and she said, “You have to earn your place in the procession.”

  I was annoyed at the time, and probably hurt, but I grew to understand the wisdom of her position. In every possible way, Viola tried to teach me that every stage of life, and every stage of commitment, has its compensation. I was not a member of the sodality, I had not done the work, so I did not deserve to go to the front of the line. Yes, I would be welcome to walk in the very back of the line with the parishioners and visitors who had no affiliation within the church, knowing that over time, it would be possible to earn my rank by hard work and contribution, if I dedicated myself to the spiritual rigors and works of mercy required to get to the front of the line, but not before. Viola wasn’t going to give me that right, I had to earn it. Viola was setting an example, and like all good grandmothers, she knew that was the most valuable thing she could do for her granddaughter, who was watching her up close and emulating aspects of her behavior.

  Let children see you do for others.

  I spent a lot of time in hot cars in summertime waiting for Viola while she visited a friend in the hospital and I wasn’t yet old enough to go in. I rode shotgun in her station wagon when she’d hand off a bag of oil pretzels to leave inside the screen door of one of her old friends who worked in the mill. I helped her count and tear raffle tickets she was selling to raise money for the school. I’d crawl up the side of an embankment on the side of the road to cut wild and free tiger lilies so she could make a vase of flowers for a friend in the hospital.

  Viola was always busy doing things that no one could see, acts of grace and charity. I almost believe she didn’t want anyone to know of her generosity, expressed in big and small ways, because it would undercut her tough reputation. Sometimes I see a pie plate on a stoop or a note on a screen door and think of her.

  Never complain about your physical ills.

  I would visit Lucy after her stroke, when she lived in Leisure Hills Health Center in Hibbing, and the ride back down to the Twin Cities in my rental car was always awful. My last visit with Lucy was more difficult than any that had come before, because she told me that she was at the end of her life. She asked me to promise her that I would not cry, that I would be happy for her sake. I asked her if she was afraid, and she said she wasn’t. “I cannot understand why God gave me such a long life.” And then she lifted her hand that had been paralyzed by the stroke with her good free hand. “Can you believe it?” she said.

  At the end of her life, Lucy died of natural causes. She had a heart issue and was in the hospital, and when she woke up, she was surprised that she was still on earth. Shortly after, she went back to Leisure Hills, and there, she decided to let go. She ate less and less, slept more and more, and eventually she passed away on her own terms, in her own way, quietly and with dignity.

  Her friends used words like “serene” when describing her. The local paper reported her as “grand.” Lucy had every reason to be angry, petty, and indifferent, because she had in many ways been cheated. The loss of her husband, and then her beloved son, who died seven years before she did (and this was a son who visited her twice a day, every day of her life), and the loss of her physical ability from the stroke, which meant she could not live alone and at home anymore, seemed like tragedies even for a woman who loved her solace. But my grandmother didn’t complain—not about the pain, and not about the loss. When I visited her, she wanted me to get out and do things. She didn’t want me to sit around with her—she wanted me to go and see things and come back and tell her about them. When I did, she would light up, relishing in every detail of my day. In a broader sense, this is what it has meant to be a writer. I go out, experience the world through characters and conversation, hopefully fetching the good stuff, the details that surprise and bind us, then bring all of it to the page. Lucy encouraged me to do the same for her.

  Perhaps Lucy didn’t complain because she didn’t want me to look at life as anything but a journey full of possibility and wonder. She wanted me to have the joy she had known, without any of the sadness, knowing that was impossible, but wishing it so nonetheless. From her, I learned the very definition of love: when you truly love someone, you want the best for them, and their happiness is more precious to you than your own. When you love someone, you are on their side and take their part, believing them and fighting for what they need.

  For Lucy, the harsh realities were not negotiable, but her reactions to them could be. She was not about to burden me or anyone else with the difficulties of what she was going through. She took her elderly years one day at a time, but it was not easy. That was her road, and she could handle it alone, as she had all the loss in her life. Lucy was not defined by that sadness; having lived it, it belonged to her. She walked with it, made peace with it, and eventually she was even free to let it go. She certainly had no intention of sharing those burdens with me. She wanted more for me, better for me. But what she could never know, even though I tried to tell her, was that I was better for having known and loved her. She lit up when I came into a room, but my heart burst just as full at the sight of her
. I hope I see her again.

  Chapter Ten

  Belief

  Lucy’s twin daughters Ida and Irma on their First Holy Communion.

  Just a Dream

  Dreams were fascinating to my grandmothers and to me. We discussed them and analyzed them. Of particular interest were the dreams that included visits from those who had died. In fact, after the proper period of mourning a loved one has elapsed, the first question I ask is, “Has she visited you?” Or, “Has he?”

  One of Lucy’s most poignant losses was that of her mother. Lucy had left Italy at the age of seventeen, with the hope of returning home to Italy in a year or so. She sadly never returned, and she never saw her mother again. But one autumn night, October 3, 1950, asleep in her bed in Chisholm, she had a vivid dream in which her mother appeared to her at the bottom of the stairs of 5 West Lake Street. The dream was so clear that Lucy sprang out of bed and ran down the stairs, thrilled to embrace her mother. When she realized it was just a dream, she went back to bed. The next day, her brother called, informing her that her mother, Giacomina Grassi Spada, had died in Schilpario. The grief that consumed Lucy stayed with her for the rest of her life.

  Viola shared a similar experience. One winter night in 1929, Viola was preparing to go to a dance in town with her sister. Her mother had been coughing, but they assumed it was nothing serious. It was bitter cold and snowing outside, but Viola insisted she was going to the dance. She had a new purple drop-waisted dress that she couldn’t wait to debut. Viola loved Saturday nights; the band, the beaus, and the respite from her working world in the factory. Viola could be glamorous and gay and full of fun when she was off the clock. She and her sister set out for the trolley to go into town. Viola was twenty-two years old.