Monday, December 26, 2022

Take me, take me, take me but not my precious little Squash

Editors' note: This piece is taken from the memoir that I am writing about my ancestors. Called "Angels Keep Whispering in My Ears," it is a story of and for my family. This particular piece imagines what it was like for my great great grandmother, Filomena Scrivano, who was unwed and pregnant, to deliver her son, my great grandfather, Pasquale, on November 3, 1870. All we know is that he was taken from his mother shortly after his birth and raised by another woman in the village of Paola, in Cosenza, in southern Italy. Pasquale was lucky -- he survived! According to research by a Brown University historian, a whopping 93 percent of illegitimate babies born in Cosenza in 1870 perished in foundling homes where disease and malnutrition were rampant.

Oh but why? And how? How could she, my dearest friend Annunziatta, how could she betray me so, how could she do to me what she did? Rip him from my arms, my eyes pouring tears while my breasts were leaking milk. Why didn't she take my life instead of taking him away? She might just as well have slayed me with a bread knife. Because I cannot possibly go on without him, my baby, my own flesh? Dear God, how can I possibly live without part of my body? Mio dio, come posso vivere senza una parta del mio corpo?

I've been crying for days now, crying and then sleeping, because I am empty, scared, scoured out, now that he is gone. I begged for more time, just a few more moments to hold his tiny head, still bloody around his neck and ears, crying he was crying too, I begged her, please, per piacere, Nunzi, per piacere!There he lay on my bloody stomach, I pulled him up to my breasts, he rested there, crying, his arms flying to each side, his face a little wrinkled squash, his eyes slits, his black black hair standing up there like a dark brush. I lifted him to my breast and his mouth opened and he took my nipple. He suckled! And one of his hands reached for me and we held hands, his tiny fingers entwined with mine, it was something I will never forget...

Or the pain, the long, long afternoon of pain. It started in Annunziata's kitchen, I was rocking there near the fire, it being a cold November morning. Annunziata made a cup of chicken and rice soup, thin broth, but so good "good food for a mother," --buon cibo per una madre-- Annunziata said, and then she apologized because she knows, she knew all too well what was in store for me. We had made the arrangements with the priest, devil that he is! In cahoots with the municipal madmen. For me and my precious baby, this is a pact from hell! How many times I have imagined the birth, I was terrified, scared of the pain, but worse, I knew that as soon as the baby came, they would swipe it away.

But somehow that day, when the pains started, all I could think about was me and my baby surviving. The cramps below my belly started in a gentle way right after lunch, Annunziata had gone out for something and I was sweeping the stone floor, I bent over to pick up the crumbs, and there, a dagger sliced across my insides. I caught my breath at the squeeze of pain -- una stretta di dolore. It felt almost as if someone was tightening a burning rope across my gut. I held my hand beneath my swollen womb, I felt a foot, a heel or an elbow poking into my housedress.

The next pain took my breath away completely, I dropped the broom and landed in the kitchen chair, I fell forward, I tried to massage my belly, I shoved my hand into the fiercely tight wall of agony and I cried out. Now it was a steel rope that tied me up and it just got tighter and tighter. Panting, panting, I stood and leaned against the wall and waited till it passed. Finally, it subsided, I stood, shaking, and there on the floor out spilled my water. I caught myself around my bottom, as if somehow I could stop what was coming forth. Walking ever so slowly, I moved out of the kitchen. I found a shawl hanging on a peg and I wrapped it tight around my shoulders. I knew it was time. I kept walking slowly, dripping water, I entered Annunziata's bedroom and lay down. I prayed that she would return.

I tried to breathe steady, that's what she had said, to breathe steady when the pains came. But I was alone and I panicked, I felt the baby's head low in my womb, I feared that I would be alone when the baby appeared.

Wrenched with pains that came closer and closer, I felt my lunch coming up my throat. I lifted myself to my elbows and turned my head to one side and out came the soup and rice. I tried resting on my elbows but another pain was starting and it pulled me apart, squeezing my insides like a metal vise. Twisting tighter and tighter!!! I prayed out loud, I yelled as loud as I could begging that the Lord might spare me more pain.

By the time she came, I had stripped off my underclothes, and I lay with my bare legs parted on the bed.

"OH MIO CARO FILO, STAI BENE? OH MY DEAR FILO ARE YOU ALRIGHT??" Annunziata was back, she had heard me. Clearly I was not all right! Throwing her shawl aside, and rolling up her sleeves, she hurried to my side and pressed both of her hands into my own. I started to cry, and I was trying to tell her how much it hurt but she quieted me and let go of my hands and took hold of my wet and sweaty face.

"Listen to me Filo," she said, "look into my eyes: now we breathe together when the pain comes!" And of course the pain descended again a few seconds later, the pains were coming more and more quickly. She breathed with me, she slowed me down but that did nothing to ease the agony that was my womb.

Two other women from the village appeared not long after, apparently, Annunziata had gone to ask two neighbors to come help her with the birth. She put them to work boiling a kettle of water and ripping a sheet into rags.

What I went through for the next however long it was can only be described as hell itself splitting me right down the middle. When it came time, and Nunzi yelled, "Now PUSH FILO PUSH! I had the sensation that the whole wide world was splitting me apart, that the baby was a ball, a cannon ball exploding out of me!
It felt like an eternity, but later, after it was over, Annunziata and the other two, Maria and Gina, offered congratulations to me on such a quick delivery -- "un parto cosi veloce!"

"Only four hours, Filo," Nunzi said, leaning close to my head. "Only four hours for your first baby. That is a miracle!" And maybe because she said, "MY first baby," I thought for a moment, and yes, I thought, "it is MY FIRST BABY," he is mine and nobody else's. The baby was on my belly by this time and I lay both hands on his back and that's when Annuziata got it into her head to whisper in my ear: "My dear Filo, you know this baby has to go. You know that! We must take him now!"

I turned away from her and that's when I pulled him up to my breast.

And perhaps because he was nursing so enthusiastically, and night had fallen, all dark and cold, Annunziata agreed that he could stay with me through the night. He nursed and fell asleep, and nursed and fell asleep and then at one point we both fell asleep and Annunziata must have taken him from me then because the next thing I know I was waking up and the sky was a light pink. At first I couldn't think -- what had happened, where was I? And then of course I knew and sat up feeling the pain in my womb. "NUNZI BRING HIM TO ME!!!" And she did. She said not a word. She let me nurse him for a long time on each side, and I burped him, a good healthy burp, and at that, Nunzi stood. "We must not wait another moment," she said, her voice low. "He goes now!" And she whisked him, naked except for a diaper, into her arms.
And now I look down at my blouse and two wet spots are my breasts leaking milk, three days later, the spots are growing wider and wider, my nipples are waiting for a mouth that will never come back to me. I crave the little squash who grew inside me for nine months. I crave him but mio dio it is not to be.

Annunziata -- I thought she was my friend but in the end she was the one to steal the baby away from me. "But why?" I pleaded with her that day. "Ma perche?"

"Perche, Filomena, non abbiamo scelta!" (Because, Filomena, we have no choice!) Annunziata was wrapping him in a tight swaddle --la fascia -- a long white wrap of cotton that keeps the baby still. And over him she placed a jet black blanket. "Filo," she whispered to me, lifting him to her chest, "We have no choice but to hand the baby over. They know you were pregnant so there is no getting away. Where would you go? Who would help you? The church is everywhere a demon when it comes to an unmarried mother, every priest seems to have his radar!"

I lay back on the bed. Covered my head with both arms. Squeezed my eyes shut and then all of a sudden I let out a blood-curdling scream! I screamed and my shrieking filled the room.


Annunziata lifted one hand as if to strike me. And then, shaking her head, she lowered my infant, my own flesh, into my arms and I stared into his dark fathomless eyes. He was so alert, I thought, does he realize who I am, does he know he has to go? Suddenly, he too let out a blood-curdlng scream, and with that Annunziata stole him back from me and hurried out the door.

I lay there, tears pouring out wetting my pillow, I didn't know how I was going to get through another moment, let alone another day.

And here I lay, still broken in two.

Thursday, December 22, 2022

Reading List

I just love finding a novel that sizzles from the first page. I just love falling deeply into the world of that novel and reading slowly so that the book experience lasts!

Here are some books I have enjoyed a lot -- or not so much:

1) Tasting Sunlight, by Ewald Arenz. This is the story of an amazing and unusual friendship which arises between two women. It is a beautifully-written novel, and it will warm your heart.



2) The Oleander Girl, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, is the story of a young Indian woman who is poised to marry until she discovers a heart-breaking reality about her life, setting her off on a journey of discovery. This is the type of book I most love: a poetic page-turner! You can relish the language while you hold your breath waiting to see what happens next!

3) Winter Wheat, by Mildred Walker

Published in 1944, this is, as one reviewer noted, "a classic novel of the American West." And -- with two of my grown children, my son-in-law, and my grandson, Monte, living in Colorado -- that's one reason I loved it. I loved being in the West, in this case, Montana.

But that's just one reason I loved this book. Mildred Walker, a native of Montana who wrote several books from that state, is a writing weaver, knotting highly lyrical language into her deft prose. Consider the first paragraph: "September is like a quiet day after a whole week of wind. I mean real wind that blows dirt into your eyes and hair and between your teeth and roars in your ears after you've gone inside. The harvesting is done and the wheat stored away and you're through worrying about hail or drought or grasshoppers. The fields have a tired, peaceful look, the way I imagine a mother feels when she's had her baby and she is just lying there thinking about it and feeling pleased."

This book immerses you in wheat growing. You feel that dirt in your eyes and hair and between your teeth. You feel the wheat between your fingers! And you feel through and through the life experiences and psychological ups and downs of the first-person protagonist, Ellen Webb. Do yourself a favor and read this classic! (Wow, I'm starting to sound like the literature professor I used to be!)

4) The Winged Bull, by Dion Fortune

This work of fiction, published in 1935, is the work of a woman who is deeply respected for her knowledge of subjects related to occultism, mysticism and esoteric psychology. The story focuses on ex-infantry Lieutenant Ted Murchison, who comes under the influence of his former Commanding Officer Alick Brangwyn. The adventure that ensues is unique and thought-provoking. I highly recommend you try this book for its characterization and also, what it reveals about the esoteric arts. Dion Fortune is perhaps best known and respected for her book called The Mystical Qabalah.

5)The Oracle of Stamboul,by Michael David Lukas

A debut novel, this book -- magical and magnficently written -- sweeps you up in the charming story of a young girl who ends up as a confidante and advisor of the sultan of the Ottoman Empire in 1877. This book is such an impressive work, particulary for a young writer. It too has poetry melted into the prose. Anyone who knows me knows that I try to wrap my storytelling in poetic language, and hats off to Michael David Lukas for doing such an amazing job, while also telling what amounts to a historical fairytale!

6) Hell of a Book, by Jason Mott

Winner of the 2021 National Book Award

A mix of fantasy, meta-fiction and intertwining narratives, this novel is a wildly creative exploration of the tragedy that is America's legacy of racism. As the stories proceed, they gather speed and intensity displaying an all too familiar portrait of what it means to be black in the U.S.

7)Maison Cristina, by Eugene K. Garber

Author Eugene Garber – a master wordsmith who I am privileged to know as a former professor and endlessly creative writing colleague -- has created a fascinating story about a character named Peter Naughton, who has an endless gift for words and storytelling and an uncanny ability to project complex and compelling visual images on every imaginable surface. Naughton is committed to the Maison – a so-called “lunatic asylum”-- by his son. But with the encouragement of a deeply caring and insightful nun who helps run the place, Naughton quickly shifts from patient to practitioner – telling dark and winding tales to fellow patient Charlene, whose earlier psychosexual trauma has left her wide-eyed and catatonic. Naughton's redemptive journey is cleverly intertwined with Charlene's. This book pays deep homage to the power of stories to heal and to transform, but it leaves the reader plenty of room to pose myriad questions, including what does it mean to sin, to love, to be truthful, to be mentally fit and perhaps most importantly, to be free.

8) The Eight Mountains, by Paolo Cognetti. Translated from Italian, this novel appealed in part because it is a story of mountains and mountain life and people. It is also the story of a long friendship between a man of the mountains and a man who divides his time between the mountains and a metropolis. As one reviewer noted, the author's "true achievement is understanding mountains' perpetual hold both on those who never leave and those who do."

9) The Kinship of Secrets, By Eugenia Kim. Inspired by a true story, this novel follows the lives of two Korean sisters, separated after the parents take one sister to the United States in 1948 in search of new opportunities. After war breaks out in Korea, the separation goes on and on. One sister, Miran, is raised in the prosperous American suburbs, while Inja, the daughter left behind, grapples in a war-torn land. The story begs for a reunion between the sisters but is it possible?

10) The Invention of Wings, by Sue Monk Kidd. Kidd's novel is a fictionalized account of the lives of the Grimke sisters, Sarah and Angelina, who forge leadership in the abolitionist and women's rights movements. As the NPR review notes, "Kidd has fleshed out mountains of research -- facts, figures, dates, letters, and articles -- into a believable and elegantly rendered" work of fiction. Like this reviewer, I had never heard of the Grimke sisters before this book, and it is with deep gratitude to the author that I recommend her novel.

11) This Must Be the Place, by Maggie O'Farrell. Narrators switch to tell this lively story of a couple, Daniel and Claudette, living in a remote part of Ireland; Daniel's voice in chapter one sweeps you right into the story revealing a secret that carries you throughout!

12) The Vanishing of Esme Lennox, by Maggie O'Farrell a fabulous story told in short impressionistic sections; the story is immensely interesting and found myself flying through the pages. The ending surprises in a thoughtful way. This book makes me think of Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, and that's quite a stunning book too.

13) The Queen of Dreams, a daughter tries to understand her mother's ability to parse dreams.

14) The Henna Artist, first in The Jaipur Trilogy, by Alka Joshi, a lively story set in Jaipur, India, about a woman who leaves her husband and becomes a henna artist, doing designs on the bodies of wealthy women.

15) Secret Keeper of Jaipur, second in the trilogy by Alka Joshi, the story picks up after Lakshmi Shastri has married an Indian doctor and moved to Shimla and become a healer in a community clinic.

16) The Sweet Taste of Muscadines: A Novel, by Pamela Terry. I picked up this novel and just loved the opening, but as it was labeled "Women's Fiction," in Bookbubs (where I get a lot of recommendations for what I read) I wasn't sure I would like the whole read. I need not have worried because Pamela Terry is a consummate storyteller and the tale she weaves about three children who lose their mother and return to the small Southern town where they were raised doesn't fail to disappoint. The narrative voice is smart and sassy and carries you along at a fast clip. I highly recommend this read!

17) The Storyteller's Death, by Ann Davila Cardinal, a lovely coming of age story in which the narrator, Isla, inherits the Sanchez family's gift for telling stories. Set in Puerto Rico (where the narrator spends every summer), the story is propelled by successive visions that the narrator experiences after successive elderly relatives -- cuentistas (storytellers)-- die. There is mystery and romance and youthful rebellion in this well-told tale, and the story brought a few tears at the end!!!

18) One Amazing Thing, by Maggie O'Farrell. I made it through half of this novel but decided it was just too depressing to finish. The book follows about a dozen individuals trapped by an earthquake. The premise of the book is that each person will tell a redeeming story about his or her life. Earthquakes are way too much in the news right now to want to immerse myself in one that's fictitious.



19) The Island of the Sea Women, by Lisa See. An extraordinary epic tale of the Haenyeo female divers of Jeju Island, a province of South Korea. Women have been diving for shellfish for more than 1700 years on Jeju, feeding their families in a strict matriarchy. The book follows the life of Young-sook and her family, and her relationship with another diver, whose family collaborated with Japanese invaders. The history of Jeju is heartbreaking, and Lisa See does an amazing job of drawing you into the lives of one group of divers. I highly recommend this book!

20) Transcendent Kingdom, by Yaa Gyasi. A novel by a Ghanaian American writer whose debut novel, Homegoing, was highly praised and award-winning. In the new book, Ghanaian American narrator Gifty tries to sort out how religion and science have informed her life, and the terrible tragedy which befalls her family. The author came to this country with her family from Ghana when she was a child. In the novel, the family's origin is Ghana, but the family is split, and the sadness in this book never ends. Nicely written, but don't read this book looking for spiritual uplift.

21) I'm Not Scared, by Niccolo Ammaniti. Translated from the Italian, this book reads very poetically and perfectly captures the voice and thoughts and moods of a young boy, confronting his friends and his parents and life's ordinary challenges. But just about half-way through the book, the horrorifying crime his father and his cronies have committed emerges. It turned my stomach and so I am here to say I cannot recommend this novel by Ammaniti, who is, according to The New Yorker, "one of Italy's most acclaimed younger writers."

22) Memphis, by Tara M. Stringfellow, a multigenerational story that hovers around Miriam and her two daughters, Joan and Mya, who flee the abusive husband/father, Jax. The book is a tapestry of voices, weaving in the stories of Miriam's mother, Hazel, and grandmother, Della. This is a heartfelt book, the writing often very poetic.

23) Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard,by Kiran Desai, a mischievous tale about a sensitive and rather detached young man named Sampath who climbs a tree and becomes a popular guru. Ultimately, though, his own father leads a campaign to exploit his popularity; that combined with a band of raucous -- ad alcoholic -- monkeys in the trees cause chaos throughout the larger community. The writer must have smiled while writing this book, which frames social ills in symbolic ways. This is a charming read but it's the kind of novel that is fundamentally cynical about everything including spiritual pursuits; it feels like it keeps me at arm's length, and thus, isn't completely satisfying.
24) John Woman, by Walter Mosley, who is a fabulous writer. Part One of this novel had me in its clutches but I totally lost interest in Part Two, after Cornelius transforms himself into an academic who deconstructs the study of history. Sometimes I think I'm not patient enough with books, but I found the writing bogged down with way too much needless description. The character, meanwhile, takes a sexist view of every female he meets.

25) At the Edge of the Orchard, by Tracy Chevalier is an incredibly powerful story, told in novel that unfolds in a fascinating way. It begins in the Spring of 1838 in the Black Swamp of Ohio, where the Goodenough family, originally from Connecticut (and before that, England) has settled. Tension runs high in this family -- the husband and wife are at sharp odds. James Goodenough loves apple trees, especially the Pippins that came with him from England. His wife, Sadie, hates the orchard he is trying to cultivate, but welcomes hard cider and anything alcoholic. At a certain point, the book goes fast forward in time, following the life of the oldest son, Robert Goodenough. And then, after a few decades following Robert on his adventures out West, the action switches back to the Fall of 1838 to deliver some hardhitting scenes. The culmination of the book is fascinating, and completely memorable. Trace Chevalier, author of the international best seller, Girl with the Pearl Earring deserves all the many accolades she gets. 26) Small Fry, by Lisa Brennan-Jobs, a wonderful coming-of-age story by the daughter of Apple founder Steve Jobs. Beautifully written and so often poetic, the book captures in great detail the life of a girl who struggled so valiantly to gain acceptance and love from her famous father.

27) People of the Book, by Geraldine Brooks, a very special manuscript called the Sarajevo Haggadah, created in 15th century Spain, must be conserved by an Australian rare-book expert. "Inspired by a true story, People of the Book is a novel of sweeping historical grandeur and intimate emotional intensity by an acclaimed and beloved author," says Bookshop.org.

28) The Last Runaway, by Tracy Chevalier is a wonderful story about a Quaker woman who leaves England in 1850 to come to America with her sister. Honor Bright ends up alone, living with strangers in Ohio, where she confronts the realities of slavery and becomes involved with the Underground Railroad. I highly recommend this novel; characters are well drawn and interesting and the story line is compelling while also revealing an important era in American history.

29) Gardens in the Dunes, by Leslie Marmon Silko, such a rich and beautifully written novel about two Native American sisters who are separated, and their journeys back to each other. At the heart of the story is young Indigo, who is part of the Sand Lizard people. A friend who recommended the book described it as a Victorian story turned upside down to focus on a person of color. The writing is very poetic and the author's knowledge about all things growing is absolutely astounding. A review in the NY Times criticized the book for having too many causes and axes to grind. I didn't mind that at all, especially the strongly feminist focus. Definitely give this book a read!

30) The Family Izquierdo, by Ruben Degollado, is a novel told as a cluster of interrelated stories. It deals with the fallout after a Mexican American family is cursed by a deeply envious neighbor. The elder of the family has a nervous breakdown, and other family members also suffer from dysfunction. The author freely uses Spanish words, so I frequently consulted a dictionary as I read. The characters are rich and compelling, and the storytelling is good, but the many descriptions of family life are tinged with lots and lots of sadness.

31) The Night Watchman, by Louise Erdrich, a fabulous novel about the author's grandfather, who helped fight an effort an attempt to dispossess Native tribes from rural North Dakota. Erdrich's grandfather took the fight all the way to Washington, D.C.

32) Exit West, by Mohsin Hamid, a well written "fantasy" (of sorts) about two young people from an unknown Muslim state, Nadia and Saeed, who fall in love and decide to flee from the country plagued by war. Tried reading this during the period when Hamas invaded Israel, and Israel retaliated. Had to stop reading!

33) The Engineer's Wife,by Tracey Enerson Wood, a novel that tells the true story of Emily Warren Roebling, the woman who was instrumental in guiding the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge. A good and entertaining read, this book needs to be read, and Emily Roebling's story is an important one that needs to be heard.

34) The Last Crossing, by Guy Vanderhaeghe, a masterfully written saga of the North American West, but unfortuately, because of its brutal grittiness, it just wasn't for me.

35) Rescuing Riley, Saving Myself, by Zachary Anderegg, a wonderful (true) story about a courageous man who goes to extraordinary lengths to save a young dog's life. There is no putting this book down, and when you're done, you are cheering for Zachary and Riley, who end up saving each other.

36) Sea of Tranquility, by Emily St. John Mandel, what a romp this book is. The first chapters are so gripping, and so inventive and unexpected. The author is a gifted storyteller, but the novel is a short sci-fi, heavily plot driven. The characters lack depth, and I found there wasn't a single one that I could identify with (or care about.)

37) The Far Field, by Madhuri Vijay, a very impressive debut novel by an Indian writer from Bangalore. The story follows a troubled young woman whose mother, who appears to be bipolar, sets her up for failure. I found the early part of the book rather uninteresting, but by half-way through, I was hooked. Ultimately, though, I found that I lost patience with the narrator's endless naivite about the effects of her behavior on others, specifically those individuals she meets in the troubled region of Kashimir, where she goes in search of a man who befriended her mother.

38) Early Warning, by Jane Smiley, presents a story that is organized by dates, starting with 1953 and ending up in 1986. The novel lays out the intertwined stories of a host of characters in one family. Smiley is a good writer, and a great storyteller, but several times during this nearly 500-page tome, I asked myself why I was bothering to read the book. I didn't love or particularly cotton to any of the characters. Several of them were rather sad, or worse. That being said, Smiley creates a very believable world, backdropped by some of the most important events of the period, namely the Cold war and the War in Vietnam.

39) A Peculiar Grace, by Jeffrey Lent, tells the story of a middle-aged man who at the start of the book is still yearning for the love of his life he hasn't seen in 20 years. Beautifully written, this novel has a very strong character at its core, but I found myself disliking him for the first half of the book. I warmed up to him eventually but later was disappointed with the way the book resolved.

40) Belleweather, by Susanna Kearsley, a novel with a double narrative, the modern story told in the first person (a woman named Charley), and one set in 1759 during the Seven Years War. The stories are intertwined, and revolve around a New York colonial house and the Wilde family dynasty in Long Island. Two love stories are woven into the stories. It's a good read overall, but the author's resolution of the two stories feels truncated.

41) Buddha in the Attic, by Julie Otsuka, a story about the Japanese women who came to California in the 19th century. This book is written in a very interesting style; there are no individual characters. Details accrue about the group as a whole.

42) Time Present and Time Past, by Dierdre Madden, a finalist for the Orange Prize, this short novel tells the tale of a man who has lost his grip on time. The characters are well drawn and the plot is interesting enough, however I ultimately found the book a bit disappointing, as it promised to deliver insights on the nature of time, and it didn't in the end deliver them.

43) Americanah, by Chimanda Ngozi Adichie, a very gripping story about a young Nigerian woman who comes to the US and ends up living there for 15 years. The book takes you through her love affairs, because it is a love story, but also spends lots of time on matters of race in the U.S. The narrator, Ifemelu, is a writer who starts a blog, offering an African perspective on the plight of African Americans.

44) The Pumpkin Eater, by Penelope Mortimer. An early feminist, Mortimer writes a story in the first person about a woman with a slew of children (she never says how many) and a rather unsupportive husband (it's her third marriage.) I found the story less than fascinating, but the voice of the narrator carried me steadily along.

45) East of the Sun, by Julia Gregson, a romance that takes its time to lay out a relationship between a doctor and a young woman named Viva who has lost all her family, and her ability to enjoy life and be open with other people. The book starts as Viva is about to accompany two young women and one troubled young man on an ocean liner sailing from London to India. The three women are the principal characters, and each of them finds love or at least marriage. I love books set in India and this one delivered lots of lively scenes.

46) A Tale for the Time Being, by Ruth Ozeki, a truly fantastic novel that combines a variety of voices into a luminous whole. A 16-year old Japanese girl writes a diary that is found on the beach in the Pacific northwest by a writer who is fighting writer's block. The diary tells the story of the girl's father, who is trying to commit suicide after losing his job. It also tells the story of the girl's great grandmother, a Buddhist nun, (Ozeki is a Buddhist) and the girl's great uncle, who was part of a suicide air squad in Japan during WWII.

47) The Forty Rules of Love, by Elif Shafak, a magical novel that tells the story of Shams, a 13th century dervish who converts Rumi from an academic into a poet; the story highlights the battle between the Sufis and the conservative Islamic empire. A tale within a tale, the story is being read by a modern woman who is fed up with her husband and her life as a housewife. She flees the marriage to be with the author of the book. All this captures the the longing for love and intimacy, as well as a connection to the divine.

48) Bread Upon the Waters, by Irwin Shaw, is a story about a family that opens up to a wealthy man who can make all kinds of wonderful things happen for them. The problem is that by the end, the family isn't very happy. Irwin Shaw was a prolific playwright, screenwriter, novelist and short story writer. He is best known for his book, Rich Man, Poor Man

49) The Spanish Daughter, by Lorena Hughes, is a historical novel 50) Sula, by Toni Morrison, one of my all-time favorites of Morrison's. The anti-hero of this bold novel, Sula Peace, is anything but peaceful. She wreaks havoc with her wanton ways, and raises all kinds of intriguing questions about the nature of good and evil. I taught this book countless times while on faculty at the University at Albany, where, ironically, Morrison was a visiting professor in the 1980s when I first began working on campus.

Friday, December 16, 2022

MOM and the MIRACLE of the Orchids!!!

March 21, 2020

Dear Mom --

HOW DO I EXPLAIN WHAT HAPPENED THIS MORNING? DO I CALL THESE MIRACLES?

COVID has closed everything down, including of course Hevreh of Southern Berkshire, our wonderful synagogue in Great Barrington, MA.

It being Saturday morning, I wanted to connect to a Shabbat service. A friend encouraged me to ZOOM into her temple's service. I was excited. I even donned my
purple prayer shawl.

All kinds of sunshine was pouring from the sky and falling gently on my keyboard.

To say the service was chaotic does not begin to describe what was happening on the Zoom screen this morning. Having dozens of people trying to sing prayers together at the same moment wasn't working at all!

I was more than a little bored, so I began scrolling through some old word files and suddenly I came upon a word file called

‘OH SPRING1”

which originally contained a poem I wrote for a magazine called EDIBLE BERKSHIRES.

BUT SOMEHOW THE POEM HAD DISAPPEARED.

INSTEAD THE FILE CONTAINED QUITE AMAZINGLY A BIRTHDAY GREETING THAT I WROTE TO YOU, MOM, ON March 30, 2013!!!

YOU BEING DENA CLEMINTINA RICCI, AND IT BEING

YOUR 87TH BIRTHDAY.

How can this possibly be, I asked myself. How can a letter I wrote in March of 1987 suddenly appear in March of 2020 under a different file name? But really, I shouldn't be altogether surprised.

STRANGE THINGS LIKE THIS KEEP HAPPENING. Ever since I started writing this book about my ancestors, time keeps collapsing! It's today and then it's yesterday and then it's tomorrow!!

But Mom, help me! Should I call these events COINCIDENCES? MIRACLES? SYNCHRONICITIES?

They are all certainly very weird things that I cannot explain. MY SPIRITUAL TEACHER MARY M SAYS IT’S TIME I’M WILLING TO ACCEPT THE FACT THAT THESE MIRACLES KEEP OCCURRING. It's time I start keeping track of them.

And as Peg, my forever writing buddy says, maybe I could make sense of all this by writing letters!

Okay, back to Saturday.

As I was sitting there puzzling over the disappearance of my poem, my husband walked into my study.

"Going to the grocery store so wish me luck," he said. This was his first visit to the grocery story since Covid crashlanded.

I turned to him. "Hey honey, would you buy me a small purple orchid," I begged. Not that I need another orchid. My kitchen counter has seven already.

He chuckled. "Honey, I have all I can do to buy food in these COVID times. You can do without another orchid."

He left and then I turned back to the birthday greeting that I had written mom back in 2013.

Imagine my shock when I read this:

"Dear Mom,

Today is your 87th birthday.

When you turn 87, there aren't a whole lot of birthday presents one can buy.

You want health and happiness for

Yourself and all of those

You love

Orchids.

The one I bought you a year

A few months ago

all the blossoms

had disappeared

and Dad said, let's

get rid of

that plant it's just three bare sticks.

But no, Mom,

despite your vision issues,

you saw something

tiny and green budding there

on one of those bare branches

something wonderful

four or five new pink blossoms appeared!

So eager you were to visit

the sun room

each morning

each week, on Tuesday,

you put two ice cubes in the pot

not a drop more water.

You were just adorable

caring for your orchid.

So today, your day, it

wasn't difficult to know

what to buy you

I ought to get my mother

another orchid I said

so

I did.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!

We Love You So Much,

Claud ***** I ASKED RICH FOR ORCHIDS AND HE DIDN'T WANT TO BUY ONE BUT MOM BROUGHT THEM TO ME INSTEAD. SO OKAY MOM YOU ARE SENDING ME SIGNS AND I HAVE FINALLY STOPPED DOUBTING IT. I'm going to do what Mary says: record all the miracles that are happening to me all the time!

Thursday, December 15, 2022

More Mystery, More Monte!

Dear Monte -- I look up and the morning sun is crawling up the hillside that
I stare at from my grey sofa, where I sit to do so much of my writing.
And in a flash of memory THAT IS JUST LIKE LIGHT ITSELF, EPHEMERAL AND FLEETING, I fly back several decades to so many, many dinners with my Grandma Mish's delicious food. They feel so close, these memories. IT'S LIKE YESTERDAY IT'S LIKE TODAY IT'S LIKE TIME DOESN'T EXIST EXCEPT IN GIANT REPEATING SPIRALS!

SO, what I remember best are Grandma Mish's tender meatballs, and her absolutely mouth-watering ravioli -- homemade pasta as delicate as clouds! The ravioli would puff up like tiny yellow pillows in the bubbling water and then they would melt in your mouth, the delicious spinach and hamburger inside, all smothered in her luscious tomato sauce.

When I was pregnant with Ronen and Dani's mom, your Auntie Jocelyn, I was way too nauseous to eat very much. But the days I visited Grandma Mish, I would devour a plate full of ravioli covered in Mish's delicious spaghetti sauce, oh no problem.

I also remember Grandma Mish's pillowy soft bosom. I remember her holding a large crusty loaf of her homemade bread tight up against her breast and setting the knife going toward herself and all of us sitting at the dinner table holding our breath, would she cut herself, but no, she simply sawed off a slice of bread that was heavenly fresh and absolutely amazing, toasted crisp -- with delicious burnt edges -- in the toaster.

HOW CAN IT BE THAT IT SEEMS LIKE GRANDMA MISH AND GRANDPA "POP" CLAUDE --FOR WHOM I WAS NAMED-- ARE RIGHT HERE BESIDE ME AS I STARE AT PHOTOS OF MY DARLING MONTE???
sitting as they always did in their tiny living room in Canton, Connecticut. Each of them had an easy chair. They were always just there, waiting for family members to visit their tidy little house. Grandpa always had a small glass of red wine in his hand and his lips were slightly reddened too.

I was in my 30s when I brought each of my children -- your Auntie Jocelyn and your mom Lindsay and your Uncle Noah -- to see my dear grandparents who I adored. I brought my babies when they were just a few weeks older than you are now. Oh how excited Mish and Pop were to see their great grandchildren.

Oh how incredible it was to fly to Denver last week to see you with my two eyes and hold you with my two arms!

You are so so tiny. Your face and hands are miniature. I look at you and this it what goes through my mind:
One day you weren't here. And then, the next, you were! As granddaughter Dani asks, "How do you make a person?" How amazing that people come to be. What a mystery babies are. How amazing that my own children, those same great grandchildren I brought to see Mish and Pop swaddled in cotton baby blankets, are themselves in their 30s, having babies! Like I said, time is water right now, and I am swimming in an ocean of love that washes back and forth across my heart! It's especially easy to stream backward and forward in time, now that I have my birthday present from your Mom and her sibs: a digital photo frame into which you can load an infinite number of photographs! The photos come up in a dizzying array of timeframes. People we love. Places we've been. And I am loading like crazy, enjoying memories of hikes in Breckenridge and Telluride and Carbondale and Crested Butte, Colorado, and the Red Rocks, only 20 minutes from Denver, where your grandfather and I hiked last week while visiting you!
Here is a photo of the San Juans, which we took on our way to Telluride in October:
as We've hiked as well in the Sierras of California, and of course, in our beloved Berkshires too.

I WILL STOP NOW. AND SLOWLY, take another breath. And close my eyes, as the sun falls behind the hillside outdoors here in Massachusetts, and I feel the deepest gratitude for all of my incredible blessings.

But before I stop, here's one more amazing coincidence: Your mom kept saying that she might give birth to you on my birthday, November 29th. Well, the funny thing is she did give birth to you on my birthday, because just like you, I too was born on the Saturday after Thanksgiving in the wee DARK HOURS of the morning! I too was born in a hurry, like you were. I smile thinking that we share this connections!

And just one more. My mom, Dena Rotondo Ricci, made a scrapbook for me when I was younger and the first page has my birth certificate.

And guess what?

You weighed in at a healthy 7 pounds, 3.5 ounces.

And me, I weighed

7 pounds 3 ounces.

Hey! Aren't we a wonderful pair!!!!

Friday, December 02, 2022

MONTE -- THE MAN OF THE MONTAGNE!!!!

Dear Monte -- it is 3:31 p.m. on Saturday, November 26, 2022, and you are barely 12 hours old! Can you see me smiling? My face feels like it's fixed in a permanent grin. Me? Who am I? According to your Uncle Evan (cousin Ronen and Dani's father) I am "GMA x 3" (Gma with three grandchildren) or as I prefer to call myself "Gmax3."

You and your cousins fill my heart with immense joy.

OK, that's putting it mildly.

I am wildly in love with you, you brand new little man! I am wildly in love with your cousins too. As I said to someone this morning, my heart feels like it's going to BUST APART WITH LOVE!!!! Just like this lady in the painting I did so many years ago, a painting I call "A Woman Madly Chasing Her [Busted] Heart." The painting that appears, oddly enough, on the novel I am publishing, quite coincidentally, the same week that you are born!!!



I realize that great forces of biology are at work. Somehow we are programmed to procreate. In this way, you, baby M, will carry me forward, into a future I will never see. But as I wrote recently, that idea doesn't scare me, the idea of someday passing into the Great Beyond. In fact, when I wrote my last blogpost, I said that I was delighted to realize that because of my grandchildren, I am an ancestor in the making!

But don't worry, I'm hoping there is plenty more time before I actually pass into the realm of ancestorhood!

*****

It was 6:30 in the morning -- pitch black -- when my cell phone rang. I sprang up, saw your mommy's name on my phone and I panicked. You weren't due for another nine days, was something wrong? After all, your mom took that gigantic fall onto the cement sidewalk just a week or so ago. But no, there most certainly was nothing wrong! There on the phone was your mom and dad, looking exhausted and elated, and there was you! YOU! Bundled into a blanket! You Monte came rushing into the world in a big hurry, you certainly did! And now it's a few days later and my head is still spinning. A brand new baby, a book, and a big birthday all in one week. No wonder my head is a "squash," as your great grandmother Dena used to say. I sit here thinking, THIS IS TODAY AND THIS IS LAST WEEK AND THIS IS 70 YEARS IN THE PAST AND THIS IS TOMORROW AND THIS IS 70 YEARS FROM NOW INTO THE FUTURE.

Is that you I see, with greying hair and creases at your eyes? How can that be? You haven't even opened your baby eyes yet!
But no, I look 70 years into the future and there you are, 70 like me, I see you clear as today is sunny, you are an older, good looking man, still tall, but sitting now, beside a cabin next to a stream,
a mountain in the distance. You are surrounded by golden aspen and deep green pine. Your wife of 40 plus years is beside you, you sit in the two wooden chairs that you made by hand out of trees on your land. The palms of your hand, and your fingers, are rough to the touch, much like my dad's were -- dad being Richard Ricci, your mother's grandfather, the man who in this photo is holding your mother as a baby. He too worked with wood!
And in one of your hands you have a beer from a local Colorado craft beer company. The sun is lowering in the azure blue sky. And like me, you have children -- two? three? and a couple of grandchildren but they are far away. And now that you are retired, you spend more and more of your days up in the mountains! You are a man of the mountains -- in Italian, montagne -- Monte! Your mom and dad, Lindsay and Geoffry, named you for the mountains of Colorado -- "monte" in Italian, is "mountain" in English!

*******

Smiling, smiling, I am just washing back and forth in time. I feel like I'm riding in a bubble of light in the white and turquoise green waves of the Ocean of Life.

In the Pearly Everlasting of time!!

*******

Today is Friday, December 2nd. Tomorrow you will be a week old! It's still dark outside.

Yesterday, one of my poet friends, Nancy Dunlop, saw your first photo and called you "a beautiful little nugget."

You are a tiny orb of light landed on Earth in the form of a rather rotund new baby!

Here's an amazing coincidence: just as you were being born in Denver last Saturday, my brother, your great Uncle Ric Ricci, was traveling in a van with his wife and whole family up to Montereale, the mountainous provence in Italy where my grandfather Claude (your great great grandfather) and my Grandma Mish (short for Michelina -- your great great grandmother) were born. These people are your great great grandparents on my mother's side of the family!

This mountainous region, called the Gran Sasso, includes a set of three grey summits that -- just like the Colorado Rockies -- sit elegantly dusted in snow in the central part of Italy in a region known as the Abruzzi. Where your Great great grandparents Mish and Pop Rotondo grew up! The highest peak in the Gran Sasso is Corno Grande, 9,554 feet high! Just about the same height as Mountain Village, Colorado, next to Telluride, where I spent three lovely days this past October with my husband, your grandfather, GPa Richard (who is also turning 70 in a few weeks.)

OK, so know I get it: you, Monte, have returned to some of your roots: the landscape of your Italian ancestors! You did it via your mom, Lindsay, who left the East Coast because she fell in love with the Rocky Mountains! And then she fell in love with your wonderful father, Geoff! Now it all makes sense! But how can I possibly bring all of your ancestors alive to you? The short answer, is, I can't. I can only give you glimpses here and there! Which is why I'm writing these letters.

In my last letter, I wrote to another one of your ancestors, Pasquale Orzo, on my father's side of the family, a man who was born in November, 1870, in the very southern part of Italy.
He is my great grandfather, and so he is your great great great grandfather. Ayayayayay there are so so many many GREATS! But isn't it just so great that we have so much family?

WE HAVE MOUNTAINS OF FAMILY, MOUNTAINS AND MOUNTAINS, STRETCHING ALL THE WAY FROM ITALY TO THE BERKSHIRES OF MASSACHUSETTS AND THE ROCKIES OF COLORADO AND CALIFORNIA TOO!!!

I've got to pause again. My brain is on overdrive! Steam is blasting from my ears.

It's time to do yoga. I need to. Breathe. Stretch. And try to absorb the momentous events of the LAST WEEK AT THIS TIME YOU WERE STILL

JUST

AN

IDEA!

Thursday, December 01, 2022

Leaning Toward My Great Grandfather!!

"Macaroni Boy: The Son of an Unwed Mother"

In exactly ten days, I will turn 70. Perhaps that's why I have become so preoccupied thinking about my great grandfather, Pasquale Orzo, my grandmother's father. Pasquale died when he was 70, in 1940, 12 years before I was born in November of 1952.

What draws me to my great grandfather are the circumstances of his birth. Pasquale Orzo was born in a tiny town in the southern province of Cosenza, Italy, on November 3, 1870.

He was illegitimate. My great great grandmother, Filomena Scrivano was an unwed mother. To be born illegitimate at that time and place in history was very dangerous. A researcher at Brown University has studied illegitimacy in Italy in the late 19th century and he estimates that 93 percent of infants born at that time in Cosenza perished in horrible foundling homes where babies died of malnutrition and disease.

Miraculously, my great grandfather managed to survive. One hundred years after he was born, in 1970, I entered Brown University as a freshman. What a privilege it was to go to that extremely popular college. I knew that when I went there but I really had no appreciation for just what a miracle it was that my family had, in 100 years, risen from the depths of poverty to the privileged world of an Ivy League school. Until a couple of years ago, I wasn't the least bit interested in my ancestor Pasquale Orzo (or any of my other Italian ancestors for that matter.) It all seemed like ancient history to me. What was the point of digging into the past? Who cared about all those old yellowed photos hanging in my grandparents' hallways, photos of dead people I would never know? But this all changed about two years ago, during the pandemic. I had the sense I was frozen inside. I spent weeks and weeks -- that turned into months -- trying to find a way out of that feeling. I started to study Italian, and then I started writing in Italian, and lo and behold, stories about my ancestors -- on both sides of my family -- started pouring out of me. So too did stories about my upbringing as a second generation Italian American girl. There were stories about the shame I felt growing up. Shame about my heritage. Shame about my body. As I wrote about the shame, I wanted to understand where it came from. And then, the Covid vaccines finally arrived and people started travelling again and my husband and I went abroad and visited Italy. One day, sitting on a hillside overlooking lush vineyards and row after row of pale green olive trees, I was overcome with the feeling -- it was a physical sensation -- that I had to tell the story of my great grandfather. I felt like I needed to know how he grew up, and how ashamed he must have felt as "the macaroni boy." The name Orzo -- a type of pasta -- was given to my great grandfather by the municipal officials of Paola.
In the 1800s in Italy (and many other Catholic countries) it was considered profoundly sinful to have a child without first marrying.

In my great grandfather's case, I believe he was intentionally given a name that was silly and humiliating. The name ensured that Pasquale would be laughed at by villagers -- all of whom knew his shameful birth history.

Pasquale's birth situation was the source of great shame in my father's family for decades. My grandmother, Albina, and her five sisters never spoke openly about their father being illegitimate. It wasn't until my grandmother's generation had passed that the family finally started piecing together Pasquale's history. Thank heaven for my first cousin, Donna Ricci (her father and mine were brothers.) The familiy genealogist, Donna has spent years assembling information about the Orzo clan from birth, death, marriage and census records. In 2012, she and her husband visited Pasquale's birthplace, Paola, only to be told that she wasn't allowed to see his birth record. And incredibly, the women working in the municipal office laughed at Donna, as if here was a descendant of a man who was considered the butt of jokes. Dear Great Grandpa, how horrible was it for you growing up in Paola? Were you humiliated every day in school when you had to say your last name? Did the municipal officials give you that name as a way of branding you as illegitimate?

I am trying hard to imagine what it was like for you growing up in a foster family -- without your mother -- because in those days newborns were taken away from their mothers at birth. Because of the strict laws of the Catholic church, an unmarried woman who became pregant was not allowed to keep her child. A researcher at Brown University named David Kerzer -- who has studied this barbaric practise -- found that hundreds of thousands of babies were taken from their mothers during the 19th century in Italy. Many many of those babies perished. In Cozenza, the province of Southern Italy where my great grandfather was born, a whopping 93 percent of babies taken from their mothers died!!!! How tragic, how senseless!

It's an absolute miracle that you survived Great Grandpa! Your abundant descendants -- six children, and dozens and dozens of grandchildren, great grandchildren, great great grandchildren and now great great great grandchildren -- owe you so much, and so too do we owe your mother Filomena Scrivano -- about whom virtually nothing is known.
From what I can tell, the reason you survived is that you never landed in what was called the "ruota," the wheel, a mechanism that enabled women to leave their babies in a device in the wall of a foundling home. A mother placed her baby in the outside section of the wheel (built into the exterior wall) and the baby was drawn into the foundling home so that the mother's identity need not be known.

But honestly, Great Grandpa, I know so so little about you!!! And less about your mother.

And so, I am going to have to go deep into my heart and mind and try to imagine your life, and your mother's,
or at least part of it. And while I'm at it, maybe I will try to imagine who your father was.

Did your mother ever tell you who your father was? And if you knew, why didn't you tell your daughters, including my grandmother, Albina Orzo Ricci? Grandma was absolutely humiliated by the fact that you were illegitimate. It wasn't until she and her sisters passed that the family started to ask questions, and get answers.

But of course, there really weren't many answers. Which is why I face a world of possibilities: I can tell a myriad of tales explaining who you were, and where you came from! It's exhilerating, in one way, and terrifying and overwhelming in another!!!!

Wednesday, November 23, 2022

Remembering November 22, 1963

By Judy W. Staber

I was on tour with "A Man For All Seasons," for six months – 33,000 miles in a Bus and Truck Company. First Assistant Stage Manager – Stage Right. The memories of some of the towns we visited are lost in the mists of time, but some still stand out more than fifty years later, many because of production mishaps or, sometimes, when the outside world burst in.

On November 22, we had stopped for lunch at a roadside café in a tiny dot on the map called Medicine Bow, Wyoming. We had played the University of Wyoming in Laramie the night before and our next stop was Casper, some two hundred miles away. Our bus driver Willie had taken the back roads – a more direct route but decidedly slower and bumpier — and Medicine Bow was the only possible place for lunch.

We all piled out of the bus to stretch our legs, have a smoke and peruse the menu pasted in the café window. Not much on offer – grilled cheese, hamburgers or tuna on white. But we were used to such fare by now. Most of our Company squeezed into the tiny café. The man behind the counter and two other customers were transfixed watching a tiny television set hung on the wall. He raised his hand to silence us.

“What’s the matter?” someone asked.

“Kennedy’s been shot.”

Without a sound, we turned as one and watched Walter Cronkite as he removed his black-rimmed spectacles, wiped his eyes and said,

“It has been confirmed that President John F. Kennedy died at 1 p.m. central standard time.”

There were gasps, someone sobbed.

We somberly left the restaurant and got back on the bus. No one said anything. We drove on to the Henning Hotel in Casper and, after checking in, we clustered around the television set in the lobby. (No televisions in the rooms in those days).

We wondered aloud if they would cancel the show. They didn’t. The reason was, according to Herb, that this was our only stop in Casper and people had paid to see us. Also, it was well known that Victor Samrock, our producer back in New York, was ever mindful of money and not even a dead president was going to stop the cash flow. Theatres across America were dark that night, but not Victor Samrock’s productions.

As it turned out only eleven people came; I could count the house through a crack in the curtain. We paused for two minutes of silence before the play began. Dick O’Neill said, “Well, at least we aren’t doing Jean Kerr’s Mary Mary.”

No. Our play was more fitting, about another Catholic martyr.

We had many adventures on our journey across America. Our acting company was a mixed bunch with some fine actors and some journeymen. There were only five women in this company of twenty-four. Three of the women, Lois Kibbee, Vanya Frank and Amelia Romano, had parts in the play, I understudied Vanya and Amelia and Amelia understudied Lois. Laurette was the wardrobe mistress. I never did figure out when she did the laundry, she barely had time to iron everything. Of the men, four were IATSE crew, three were stage management — Leon and Roger understudied too, the others were actors.

It was an inspiring play and we were seeing America in a way that few people do. Standing in the wings every night, waiting for the curtain to rise, and watching the play unfold through the dust motes dancing in the stage lights, I was never bored.

Judy Staber is a writer and former actor who lives in Old Chatham, New York. She is the former director of The Spencertown Academy and founder of the Pantoloons. In retirement, she is writing and aging in place in her home of 31 years. This excerpt is taken from her new book Rise Above It, Darling.

Tuesday, November 15, 2022

The Sun is Shining in my Eyes

Excerpt from "Macaroni Boy: The Son of an Unwed Mother"

In a few days, I will turn 70. Perhaps that's why I have become so preoccupied thinking about my great grandfather, Pasquale Orzo, my father's grandfather. Pasquale died when he was 70, in 1940, 12 years before I was born in November of 1952.

What also draws me to my great grandfather are the circumstances of his birth. Pasquale Orzo was born in a tiny town in the southern province of Cosenza, Italy, on November 3, 1870.

He was illegitimate. My great great grandmother, Filomena Scrivano, was an unwed mother.

To be born illegitimate at that time and place in history was very dangerous. A researcher at Brown University who has studied illegitimacy in Italy in the late 19th century estimates that 93 percent of infants born at that time in Cosenza perished in horrible foundling homes, where babies died of malnutrition and disease.

Miraculously, my great grandfather managed to survive.

One hundred years after he was born, in 1970, I entered Brown University as a freshman. What a privilege it was to go to that prestigious college. I knew that when I went there but I really had no appreciation for just what a miracle it was that my family had, in 100 years, risen from the depths of poverty to the privileged world of an Ivy League school.

Until a couple of years ago, I wasn't the least bit interested in Pasquale Orzo (or any of my other Italian ancestors for that matter.) It all seemed like ancient history to me. What was the point of digging into the past? Who cared about all those old yellowed photos hanging in oval glass frames in my grandparents' hallways, photos of dead people I would never know?

But this all changed about two years ago, during the pandemic. I had the sense I was frozen inside. I spent weeks and weeks -- that turned into months -- trying to find a way out of that feeling.

I started to study Italian, and then I started writing in Italian, and lo and behold, stories about my ancestors -- on both sides of my family -- started pouring out of me. So too did stories about my upbringing as a second generation Italian American girl. There were stories about the shame I felt growing up. Shame about my heritage. Shame about my body. As I wrote about the shame, I wanted to understand where it came from.

And then, the Covid vaccines finally arrived and people started travelling again and my husband and I went abroad and visited Italy. One day, sitting on a hillside overlooking lush vineyards and row after row of pale green olive trees, I was overcome with the feeling -- it was a physical sensation -- that I needed to tell the story of my great grandfather. I felt like I needed to know how he grew up, and how ashamed he must have felt being "the macaroni boy." The name Orzo -- a type of pasta -- was given to my great grandfather by the municipal officials of Paola.
In the 1800s in Italy (and many other Catholic countries) it was considered profoundly sinful to have a child without first marrying.

In my great grandfather's case, I believe he was intentionally given a name that was silly and humiliating. The name ensured that Pasquale would be laughed at by villagers -- all of whom knew his shameful birth history.

Pasquale's birth situation was the source of great shame in my father's family for decades. My grandmother, Albina, and her five sisters never spoke openly about their father being illegitimate. It wasn't until my grandmother's generation had passed that the family finally started piecing together Pasquale's history.

Thank heaven for my first cousin, Donna Ricci (her father and mine were brothers.) The family genealogist, Donna has spent years assembling information about the Orzo clan from birth, death, marriage and census records. In 2012, she and her husband visited Pasquale's birthplace, Paola, only to be told that she wasn't allowed to see his birth record. And incredibly, the women working in the municipal office laughed at and made fun of my great grandfather's name. I can only imagine the shame he endured throughout his life as the butt of so many jokes.

The other day, I started feeling particularly frustrated that I have written hundreds of pages about my ancestors, but still, I'm not at all sure that I have written a coherent book. So in desperation, I decided to write to Great Grandpa Pasquale!

Caro bisnonno,

Dear Great Grandpa,

I am sitting in the living room, in the corner of the grey sofa where I always sit, for comfort. I have the sun shining in my eyes,
the sun shining between the tall pines outside the window, and suddenly I realize that I am thinking of you again, bisnonno, wondering what it was like to look out at the world through your eyes.

I have written so much about you. I have written as if I am you. I have written as if I am your mother, my great great grandmother, bis bisnonna, Filomena Scrivano. And yet, I still don't know you at all.

Last night I woke up at 4:30 in the morning with a wicked neck and headache. Who knows why? But after heating up the gel pad in the microwave and wrapping it around my neck, I lay in bed looking up through the window at the stars. And I thought about all the things I have done in my life, all the blessings I've had, and I thought it isn't terrible to die. Not that I want to! But I felt a kind of acceptance that I know my father had at the end. He told me on one of the many visits I paid to his apartment in assisted living in Holyoke. He said, "you find yourself getting used to the idea that you are going to die at some point."

And here I am two weeks away from my 70th birthday, thinking of you, bisnonno -- my father's grandfather -- once again. Maybe I'm thinking of you because you died at age 70. I am thinking about the only photo I have of you. But when I think of that face in the picture
I feel a great deal of love for you and your mother. For what you endured. For your courage leaving your home and coming to a strange new land where you had to start at the very bottom. What job did you have when you first landed in America? I'm sad to say I don't know.

I know that my grandfather, Angelo Ricci, worked on the railroads, as a water boy. He was your son-in-law. He married my grandmother, Albina Orzo, your daughter.

They eloped.

They eloped because my grandfather's mother, whose last name was Baldini, didn't think your daughter, my grandmother -- Albina Orzo -- was worthy of her son, Angelo Ricci. Was that because Albina Orzo was your daughter, bisnonno Pasquale? Because you were illegitimate? Did Great Grandmother Baldini think you were an unworthy person because your mother was unmarried when you were born?

If so, how terribly terribly sad.

But what love my grandparents had for each other. I get choked up thinking about their house at 218 Crown Street in Bristol, Connecticut. The house I spent so much time in as a child. The house with gardens overflowing with vegetables, and roses, and figs and apples and peaches and pears and grapes. The house where Grandma Albina made so many pans full of tomato sauce and "minestra" and so many loaves of scrumptious bread and Easter cookies and white frosted Lamb cakes (with coconut flakes) and sticky Italian honey cookies and so many many other delicious foods. The house where my brother Rich and my sisters Karen and Holly and my cousins Eileen and Lorry and Donna and Cynthia and Lisa spent time playing wild games, running up and down the staircase, up to the attic where the dry smell of old things was so strong. Up to the bedroom where the wall paper, a dingy brown, had pictures of fighter airplanes on it. I guess because my grandmother Albina had two sons in World War II. Two sons, my dad and my Uncle Bob. Two sons in Germany at one time. How did she do it?

She just. Did it. She wrote them letters every day. Letters that my sister Holly so wisely put into plastic jackets in the last few years.

Why are tears streaming down my cheeks? I'm sad but I am so happy and grateful too. That I have had so much love in my life.

You, bisnonno, and your dear wife, Caterina. Bisnonna. I have a very vague memory of her. Is it a memory?

I get up from the grey sofa. I walk to the other end of the house to my study. There on the desk is the orange folder called "Orzo Family History." On the front of the folder I have written:

"Pasquale Orzo, born November 3, 1870, Paola, Cosenza, Italy." Out of the folder falls a faded Polaroid photo of Grandma and Grandpa Angelo and Albina Ricci. Dated September 1967.

And inside the folder is the seven page, single-spaced typed history of the Orzo family written by my first cousin, Donna Ricci, one of Uncle Bob's daughters. And in the history, on which I have relied for so much of my writing, is this statement:

"[Great Grandma] Caterina [Pasquale's wife] died on November 23, 1951."

Which means I never met my dear bisnonna because I was born November 29, 1952.

And it was November 3, 1870 you were born.

And it is November 15, 2022 as I write.

As my writing buddy Peg says, time keeps collapsing in this book I'm writing. Time is fluid. Time keeps washing back and forth on itself like the emerald green waves of the ocean. Which leaves me again with this craving. This wanting to know my ancestors. This realization that I will only "know" you if I create you out of my imagination.

However, I do know this about your wife, bisnonno: everyone says Caterina -- my great grandmother -- was the sweetest woman in the world. Her face is soft and pillowy in photos. Her eyes are mild and kind. And from the Orzo family tree, I see that like her husband, she too, died when she was 70!

From my cousin Donna's writing, I know that in 1898 you and Caterina were married in the Chiesa San Giovanni Battista (the Church of Saint John the Baptist), overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea in the town of San Lucido, the town bordering Paola. My cousin and her husband visited the church in 2012, and as she writes, "it was indeed a stunning sight." Thanks to Donna's description, I can imagine the glistening green ocean water, and the sunlight playing on the crashing waves! What is amazing to me now in the sunlight of this morning is how quickly a person grows from a child into an adult woman to become, if one is very fortunate (or "fortunada" as my mother Dena Ricci used to say), a mother and then, a grandmother.

As I approach 70, I know in a way that I have never known before, in a bodily way from head to toe, that I will someday become an ancestor! A great grandmother, even if I'm not alive. A great great, and beyond. And that makes me smile and cry, all at once, and feel a kind of lightness and happiness I've never experienced before.

I know, as my dear therapist Mary has said over and over and over again, that no one ever dies, that love lives on and on and on. I am so fortunate -- "tu se fortunada," as my dear Dee used to say to me over and over -- to have had so many wonderful, loving ancestors.

I am so fortunate to have had such loving parents. Grandparents. Aunts and uncles and cousins. First cousins. Second cousins. The Orzo family tree -- compiled by my dad, Ric Ricci in 2002, is thick with a myriad of branches. I am so fortunate to have such a loving family now.

I am so fortunate to know so deeply that life is short. So short. And to realize that all that matters, in the end, is the love you share with your family. And your friends. And even the people who come into your life now and then as acquaintances.

As the Beatles sang, "The love you take is equal to the love you make."

And so, I know, as I sit here, crying tears of joy, that I want to make every day for the rest of my life, no matter how long it is, filled with love. I want to make every day filled with gratitude and joy for all of my blessings.

For my ancestors.

For my husband and sisters and brother and in-laws and nieces and nephew. For my children and grandchildren.

For the sun shining between the pine trees.

I want to try to be present to enjoy and appreciate every moment.

The sun has now passed out from between the tall pine trees.

The first snow of the season is expected tonight.

I am going to meditate now. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will figure out how to go forward with this book!