Francesca "Nana" (continued)
Aunt Jo and Uncle John lived in the flat upstairs in the two family house on Worrall Ave. On his return from World War II Uncle Tato moved back to his old room and lived in the house till he died . Gertrude, her husband and her two children lived there for almost a year to save enough money for a down payment on their own home. Every Sunday between a dozen and two dozen members of the family arrived for dinner and an afternoon of talk and watching TV baseball or pinochle played on the dinning room table after the dishes had been cleared away. Every Holiday in the yearly cycle was celebrated there. And it was not uncommon to spread mattresses on the living room floor for relatives from out-of-state staying over night.
She was a petite woman, four feet eight inches tall. She dressed fashionably on Sunday for ten o’clock mass which she attended with Josie and Johnny, and for special occasions, but her usual uniform was a house dress and apron and orthopedic shoes that were wide enough to accommodate her swollen feet. Even as a young woman, she suffered from edema from her knees to her ankles. Whenever she could she elevated her legs to relieve the pain. Her hair was short permed and salt and pepper gray. Her broken English was punctuated with rhymed Italian aphorisms or sayings that were frequently her ironic answer to a question or observation. If you told her a task was too difficult, in lilting rhymed Italian she would respond with “One step begins a great journey” and leave you to sort it out. She was revered for her wisdom and energy and strength. The kitchen was her office and headquarters. Everyday she cooked lunch and dinner for whoever was in the house and Sunday was the feast. She was the comptroller and accountant of the family budget in a world where bills were paid in cash and you knew the merchants and the bank was on the corner. In the living room, on the table next to her chair was her St. Anthony Daily Missile and the Italian Newspaper that my Grandfather would bring her once a week, a gift from one of his customers who worked in New York and rode to Poughkeepsie on the New York Central Railroad. The prayer book, with broken binding and cover worn away by her fingers over the years, was carried with her as a young girl on the boat from Sicily when she journeyed to America. Now it was held together with a rubber band. She hated Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
Saturday afternoon she went shopping. The excursion started when Uncle Tato backed the Pontiac in the drive way to the front walk and my grandmother and Aunt Josie got in the back seat and directed him toward the first destination. Tato had returned from the golf course and washed the car and was pressed into service. This was part of his weekly tribute, as was tending to the yard work and the garden. Actually, the shopping plan and list was formulated during the entire previous week from ads and sales printed in the Poughkeepsie New Yorker, advice from neighbors, close inspection of the pantry, the traditional arrival of seasonal produce and a strategy session with Josie. My grandmother kept a 3x5" unlined pad on the kitchen table along with clipped coupons and wrote notations for future purchases when inspiration struck. The Saturday shopping trip always included at least three Supermarkets and the Italian Grocer “Saudido” on Gifford Avenue. The Finest Store, which my Grandmother pronounced “Finnasta” had the best sales and the best produce. The entire set of front windows were covered with white butcher paper that had been inscribed in 2 ft. letters with the bargains of the week. Because Tato worked in the produce department of the Bull Market, before going into the army in 1941, he had the expertise for recognizing the best fruit and vegetables. This was a duty he fulfilled each week and not a collaboration he enjoyed. The rest of the trip he read the papers in the car and loaded and unloaded groceries, but here he pushed the basket and kept a low profile. Next the Grand Union and the A&P were visited and sundry can foods, meats, poultry, dry goods and household items, many on weekly sale were piled into brown paper bags by packers at the end of the wooden check out counters.
Now that my Grandparents had moved up to Worrall Avenue and left behind the old Italian neighborhood and Mt. Carmel Square, the last shop was part pilgrimage and a trip back in time to the street markets of her childhood. The store was on a crooked and narrow residential street and long ago the front rooms of the house had been turned into a shop. The proprietor’s home was in the back rooms. Nana climbed three concrete steps and entered a dimly lit long room lined with bushel baskets of peppers, eggplants, tomatoes, zucchini, barrels of cured black or green olives, crates of pears and peaches, tables stacked with cheese wheels. This was not a Supermarket or any modern arcade. The floors were worn bare wood polished over the decades by the feet of Italian Immigrants who patronized this comfortable place and the choir of flies was holy music. There were no prices, sales or coupons, packers or marketing. It was assumed that you could tell the parsley from the basil. Only Italian was spoken and respectful bargaining was expected. Salamis and dried sausages hung like censors from the ceiling and the combined incense of all the various foods overwhelmed the visitor on entry. The owner for the last forty years, Saudido, a diminutive white haired man dapper in blue apron white market jacket and straw hat, incessantly smoking thin black cigarettes greeted her formally at the door as Mrs. Mirto, and steered her toward specials and over stocked items. She had her list in hand and a sharp eye for value. Olive oil, garlic, Parmisan cheese, home made sausages, Sicilian Caponata, seasoned bread crumbs, Genoa Salami, anchovies, dried pasta were weighed, and negotiations concluded. Prices were written in columns and sums were added on a paper brown bag and double checked, placed in shopping bags my grandmother brought from home or in case of bulk purchases carried out in card board crates or wooden baskets and placed in the trunk. All the while pleasantries were exchanged, family troubles were shared and suggestions for future sales proffered, all in Italian. This fifteen minutes was better than all the supermarkets in Poughkeepsie and my Grandmother was ready to go home and start the sauce for Sunday Dinner.
She was a petite woman, four feet eight inches tall. She dressed fashionably on Sunday for ten o’clock mass which she attended with Josie and Johnny, and for special occasions, but her usual uniform was a house dress and apron and orthopedic shoes that were wide enough to accommodate her swollen feet. Even as a young woman, she suffered from edema from her knees to her ankles. Whenever she could she elevated her legs to relieve the pain. Her hair was short permed and salt and pepper gray. Her broken English was punctuated with rhymed Italian aphorisms or sayings that were frequently her ironic answer to a question or observation. If you told her a task was too difficult, in lilting rhymed Italian she would respond with “One step begins a great journey” and leave you to sort it out. She was revered for her wisdom and energy and strength. The kitchen was her office and headquarters. Everyday she cooked lunch and dinner for whoever was in the house and Sunday was the feast. She was the comptroller and accountant of the family budget in a world where bills were paid in cash and you knew the merchants and the bank was on the corner. In the living room, on the table next to her chair was her St. Anthony Daily Missile and the Italian Newspaper that my Grandfather would bring her once a week, a gift from one of his customers who worked in New York and rode to Poughkeepsie on the New York Central Railroad. The prayer book, with broken binding and cover worn away by her fingers over the years, was carried with her as a young girl on the boat from Sicily when she journeyed to America. Now it was held together with a rubber band. She hated Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
Saturday afternoon she went shopping. The excursion started when Uncle Tato backed the Pontiac in the drive way to the front walk and my grandmother and Aunt Josie got in the back seat and directed him toward the first destination. Tato had returned from the golf course and washed the car and was pressed into service. This was part of his weekly tribute, as was tending to the yard work and the garden. Actually, the shopping plan and list was formulated during the entire previous week from ads and sales printed in the Poughkeepsie New Yorker, advice from neighbors, close inspection of the pantry, the traditional arrival of seasonal produce and a strategy session with Josie. My grandmother kept a 3x5" unlined pad on the kitchen table along with clipped coupons and wrote notations for future purchases when inspiration struck. The Saturday shopping trip always included at least three Supermarkets and the Italian Grocer “Saudido” on Gifford Avenue. The Finest Store, which my Grandmother pronounced “Finnasta” had the best sales and the best produce. The entire set of front windows were covered with white butcher paper that had been inscribed in 2 ft. letters with the bargains of the week. Because Tato worked in the produce department of the Bull Market, before going into the army in 1941, he had the expertise for recognizing the best fruit and vegetables. This was a duty he fulfilled each week and not a collaboration he enjoyed. The rest of the trip he read the papers in the car and loaded and unloaded groceries, but here he pushed the basket and kept a low profile. Next the Grand Union and the A&P were visited and sundry can foods, meats, poultry, dry goods and household items, many on weekly sale were piled into brown paper bags by packers at the end of the wooden check out counters.
Now that my Grandparents had moved up to Worrall Avenue and left behind the old Italian neighborhood and Mt. Carmel Square, the last shop was part pilgrimage and a trip back in time to the street markets of her childhood. The store was on a crooked and narrow residential street and long ago the front rooms of the house had been turned into a shop. The proprietor’s home was in the back rooms. Nana climbed three concrete steps and entered a dimly lit long room lined with bushel baskets of peppers, eggplants, tomatoes, zucchini, barrels of cured black or green olives, crates of pears and peaches, tables stacked with cheese wheels. This was not a Supermarket or any modern arcade. The floors were worn bare wood polished over the decades by the feet of Italian Immigrants who patronized this comfortable place and the choir of flies was holy music. There were no prices, sales or coupons, packers or marketing. It was assumed that you could tell the parsley from the basil. Only Italian was spoken and respectful bargaining was expected. Salamis and dried sausages hung like censors from the ceiling and the combined incense of all the various foods overwhelmed the visitor on entry. The owner for the last forty years, Saudido, a diminutive white haired man dapper in blue apron white market jacket and straw hat, incessantly smoking thin black cigarettes greeted her formally at the door as Mrs. Mirto, and steered her toward specials and over stocked items. She had her list in hand and a sharp eye for value. Olive oil, garlic, Parmisan cheese, home made sausages, Sicilian Caponata, seasoned bread crumbs, Genoa Salami, anchovies, dried pasta were weighed, and negotiations concluded. Prices were written in columns and sums were added on a paper brown bag and double checked, placed in shopping bags my grandmother brought from home or in case of bulk purchases carried out in card board crates or wooden baskets and placed in the trunk. All the while pleasantries were exchanged, family troubles were shared and suggestions for future sales proffered, all in Italian. This fifteen minutes was better than all the supermarkets in Poughkeepsie and my Grandmother was ready to go home and start the sauce for Sunday Dinner.
Return to prior page...............