The Wooden Spoon: A Fictional Autobiographical Novel

By Rosalie Marino Demonte and Arthur A. Demonte

The Wooden Spoon is, in essence, an Italian Roots. The story traces the arrival of an Italian family from Sicily to America. Using actual historical events as a backdrop, we follow the family from being immigrants to fully mainstream Americans without them ever loosing their rich Italian culture.

Because the book is based on unverified stories told around the kitchen table [hence the changing of surnames], as well as actual events, The Wooden Spoon is a compelling blend of fiction and non-fiction; a multi-cultural experience within a semi-autobiographical memoir. In many respects, it is also a womans story as well as the primary characters are women. The books title is derived from the women cooking in the kitchen, with an ever present wooden spoon, or at the kitchen table with coffee gossiping away.

Youll watch Maria and Rosarios six children grow and raise their own families; their eldest daughters (the authors mother and grandmother) youngest child (the author) meeting the man shell marry at the books conclusion. Along the way, the reader will bond with the family, making them their own. Theyll share countless laughs and spill many tears as they spend 54 years with the family.

Another property of the book is that it embraces the beloved aspects of the Godfather type stories with very, very little Mafia references. It was the psychodynamics of an Italian family which sustained those stories. Here, the family IS the story.

If you liked Moonstruck, you'll love The Wooden Spoon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 26, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449092085

Rosalie Marino Demonte

Rosalie Marino DeMonte Rosalie Marino DeMonte led a full and robust life before inflammatory breast cancer took her life at age 68 on May 17, 2006. She was the daughter of Anna and Tony, the granddaughter of Rosario and Maria, Umberto and Vincenzina. She married Arthur E. DeMonte in 1956. In the late 1960’s she was a keyboardist and vocalist in a rock group, The End Result, which her husband managed. She worked at home in the 1970’s as a typist for a computer company which developed into a management position. Also in the 70’s, she was a member of a classical choral ensemble. In the 80’s, she was a landscape artist working in oil. Finally, in the 90’s she was a member of The Golden Apple Chorus, a Sweet Adeline, performing Barber Shop music, where she served two terms as President. Her first authorships were the plays for the chorus’ annual stage show, which she also directed. She decided to write this book - before she was stricken with cancer - in order that her family’s colorful history might be preserved. Arthur A. DeMonte Arthur A. DeMonte is the eldest child of Rosalie and Arthur. He's worked as a psychiatric social worker with mentally ill / chemically addicted populations. Artie is also a musician who plays drums, guitar, keyboards, bass, harmonica, wood flute and digital saxophone. He is a published and award winning songwriter, one of which was co-written with his wife, Jeanne. Asked by his mother to help her give the book a more universal appeal, this book became his first foray into writing in a “long format,” and became a labor of love to complete after his mother’s passing. Artie lives in Pleasantville, New York with his wife and semi-owned cat in an apartment below his father.

Book preview

PROLOGUE (July 30, 1967)

Maria Meraposo crossed the kitchen of her Bronx home to give the slowly simmering sausages and meatballs a gentle turn with her wooden spoon. Her best friend and sister-in-law, Malea, sat at the kitchen table, her snow white hair glowing from the sunlight beaming through the windows at her back. Her large meaty fingers moved daintily as she lightly brushed lemon rind around the rim of her cup of expresso while she gave a rapid fire recount of the latest gossip. Maria marveled that even after fifty-four years, Malea still could spout a fountain of information, just as they did when they were young, always over coffee, and always at the kitchen table.

It was Sunday and soon the house would be filled with children, grandchildren, great grand-children and even a great-great granddaughter, Nancy Kim, who was born on Maria’s birthday, just two weeks ago. Nancy Kim’s birth was an especially unique event since it marked five generations of Meraposo women. An appealing human interest item, local newspapers published articles and photos, which Maria proudly framed, placing them strategically in full view of all who entered her home.

Shortly, the family will began to trickle in; the delightful, familiar din of confusion as excited, happy greetings fill the house with the bonds of love. The children, after properly kissing each family member, will run free. Slamming doors will sound their entrances and exits as they scurry about during a break in kick-the-can or whatever game they invent to play. Wary of Maria’s ominous wooden spoon, they’ll seek a drink or a pre-meal snack from their mothers or an aunt. The men, meanwhile, will settle in the living room to watch the ballgame on television as their grumbling stomachs await the call to eat. They’ll talk about hunting and fishing, sports, news, their jobs, and brag about their children. The women will sit around the kitchen table, and the old stories will flow like wine, remembering both the good and bad times. For each are equally important to a family so that future generations would never forget where they came from, and have a clearer concept of where they should be going….

CHAPTER ONE

THE MERAPOSO’S - July 30, 1913

Sitting topside with her infant son Gaspare close to her body, Maria gazed out over the expansive ocean. She watched the sun slowly make it’s way westward over the water. Like a beacon, it sparkled a shimmering path, a sequined highway of salt and brine, a heavenly sign that showed Maria the way to her new home.

There, she thought in her native Sicilian tongue, "There, where the sky kisses the sea, a new land calls to us. Like Signore Columbo we will be, coming to a place where even the poorest of the poor walk upon golden streets. There … there." She sighed contentedly as she focused on the horizon, remembering to thank God, the Madonna and Saint Christopher for seeing them safely through their long journey, soon to end.

It had been a difficult voyage from Tunis to London. Steaming through the Straits of Gibraltar, storms created a violent sea which amplified the yaw, pitch and roll of the ship and made Maria’s stomach strongly - and nearly continually - object. Boarding the ship that would take them from London to America, Maria prayed that the seas would be calmer.

They’re traveling 3rd class, tightly packed with hundreds in the dank underbelly of the swaying craft and sweltering amidst the stagnant air soured by the pungent redolence of unwashed bodies. They’re little more - and sometimes less - then cargo. But they were very profitable cargo indeed. For there was no need to shower these passengers with the opulent amenities enjoyed by the wealthy who traveled 1st class high above them.

Within the bowels of the ship, a noisome aria of tongues swirled about like autumn leaves on a windy afternoon. There were quite a few other Italians on the voyage. Most Italians traveled directly to America from Italy. But many, like Maria’s family, came in a roundabout way.

The Italians, indeed all the different nationals, tended to congregate together. Because each Italian saw themselves as citizens of the province in Italy they came from, and not as ‘Italian,’ they’d sit with a jug of wine, a wedge of cheese and argue over which province was superior. They would passionately debate everything; from which side was in the right in an ancient feudal war to why his province’s cheese was best, wine was smoother and pronunciation of a word was correct. It was Rosario, Maria’s husband, who halted confrontations he was unwittingly drawn into. "Tell me, Signore … you … little man, who sits quietly like a woman! Tell us … who do you think is right?" they questioned.

What does it matter? Rosario would reply, ‘Famicia,’ ‘Famiglia,’ or ‘Familia?’ Soon we will all be speaking American and say ‘Family’… no? We will all bring our cheeses and wine and the best of our towns and blend them into the soul of America. Perhaps we should remember what brings us together in this place, and why we no longer want to be what we were, but Americans. Our homes do not lie behind us, but ahead!"

Realization that they were all united by a common dream quickly brought arguments to a halt and ended what Maria considered a most entertaining afternoon. The group dispersed, each contemplating a better life and brighter future.

Maria was also reflecting on her future as she unwrapped Gaspare to have him share the warm rays of the midday sun. She breathed deeply of the clean salt air, clearing the stench of musky clothing from her nostrils, invigorating her mind and spirit. She could hear her three year old daughter, Marianina, entertaining an enthusiastic crowd, singing "O Solo Mio, the Neapolitan song written in 1898. Humph, she mumbled to herself. She takes after her father. Well, at least she sings it properly, in Sicilian and not that bastardo Neapolitan language!" As Marianina’s sweet voice emanated the familiar tune, Maria lifted her face to the sun and recalled all those past events that brought her to this time, this place, and this moment….

Born in Sicily in 1893, Maria and her twin brother shared the distinction of being the eldest of nine. Additionally, being the only daughter, she was laden with very many responsibilities strictly enforced by her strong willed mother. She resentfully viewed her burdens as slavery. She wasn’t wrong.

Maria Torassi was fifteen when she first saw Rosario Meraposo. The town’s celebration of San Genaro included a presentation of a play in the local square. Attending it with her family, Maria was captivated by the young actor whose appealing face shown through the thick make up. Destiny took notice and tapped Rosario on his shoulder and by the overwhelming power of the cosmos, he turned her way. Their eyes locked into a deeply intimate experience of promised embrace. Instantly attracted to each other, Rosario directed the remainder of his performance totally toward her, stretching forth his arms in her direction as he declared his love for the play’s heroine. Maria stared boldly back, never blushing with the reserved, subservient demeanor she was expected to exhibit. Rosario, meanwhile, all of eighteen and full of youthful hormones, thought that he must see her again, must find out where she lives! His heart was already proclaiming that this dark beauty would be his wife!

At the play’s end, Maria’s romantic trance was harshly broken. With a twisting pinch to her arm, her mother scolded, "Disgrasiata! Lower your eyes and take the two youngest by the hand. We’re leaving!" Maria obeyed, never knowing that Rosario would clandestinely question local residents about her and appear at her house the very next day, hat in hand, timidly asking her father’s permission to court her.

Maria’s father had reservations about granting permission to Rosario. He could imagine the result of such a marriage and suspected that Maria, with her children in tow, would be back under his roof in short time. He told Rosario, Acting is not a respectable occupation for a family man. How can a husband and father leave his family unprotected while he goes from town to town playing children’s games!

Rosario assured his future father-in-law that concerns were unneeded. "Forgive me, Don Torassi, but you speak as if I am a liar; as if I spend my life walking in a different man’s shoes, taking the name of many men; owing allegiance to none. But you are wrong, sir. I am not like the politicos who seduce with flowery words and empty vows. Taking the stage is not my profession, but it is a joy."

Then would earning a respectful living and foregoing the stage make you … joyless? the old man queried.

Setting his jaw, his voice firm and steady, Rosario rebutted, Taking the stage feeds my soul, but you are correct that it does not fill the belly. A man would be foolish not to have the means to walk on his own two feet. See my hands? What do these hands tell you? Not waiting for a reply, a nearly disrespectful act, he continued; They tell you I work the wood, creating the dressers and tables, headboards and moldings, which grace some of the finest villas in Italia. Your daughter will not go hungry, sir, as these skills are in great demand.

The old man was impressed. This one is not the fool I thought him to be, and he has limits to his meekness. He’ll let my daughter have her way to a point, firecracker that she is, but once he puts his foot down, there it will stay. This arrangement might be acceptable.

And so, the courtship ritual commenced and Maria found herself awaiting Rosario’s arrival in the parlor, her mother issuing the strict rules of etiquette. Now when Papa introduces him, you smile and curtsey. None of those bold looks, do you hear? You sit in the side chair, not on the sofa next to him. Speak of family and the weather and for God’s sake, don’t show your commanding ways! You are the woman! Be obedient! After a few visits, you both can take a walk, chaperoned by your brother, of course! Then, next year, you’ll be allowed to marry… that is … if he still likes you!

Maria’s heart, racing with anticipation to meet this stranger from another town, was stilled icily by her mother’s words. Her keen intellect, ever weighing all sides, warned her free spirited nature. She thought, "So, this is how it is to be? I have nothing to say? Am I to be passed from one slave owner to another? Am I to show a false face to gain another ruler? After all, this is a man used to attention, of strutting around like a rooster before the hens. I want a man who is pliable, like obliging dough which doesn’t require sweat to knead into shape. No! I will be as I am and the decision will be mine!"

That first meeting, attended by the entire family, was enlightening for both Maria and Rosario, each presenting themselves without falsetto. Inexorably drawn to each other, they found that they liked each other. Maria exposed her rebellious nature, that part of her that would take the lead, and while her mother rolled her eyes in exasperation, Rosario’s twinkled with amusement. Then, over the course of their courtship, Maria made an amazing discovery: a good actor knows how to take direction! Rosario and Maria married the following year in a traditional Sicilian springtime wedding. Maria’s mother insisted the newlyweds take up residence in the small villa that was only 500 yards down a dusty lane from the Torassi’s.

It was in the summer of 1908, when the air is filled with the intoxicating fragrance of lemon blossoms, that Rosario opened a letter from America. It’s from my brother, Andrea, he explained to his bride of three months.

What does he say? she eagerly questioned.

He says he wants us to come to America. He says he will sponsor us.

Bristled by the continuing control her mother still felt entitled to, Maria lunged at the opportunity for freedom, skillfully avoiding the true motivating factor. "Si, Rosario! We must go! Your skills could earn many times the amount they pay you here in this one-meal town! We would have a better life!"

Thoughtfully, Rosario answered, "Maybe … someday, after we have children … to give them a better life. But now, I just can’t leave my father alone; widowed, with no other children to support and protect him."

Maria strengthened her position, Humph! Your father prefers the company of his farm animals. How often do we see him?

Rosario reaffirmed, "No, amore di miei. Not just yet. That is my last word."

"Well, what about that company in Tunisi? They made you a handsome offer. Why not move there? Tunisi is close enough to Sicily. We could still visit, no?"

Rosario turned a penetrating eye toward her. You really hate it here, don’t you?

"Si! I do!" she answered honestly.

"We’ll see, mio amore … We’ll see …"

The subject was not discussed again until several days after their first Christmas. It was December 27, 1908 and returning home after Rosario’s performance in the local Christmas pageant, they retired. Maria fell asleep sadly contemplating that the coming new year would resemble the old. Suddenly, at 5:20 the next morning, they were jolted awake when the bed began to shake violently. While in 1905 an earthquake obliterated 25 villages in the Calabria region on the mainland, there hadn’t been a large quake in Sicily since 1783. So sounds rarely heard before filled the room; windows rattling, glass breaking, pottery smashing as it toppled to the floor, cracking noises from the walls which strained to hold the roof above their heads and above it all, an evil, frightening rumble. Maria was trapped, unable to steady herself enough to rise, and felt Rosario’s arms and legs circle her, shakily trying to protect her body with his. They lay there waiting for life or death, and when stillness finally returned, they knew they would live. Maria cried her old appeal, I will not live here anymore! I will not raise my children in this place! Do you hear, I will not!

"Si, Maria, Rosario answered with a quiver, don’t cry. We will go."

And so, the 7.5 earthquake that struck the Messina Strait, which separates Sicily from Calabria, combined with a large tsunami, prompted their move to Tunis. The tragedy became Maria’s personal blessing. She was free. With nearly 200,000 dead, it was a miracle that the family suffered no loss of life or property. Rosario and Maria sailed for Tunis in Africa mid-January of 1909, with full blessings from both Maria’s parents and Rosario’s father.

There, two children were born: Marianina in May of 1910 and, just before their departure to America, Gaspare. In Tunis, Rosario’s multi-talented skills created sculptured masterpieces by day and crafted the delightful rhythms of prose by night, an arrangement not entirely pleasing to Maria.

Making furniture pays more than pretending to be someone else! Maria objected.

But we are not hungry. The baby wants for nothing. And you…

Waving her hand with a dismissive air, Maria interrupted, "Si, my husband. You are a good

provider. But the hours spent in preparation for the stage … could you not be using those golden hands to make enough money to save for America? Your brother waits for you and it’s 1911 already, mio amore!"

Rosario saw validity in Maria’s suggestion and showing a strength of character that belied his five foot frame, he took his final bows and felt no regret. He was pleasing the woman he loved. And now, on July 30, 1913, they would, at last, arrive in America.

Sitting topside with Gaspare in her lap, Marianina’s song in her ears, and not caring that she would probably never see her mother again, Maria was blasted back to reality by the ship’s loud horn, twice blown. America, America! the crowd resounded, pointing as they ran to a side rail.

A quiet awe overtook them as they finally viewed the sight they had waited so long to behold. Someone, voice full of Cockney, cried out reverently, "‘Ere, lookie! It‘s the ole girl ‘erself! It’s Laaydaay Lib‘eeree!" There she stood, her arm held high; a beacon to the world, welcoming these poor, huddled masses into her tender embrace; oh, so full of hope and promise she is … this lady of liberty, also born in a distant land.

As many fell to their knees in thankful prayer, Maria called out to her daughter, "Marianina! Marianina, vene que!" and shook her skirts vigorously, a signal for her daughter to grab on. The ship docked amidst the hurry-scurry of passengers gathering up their possessions and children. A difficult exodus with so much in tow, the long gangplank offered ropes as side rails. But, it still bounced like a trampoline, unsteady under the weight of this multitude of shuffling feet.

Their first steps onto solid ground was a strange sensation to equilibriums more accustomed to the ocean’s swell. Keep moving! Keep moving, a port official ordered, his arm extended toward the terminal. Melting into the moving throng, the Meraposo’s lengthened a line that resembled a snake, which periodically convulsed to shorten itself as the new arrivals departed from Elis Island on the other end. Marianina noticed playmates from the ship further down the line and tried to join them. Maria pounced like a horizontal yo-yo, longing for her wooden spoon to motivate Marianina’s obedience. She pulled her daughter back as she scolded, Marianina, you must hold on to Mama’s skirt. There are gypsies here and they will steal you if you go too far.

Fidgety as a twelve fingered card shark and again confined to the limited area of movement her mother’s skirt provided, she began humming a ditty to accompany her feet that made delicious tapping sounds on the floor. Maria’s eyes begged Rosario for help, the strain of her daughter’s dance too weighty on her back.

Come here, Marianina. Come, sing for Papa, Rosario called out.

Emitting a lightening bolt of energy, she ran to her father’s waiting arms. Lifting her up, their suitcases at his feet, Rosario contentedly waited for the line to move. While his daughter sang, her dance was transferred from foot to hand, gracing the stage of Rosario’s face with a delicately fingered ballet.

It took hours for customs and immigration officers to do their work, since they had to determine who was sick or needed immunization and therefore, detained. As often as not, immigrants arrived without proper documentation. Then, an official would chalk "WOP" … With Out Papers … on their clothing. This practice gave birth to a derogatory description of Italians. Those of Irish decent, especially, viewed these new Italian immigrants as a threat to their newfound success in attaining the American dream, and they would interject the phrase with relish, venting anger and hatred. But now, as each new family labored onward, they were unaware that they were providing additional fodder to the pecking order of American society.

With some clever maneuvering of luggage and Marianina, the young family kept moving forward. Amused by Rosario’s transference dilemma Maria chuckled, Ha! All those years of performing … and you never mastered the art of juggling?

Finally, the young family moved for the last time as the awaiting official called out, Next! Have your papers ready!

Instructions by Andrea and relocation from Sicily to Tunis educated Rosario as to what documents were required, and he presented the precious papers that validated their lives.

How do you spell your name? the customs official asked.

Maria and Rosario replied with child like stares. Why ask such a question? Maria asked Rosario. It is right there in front of him.

Okay, if you can’t spell it, just say it slowly, he barked. Then he sighed and mumbled, We should do something about letting these illiterates in.

"Me-raa-poo-so, Rosario answered, proudly standing on tip toes to give importance to his name. He pointed to the top line of the paperwork. That is me, sir. He handed the customs officer several more forms saying, My wife, my children. Citizenship papers from Sicily, our home, and Tunis, where our children were born."

Feeling somewhat embarrassed over his ‘illiterate’ remark, the official quickly examined each document, a tense pause for the Meraposo’s. Finally, their paperwork received the American stamp of approval. Welcome to America, Mr. Meraposo, the official smiled warmly. Their spirits were lifted as they followed the procession of the throng and descended the long flight of stairs that led to the reception area.

Is this where we will meet your brother, Andrea? Maria asked Rosario.

"Si," Rosario answered, trying to disguise his uncertainty.

Upon entering, they froze in their tracks. They had not expected so many people. They awed at the sea of humanity, crisscrossing paths in search of family or friends. Some held scrawled signs of their family name, but most yelled out in frantic quest.

Frowning and bewildered, Maria asked, How will we ever find your brother?

Rosario, Rosario! a distant voice called out, barely audible amidst the din.

Rosario turned to Maria and smiled. "It seems he has found us!

"But where is he? There are so many people!"

Not knowing from which direction the voice came, they too, joined the seeking crowd, scanning the multitude of faces like nervous radar. It seemed a disorganized square dance; circling this way, doe-se doe-ing the other way, all the while side stepping to avoid others. Steering toward the audible signal, Rosario caught sight of his brother. Andrea, Andrea! he shouted.

Rosario dropped his suitcases and ran to Andrea. Both grabbed at each other, openly crying joyous tears as they hugged and kissed. Maria thought, My God, this man is even smaller than my husband!

Finally releasing Andrea, Rosario introduced Maria, his voice still shaking with emotion as his handkerchief soaked up the evidence. This is my wife, Maria. Maria, this is my brother, Andrea.

Maria smiled at her brother-in-law and bent down to give him an awkward hug. Hmm … Saedo is much cuter, his body more manly. I have the better of the two!

"Rosario and Maria, la mia moglie, Malea," Andrea said sweetly, bowing from the waist to introduce his wife.

Maria was totally unprepared for Andrea’s wife, the magnetic Malea. A large woman, Maria deduced Malea needed no bustle under her black dress. The huge black hat she wore forced Maria’s attention to her face. Her skin was as pink and smooth as a newborn; her wide warm smile, a glistening white and her eyes, piercing blue, twinkling with mischief. Maria thought Malea was quite beautiful.

Welcome to America! Malea bellowed, repeating the phrase as she overwhelmed each of them with rough bear hugs and loud wet kisses. Then, passing a column, they noticed several people kissing it. Maria and Rosario realized the people were thanking God for a safe arrival, so, they too planted a soft kiss to the hard wood. This action became so common within the reception area that it was became known as ‘the kissing post’ to future generations.

Malea, who tended to speak until she ran out of air, announced, "Come, we’ll go to the money exchange, right over there where you can get American dollars. Then we will go home. You will stay with us until you can …. (gasp) … rent your own apartment. We have prepared one of our bedrooms for you. There is an apartment for rent in our building that you must … (gasp) … see. Andrea has arranged for Rosario to be interviewed for a job. Now come, let us help you carry your things, you must be tired and hungry … (gasp)."

Maria stared in disbelief at Malea. Her face changed from pink to red, then almost blue several times as the she spouted connected sentences without breathing. Her voice, initially feminine high turned husky and raspy as she forced the last bit of air from her lungs. When Malea was forced to gasp at the end of her air supply, Maria cupped her hand over her face, faking a cough to hide her smiles. Feeling pale in comparison to her sister-in-law, Maria thought that Malea would either be her best friend or her worst foe. But she also thought it best - for now - to allow Malea to be the boss. They made their way out of the building. Maria turned to her husband when they saw what lie before them. Another ship. Malea chuckled. "Don’t look so surprised. We are on an island, after all. That’s the ferry to take us to Manhattan."

Maria and Rosario just shrugged and climbed aboard for the short journey across the harbor.

CHAPTER TWO

THE HARLEM EXPERIENCE - 1913

Once on the pier in lower Manhattan, Malea said, Come! We will go home by trolley.

Trolley? Maria was dumbfounded.

"Si. This time of year, it has no windows. Look! Here it is!" Malea pointed out.

The bright yellow vehicle tottered towards them, sparks spitting from it’s bottom as it clanged along guiding rails set into the cobblestone. Like a linebacker, Malea inserted herself between awaiting passengers and the trolley, her blue eyes fiercely daring anyone to try boarding before the family.

Is this thing safe? Maria asked apprehensively as they climbed into the trolley.

Ha! Of course! Malea was amused.

The trolley filled quickly and the driver pulled at the rope above him twice; ding-dinging the bell that declared the trolley would begin the last lap of their journey to a new home. Never seeing so many people in one area, nor so many buildings, Maria and Rosario sat in wide eyed wonderment as the trolley showcased the passing pageant.

Look up, Maria. That’s the Woolworth Building! The tallest in New York and maybe the world!! Malea began the explanation that would preface the plethora of facts she would deliver during that ride home.

Up and up, their eyes followed the building’s awesome height. Continuing on, with each of Malea’s commands, they looked to the right, then to the left. They watched neighborhoods change ethnic flavors or monetary status; dissected by an imaginary line that grouped opposing factions in disassociation with the other. Malea boomed out a thunderous rain of explanations, facts and tidbits of gossip. She paused only to allow the loud rumble of a train above them to pass, which she utilized to refuel her lungs with a gasps of air. Malea’s chronicles had Maria wondering if every building in New York had a story behind it.

It took an hour for Malea to finalize her soliloquy. Ah, and this is Harlem! she said proudly, "See there, that’s La Scalla’s bakery. Senor La Scalla comes from Milan and his daughter has the fattest ass in Harlem from all that bread. La Scalla’s ‘pana’ is ok, but we have such a wonderful Siciliana bakery a block west … (a copious gulp of air) … of our apartment, we never go to La Scalla’s. Okay, we get off here!"

Maria thought, How can she talk like that without fainting?

Walking 125th Street to between Madison and 5th Avenues, where Malea and Andrea lived, afforded Maria and Rosario a close up view of their neighborhood. There was a hustle, an excitement in the air that seemed to radiate an aurora of electricity. It was light years away from Villabate in the Province of Palermo, the sleepy village of Maria’s childhood. There, the days droned endlessly on in tedium; only interrupted by her mother’s orders to perform one dreary task after another. But here, in this new place, she found with every step a new sight to behold, a new scent to tickle the nose, or a new sound that drew her attention.

So many people sitting outside on their steps, drinking and eating! So many speaking Sicilian! Maria remarked, very comforted by the familiar language.

Stoops, Maria. We call the steps … stoops, Malea corrected. "And, si, many from Sicily are here as well as the other … (gasp) … southern towns from the mainland."

They wove a path through scores of children at play on sidewalks that were lined with newly planted trees, each sapling having a plot of soil squared by it’s cement perimeter. The street too, was filled with activity; children playing stickball and horse drawn wagons milling up and down to the sound of rhythmically clopping hooves on cobblestone. Malea felt compelled to yell at group of boys attempting to hitch a ride behind a wagon, "Disgrasiata! Does your mother know what you are doing?"

Maria chuckled at the reply given. The boys rode by thumbing their noses or jutting out their tongues and Malea bit down on her hand in anger. Maria thought, I’d better distract her before she bites her hand off.

So many stores, Malea! Do all the buildings have stores beneath them? she asked.

"Si. Wait till you see our block. We have the best!"

Mm, Rosario sighed as they passed the butcher shop. The delightful bouquet of procuitto and cabacol, salami and cheese peaked his already ravenous appetite. A few steps more, and the redolence of oiled leather from the shoemaker filled their nostrils. Yet, before the scent could fully roll itself to the back of the tongue, it was complimented by the sweet freshness of the produce market next door. Maria was overwhelmed. Yet, there was another wonder to behold.

"Oh, pesce, oh, pesce!" Maria heard, and turning, saw a horse drawn wagon filled with ice and fish.

"Pomada! pomada!" cried another voice pushing a cart filled with tomatoes.

"Gelate!!" yet another yelled, as he shaved an ice block and poured lemon flavored sugar water over the wonderful cone of white.

Maria’s eyes glowed with amazement that here you can do your daily food shopping right from your front steps … stoops. Then she heard the music. A serenading mandolin from an overhead window, an accordion playing counterpoint from across the street, a tenor singing Libiamo, libiamo from Verdi’s La Traviata; they all combined to create a symphony that almost made her forgot how tired she was.

Then, between Park and Madison Avenues, Maria noticed a family moving into one of the buildings. Thick red hair and a well curved figure made the woman quite striking, but she had difficulty carrying bags as she held her infant son. Let me take it, Mama, an older son offered.

Her husband seemed more concerned with the position of his grey hat, smoothing the brim with his palm until it was tilted, just … so! He took no notice of the Meraposo family until the sweet sound of a child’s voice caught his fancy. Turning, he saw Marianina, skipping a tempo as she sang. Utterly charmed, he winked at her when their eyes made contact. Marianina, in return, blinked both eyes. "Que bella pitcaeda!" he thought. His gaze remained on her as skipped down the block, smiling at her each time she turned to wave. Yes, she was a very beautiful child.

Out of earshot, Maria felt secure in saying, I’d fix his wagon if he were my husband! What man plays with his hat while his wife struggles to carry heavy bags?

"A Calabrese man! You know … capo toustu … hard headed, and stubborn," Malea answered, knocking at her head. Moving closer to Maria, she whispered the current rumor being circulated by the Harlem grapevine.

They immigrated from Calabria to Ohio in 1905 after that terrible earthquake. Now, they’re joining the rest of their family in Harlem. That one, she mimicked the man primping his hat as she sucked in a goodly volume of air, has an eye for the ladies so he fusses over himself. But don’t worry, Maria. Living a whole block away from us, we won’t have to deal with him.

A block away? Maria thought, Ah, only one more block to walk and then … home.

It was strange the way Maria’s body reacted to thought of rest, food and comfort. Her stomach began to growl, her temples pounded with each step, and her arms cramped with pain from holding a now crying Gaspare. Just as she dizzied and felt she could walk no more, Malea’s voice proudly proclaimed a most welcome phrase. This is it. We’re home!

A quick, tired scan of the red bricked, four story building, and Maria and Rosario were climbing it’s stoop to the entrance. A glance to the side and Maria concluded it was identical to every other on that block; all attached, all having stores beneath fenced off by iron railings.

Malea led the procession of dragging feet up to their first floor, three bedroom apartment and Andrea brought up the rear, with a not so pleasant Marianina in tow. Malea babbled to herself, I hope Mary took the bottle!

Overhearing, Maria embarrassingly realized that she never inquired about Malea’s year old daughter. She did so now. Malea, who is watching my niece?

Mrs. Kelly, a sweet Irish woman from the top floor. I’ll tell you about her husband later!

Malea swung the door open, backed up, and offered with bravado, "La mia casa è la vostra casa!"

Rosario and Maria entered the huge white kitchen, still brightly lit from July’s late setting sun. As the others entered behind them, a thin, blonde woman rose from her seat at the kitchen table to greet them. Hello. I’m Mrs. Kelly. Welcome to America!

Thank you, Rosario said extending his hand, I’m Rosario and this is my wife, Maria.

Malea interjected, Any trouble with Mary? Did she take the bottle?

No trouble at all. Yes, she took the bottle and even ate some pastina, She’s sleeping now.

Malea signed a thankful cross on herself, and forced a dollar bill into Mrs. Kelly’s apron. Andrea, who throughout the day engaged in quiet conversation with his brother, now spoke up. Come. We have prepared a room for you. Refresh yourselves and then we’ll eat. He ushered them from the kitchen into a long hallway which led to every other room in the apartment. This is your room. The toilet is there. He pointed to a door directly across from the bedroom.

Surveying their temporary domain, the large bedroom contained a double bed and a ‘bronda’ (a portable fold up cot) for a whining Marianina. A dresser drawer lay in the corner, a pillow within to suffice as a cradle for a wailing Gaspare. Needless to say, there was no rest for the exhausted young couple with two irritable children. "Saedo, while I change and feed Gaspare, you take Marianina to the toilet before she wets herself. Wash her too."

"Si, mia amore. Are you okay? You look so tired."

No more than you, my husband.

Their needs satisfied first, a contented Gaspare fell asleep, and a shiny Marianina bounced happily on her bronda. Maria and Rosario utilized the toilet and sprawled across the bed, stretching to relieve cramped, stiff arms. Laying there, looking up at the ceiling, the aroma of sauce and roasting chicken titillated their appetites, the gnaw of their stomachs proclaiming the need of food. Their savior, Malea, showed her face at the door announcing, Dinner is ready. She beckoned them to rise and follow her with a wave of her hand, which still held her wooden spoon, tinged slightly red from years of stirring the sauce.

They ate ravenously, savoring each mouthful from the home-made ravioli to the chicken. By time the final course of salad was served with fresh seeded bread, an hour had passed. A cup of expresso put the finishing touch on their first meal in America. The family talked a for a short while, but they were all exhausted and went to bed at 9 pm.

Sleep in a motionless bed rejuvenated the resilient family, and they woke refreshed, eager to meet the day, ravenous for breakfast. For such an occasion, the next in a long line of meals to be shared, the Meraposo family indulged in long, leisurely conversation; trading stories of the old country well into mid-morning. The old tales told, Andrea asked, Rosario, have you had your fill of walking?

No! Just of carrying those suitcases! I would enjoy a walk with you.

The men left, and since Marianina was occupying her cousin Mary with play, and Gaspare slept, Maria’s education continued at the kitchen table over a third cup of coffee.

"All the apartments in this building are the same … one on each floor. We are so lucky to have a private toilet. The bathtub is in the … (gasp) … kitchen to make it so convenient to heat the water. The electric meter is here too. It only takes ten cents to have electricity for a whole day. There’s an empty apartment for rent on the second floor. It would be perfect for you … (gasp)."

Maria thought, "Madre Mia, she’s got me holding my breath now! but she said, Yeah? Do you have the key? I would like to see the apartment before I take it."

That statement threw Malea into a frenzied bite on her knuckles. That lousy janitor wouldn’t give me the key! He says he’ll only give it to you! When Andrea and I buy this building, we’re going to fire him, that lousy janitor! He’s mad at me so he acts like Mr. Big Shot with the keys!

Why is he mad at you, Malea?

Because I made him fumigate this building … you know … the roaches! So now, the roaches live in the next building.

I still don’t understand why he’s mad.

Because he’s the lousy janitor of that building too!

Maria giggled at the janitor’s dilemma and knew by the glint of mischief in Malea’s eyes that she too, was enjoying his predicament. What an idiot! Maria laughed, You’d think a janitor would know to fumigate both buildings at once.

"Ha! That’s what the landlord told him. Now, he’s doing it all over. If you want the key, just follow the white blatta powder footprints, and you’ll find him!"

The uproarious laughter of women woke Gaspare. Hearing his cries, Maria said,. Oh, the baby’s awake! Why, it’s twelve o’clock already! Where has the morning gone?

"Si. Laughter makes time pass quickly, Malea said, cupping Maria’s hand. Bring Gaspare in here and feed him. We can still talk while I prepare for lunch."

Okay. I’m sorry I can’t help you Malea.

Eh! Lunch is simple, just a sandwich. It’s the American way. Not like the old country, where we spend the whole morning cooking a big meal. Only on Sunday, we do that.

Maria thought about that as she changed Gaspare’s diaper. She decided she liked this American custom. She returned to the kitchen where Marianina and Mary played gleefully on the linoleum floor and Malea set out platters of cold cuts. It all seemed so right, so natural, so comfortable.

Maria asked, Tell me Malea, who else lives in this building besides the Kelley’s?

"Ah, si, the Kelley’s. My God, Maria, you should hear the fights. That poor sweet woman with three little ones has a cross. That drunken bastard she married hits her. She says ‘no’ but I see the bruises … (gasp) …on her. And he fools around with other woman too … just like the ice man, Giovanni… but after all, Giovanni is not married so….(gasp) … it’s not a sin."

Malea, of course, it’s a sin. Who does Giovanni play around with?

Oh, mostly the married women. When he delivers the ice.

Is it a sin for the married woman? Maria was toying with Malea’s logic, amused at her disordered sense of propriety.

"Yes, Maria, it’s always a sin for a woman and it’s a sin for a married man. They have no excuse because they have wives who can satisfy them. But, if they’re single … well, what can they do? They can’t control their urges. They’re ... (gasp) … like dogs in heat! They’ll try to seduce anything that has a hole!"

Maria laughed heartily, and oddly enough she found some truth in Malea’s statement. I don’t know why, but you seem to make sense. And tell me, who lives in the ground floor apartment?

Newlyweds. Her name is Rosina and from what I hear she has a great talent for sewing. But she’s shy. You know the type, no talk, just smiles a lot.

"Buono! It’ll be nice to have someone around who’ll listen to us."

As Malea placed a basket of bread on the table, Maria reached out to her hand. Thank you, Malea, she said soberly, cementing a bond that would last the rest of their lives.

This day they had only scratched the surface of each other’s personality but they were comfortable with each other; trusting that they could be themselves. In time, they would discover each other’s strengths with admiration and flaws with acceptance. Then and there Maria decided, Yes! I will like living in America and living in this building with Malea. She will be the sister I never had.

Alone in their bedroom, their second night in America, Maria put forth an agenda for Rosario. Tomorrow, go get that job your brother found. Then, go see the landlord and get the apartment upstairs. It’s the first of the month and a Friday so we can move right in and be settled by Monday when you have to go to work. In the meanwhile, I’ll go buy some furniture to get us started and you can make the rest.

Must I make the furniture tomorrow, as well? Rosario answered, a twinkle in his eye as his arms encircled her.

She playfully spun away from his reach. Making love, unthinkable in ship’s quarters shared with other families, was something that Rosario and Maria hadn’t done in some time. But now, invigorated by the excitement of renewal, Maria’s passionate nature resurfaced. "Saedo, Maria cooed in singsong fashion, Come see what I have for you."

Rosario watched his wife playfully lift one corner of her nightgown and then drop it quickly, toying with him. Rosario needed no more prompting. They made passionate love, ignoring their sleeping children’s presence and their hosts in the adjoining bedroom. They didn’t know that Malea had a water glass pressed up to the wall separating their rooms, and was listening with her ear against the glass.

Malea delighted in the sounds of passion, but soon her own emotions stirred and while Andrea slept, she mounted his frail looking frame with her bulk. She was thankful that Andrea’s outward appearance was so unlike the huge male prowess he possessed. After satisfying her passion, Malea wondered if Rosario was as big as his brother. She made a mental note to ask Maria the next time they were having coffee together, and smiling to herself, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER THREE

THE MARTINO’S - 1913

The Martino family were spending their second night in Harlem as well. There was: Umberto, the man so preoccupied with the position of his grey fedora and so enamored with Marianina as she passed him on the sidewalk, his wife, the beautiful, red-haired Vincenzina and their sons, Tony and Guido. But, unlike the building the Meraposo’s lived in, which was home to several families, this building housed only Martino’s. Umberto’s sisters, Antoinette and Concetta, shared one apartment, along with four cats. His brother, Alfredo and wife Emily, occupied another while Philip and Louis shared a third. Though they lived only one block from the Meraposo’s, it would be several years before their cobblestone paths crossed again.

The Martino’s were unaware that through the Harlem grapevine, much about them was already known. A family of this size living under one roof had little need for friends, as they relied on each other for friendship and comfort. Why turn to a stranger when you can depend on blood? They had no interest in others, and turned a deaf ear to the gossip whispered in public.

Umberto was an old world thinker, a ladies man, who felt entitled to succumb to carnal desires. After all, he was a man. But, since his heart belonged to his wife alone, he believed he was faithful to her. As such, he felt no guilt when he seduced a woman. He was very proud that his two sons were born in America. He was equally proud of their Calabrese descent and felt that it set himself and his family above other Italians.

This was a common attitude at the time; a mind-set born of the days when Italy was still comprised of separate states. Each region was governed by its own King, under control of the pope, or a foreign government all grappling for power. But, many sought to end this internal bickering. It was a struggle, but on September 20, 1870, the French garrison finally left the papal states and Victor Emmanuel II was declared King of a united Italy. The unification of Italy however, could not erase the fierce provincial pride of those who fought Feudal Wars, nor in their children and grandchildren. Even in the twenty-first century, among themselves at least, American’s of Italian heritage still often identify themselves more with the area of Italy the family came from than Italy itself.

Umberto fondly recalled sitting on his grandfather’s knee hearing the stories of the Feudal Wars. Calabria needed to defend herself; sometimes a pope would invade and try to seize the land for the church, especially if the offerings fell too low. Sometimes she needed to protect herself against the armies of her neighbors, who, in their quest for land, could invade at any moment. Living under such conditions instilled fierce pride that could not wane under the banner of a single flag.

Umberto loved his grandfather and he could listen for hours to stories of glorious battles. Tell me again, Nonno. Tell me of the Modina invasion! Umberto would beg. The old warrior would sit erectly, improving his already proudly perfect posture, and begin regaling his beloved grandson with stories of his youth and glory days.

Look at him! Umberto would think. Look how proud, how cultured, how noble, he is. He studied his grandfather’s dress and manner. From the cappello he wore on his head, perfectly tilted to the side, to the crisply polished shoes on his feet, Umberto wanted to be just like him. And as Umberto grew, he did, indeed, become like his grandfather. He was regal and attractive; a meticulous dresser, and always wore his hat tilted to the side, just … so. He also, like his idol, had a roving eye.

In fact, the motivating factor to relocate from Ohio to Harlem was a sexual tryst turned too serious. Feeling threatened and out of control, Umberto turned to his brothers for a advice when he visited the previous year. While the women prepared food in Antoinette’s kitchen, all four brothers sat in Alfredo’s living room; a manly bond, making it easy for Umberto to voice his woes.

I don’t know what to do! That woman follows me everywhere. She’s causing trouble in my house!

Umberto