Holiday

 

What man has to offer God is nothing

To compare with what God has given man

What good a promise or a prayer

It can be broken or forgotten

 

~ Gemini Joe ~

 

here was always a celebration in New York. Every year, we went to the old neighborhood in Little Italy for the annual San Gennaro Feast. Sitting on my father’s shoulders, I had the best seat at the parade as we watched the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary go by. Green, red, and white flags lined both sides of the street. I enjoyed the music. People on floats nodded to my Dad as they went by. I was so proud.

“Always do something good for people and they are likely to do something good for you,” my dad said. I’ll never forget that.

Food was the main concern in my family, especially during the holidays. My Mom cooked all the traditional dishes.

Thanksgiving was great. There was plenty of food, nuts, fruit, and candy and Mom cooked a big turkey. The kitchen smelled beautiful. I peeked into the oven at the big bird that had been alive a few hours earlier.

There were markets in Brooklyn that carried live poultry and chickens. You ordered the turkey or chicken and they slaughtered it and took all the feathers off it.

That morning, I held my father’s hand as we walked to the poultry shop. Inside, the chickens and turkeys squawked in distress. It was deafening, and I covered my ears. As we peered into the cages, I picked out the biggest turkey I could find, but we had to wait for our turn.

I was so scared that someone in front of us on line was going to buy my turkey. I kept staring at him and hoping no one else saw him. Please don’t pick my bird, I thought.

When it was our turn, I told the man which turkey I wanted. He reached into the cage and grabbed the bird by the neck.

“Don’t hurt him,” I said.

The man carried my turkey to the back, but when he returned, the bird had no feathers.

“Where’s his head?” I cried.

The merchant looked at my father. He didn’t know what to say. He offered to give us some feathers so I could make an Indian headdress, but it didn’t make me feel happy.

My father tried to explain that the package under his arm was not a pet and when we got home, he took a strip of a corrugated box and cut it so you see little holes. We stuck the feathers in the holes and then wrapped around our heads with a rubber band. We were Indians for the day, almost.

 

 

 

I think back to my childhood and the many Christmas holidays. I loved them. There wasn’t much money, but we celebrated the “Feast of Seven Fishes.”

Christmas Eve, we ate shrimp, lobster, crab, fresh flounder, clams, mussels, and calamari.

On Christmas Day, it took hours to eat all the food my mom prepared. Served in five courses, dinner began with antipasto, followed by a pasta dish, a beef roast, and rich Italian deserts and pastries. Even as our stomachs filled to the brim, the fruit and nuts came out to the table after the meal.

We were able to get one toy and clothes. The one toy would either be a football or a sled or a baseball glove and bat. That’s it! I had no mechanical things. The toys in those days didn’t require batteries. These kids today, they’re going to electrocute themselves if they keep it up. They are so concentrated on mechanics that they’re not using their imagination.

When I was a little guy, my brothers taught me how to make airplanes with my mom’s clothespins. We made about a dozen airplanes. They would steal my sister’s nail polish to paint the wings. We made German planes and American planes.

Of course, you always have to have that Christmas candy, but I only liked the ones shaped like a peanut with the peanut butter in the middle. I was a bad boy, because I knew which ones had the peanut butter in them and was able to pick them out.

“Joey took all the good ones,” my brothers complained.

“Put them back,” Dad warned.

I thought I was smart and put back enough candy to satisfy my father. The rest stayed in my pocket. It caused an awful mess when my mom did the wash.

The adults played cards late into the night as we gorged ourselves on candy and treats.

 

 

During the Easter holidays, my mom would bake all the pies. Grain pies, salami pies, ricotta pies, and sweet read with a colored egg on top.

My dad said, “Why are you making so many pies?”

“Well, in case someone comes in to visit,” she said.

When the neighbors came over, they knew she was baking pies, so every one of them got a pie to take home. My dad would act like he was upset, but he didn’t really mind. He knew that she would bake more.

One of my dad’s favorite dishes from Northern Italy was called Capozzelli di Angnelli, a lamb’s head dressed with seasonings and breadcrumbs. I watched as my mom prepared it.

“Momma, the lamb’s staring at me,” I cried.

She smiled, patted my head, and then popped it into the oven. Soon the scent of roasting meat filled the air.

I looked at the lamb’s head on my plate but held my fork at a safe distance. Everyone laughed and teased me as I avoided the eyes.

“Here Joey, try the tripe,” my sister offered, piling the tasty tips of meat and sauce in my dish.

“I like these,” I said with my mouth full of food. When I looked up from my dish, everyone was smiling.

Searching their faces, I asked, “What?”

“You just ate cow’s stomach.” Victor laughed.

I spit out the food before it went down my throat, bringing roars of laughter from my family. On the verge of tears, I looked around the table and smiled. It was a rare occasion to see my family so happy.

“Tell us the story of the seven brothers,” I begged my father.

“Okay,” Dad said and set down his fork. “Back in the old country, there were once seven Sicilian brothers who refused to pay taxes to the King. The King became very angry.”

“Did he beat them?” I asked.

“Yes, and he banished them from the village and forced them to live in the woods among the criminals, murderers and thieves.”

“Were they scared?”

“Well, at first, but there were seven of them, so they banded together and formed an alliance against the King.”

“Like a secret club!”

“Yes, like a club. At night, they would sneak back into the village and steal from the rich people while they slept.”

“Were they scared that someone would tell?”

“No. No one would dare tell the King because they didn’t want to end up dead.”

“So they could do anything they wanted, right?”

“They discovered that, by sticking together, they were more powerful than the King.”

“Then they came to America?”

“Yes, the alliance reached across the ocean.”

“The Mafia,” I said with pride.

“Most Americans call it the Mafia, but Italians know it as La Cosa Nostra.”

“They protect us, right Pop?”

“Yes, if anyone gets in our way, they could be in big trouble.”

“Yeah, they’ll be fitted for cement shoes,” Victor said.

“And we’ll dump them in the sea,” Dom added.

We all smiled. Life was simple and good. Those times were some of the happiest of my childhood.