$5.99 a Pound!
I bought my first bag of this season’s Bing cherries today, and before the elderly bag-boy closed the trunk lid, I rescued them. They rode home in the front seat with me;
close by for nibbling and reminiscing.
Mother and Daddy couldn’t afford cherries for seven.
Mother and Daddy couldn’t afford cherries for seven.
It wasn’t personal; it was a simple lesson in the difference between needs and wants.
A definition that stood alone, sans prepositions or political correctness....
"Yes" or "No" were complete sentences in childhood.
The declaratory variety at that.
Summers at Nana and Nano’s house were different.
My younger siblings always invited, but always declined.
Summers at Nana and Nano’s house were different.
My younger siblings always invited, but always declined.
You see, our Italian grandparent’s house was old.
Nana and Nano were old.
Books and records? Also old.
Dog? Really old!
And those endless tales from the past? Oldest of old!
Year after year when my sisters cowered from the offer, I packed my book-bag and waited on the porch for Nano's Edsel's horn..
It was magical!Meals were all my favorites.
A trip to Sears meant two new outfits…that didn’t have to be part of the sale tag or the grow-into collection.
Chores…No So Much!
Television, no early bedtime, and long walks in the neighborhood where the size of my feet and the curls in my hair were discussed in three different languages.
Stories of the old country and first seeing the Lady in the Harbor from the bow of a ship were summer reruns, but Nano’s passion made them fresh and new. His damp eyes glistening in the setting sunlight made me yearn for her welcome too.
Every afternoon, about dusk, Mr. Joe’s Fresh Fish and Produce truck would crawl down the brick streets. The clanging sound of its hanging metal scale, dangling on the back of the old blue truck, would draw us to the sidewalk and there, Nana would buy me a handful of fresh Bing cherries.Up the stairs, to her porch landing I would scamper with a brown napkin full of deep red delights. I would count and savor each and every one, reassured that Mr. Joe would return again tomorrow and another handful would be mine.
Again.
And again.
Until it was time to go back home.
Every summer Bing cherries sit on my kitchen counter, in Nana’s favorite pasta bowl, an offering to all who pass by and a reminder to me of two childhood gifts; the blessings of both indulgence and necessity.
Nana and Nano were old.
Books and records? Also old.
Dog? Really old!
And those endless tales from the past? Oldest of old!
Year after year when my sisters cowered from the offer, I packed my book-bag and waited on the porch for Nano's Edsel's horn..
It was magical!Meals were all my favorites.
A trip to Sears meant two new outfits…that didn’t have to be part of the sale tag or the grow-into collection.
Chores…No So Much!
Television, no early bedtime, and long walks in the neighborhood where the size of my feet and the curls in my hair were discussed in three different languages.
Stories of the old country and first seeing the Lady in the Harbor from the bow of a ship were summer reruns, but Nano’s passion made them fresh and new. His damp eyes glistening in the setting sunlight made me yearn for her welcome too.
Every afternoon, about dusk, Mr. Joe’s Fresh Fish and Produce truck would crawl down the brick streets. The clanging sound of its hanging metal scale, dangling on the back of the old blue truck, would draw us to the sidewalk and there, Nana would buy me a handful of fresh Bing cherries.Up the stairs, to her porch landing I would scamper with a brown napkin full of deep red delights. I would count and savor each and every one, reassured that Mr. Joe would return again tomorrow and another handful would be mine.
Again.
And again.
Until it was time to go back home.
Every summer Bing cherries sit on my kitchen counter, in Nana’s favorite pasta bowl, an offering to all who pass by and a reminder to me of two childhood gifts; the blessings of both indulgence and necessity.
This is the poem I was telling you about that I had written for my dad~Sam Messina
ReplyDelete"The Storyteller"
I listened to stories of your mother and father, whom I never knew,
of your brother and sisters I remember them, but not the same as you.
I imagined you bribing your sisters into pressing your shirts,
or protecting your only brother from the neighborhood bullies.
It may have been as I sat beside the radiator warming up from the cold,
or while you tried watching the evening news, it didn’t matter where.
I always loved your stories, they were far better than in a book,
They have become my memories....
I remember noticing your hair and how it had thinned,
as if the middle had been mowed down, nothing left but two little puffs.
To imagine you as a younger man carrying watermelon to the third floor,
and wondered if you whistled back then as you did ever since I remembered.
I know you tried going into business with your brother-n-law, Joe,
but being a partner was not in your plans, hardly the way to go.
A modest vacuum cleaner shop, it was a dream come true,
More importantly, it belonged to you....
As a young adult I heard what it was like for you at my age,
World War II, the depression, being a father to three girls
We sat for hours chatting about nothing and everything,
once telling me there were never long talks between you and your father.
When I questioned you about this you accepted it for the way it was,
and also expressed how grateful you were for the relationship we had.
It seemed so natural that we would always find many things to discuss,
Sad you had not shared as we shared, you and your dad....
The later years are what I hold most dear...
As I heard the stories before, I listened again,
knowing before long would be told no more,
Now, I have become the storyteller...
I tell my son and his son all about you,
about your mother and father, your brother and sisters.
Being married during the depression, and World War II,
the business, your three girls, and what it all meant to you....
Copyright © 2004 Judi Honiker