Don't Sing at the Table (13 page)

She carried her toiletries in her purse: toothbrush, toothpaste, face cream, and lipstick. Her “traveling ensemble” included slacks, a blouse, and flats. She wore a classic trench coat, and in the pockets were a set of rosary beads and two neatly folded, brightly colored silk scarves, which she alternated.

By the time Viola reached her seventy-fifth birthday, she had developed
sprezzatura.
Lucy had it all along, but life taught Viola nonchalance, and ease was a choice. She began to dress to please herself, and in so doing she developed a style in her later years. Her wardrobe now reflected her simple approach to living.

Viola looked chic and appropriate for every occasion. In the later years, she'd wear her work clothes under a trench coat to mass during the week, and then tuck a colorful scarf around her neck. She'd throw on simple button earrings and wear a rosy lipstick. While I liked her new muted palette of gray, with a shot of color around her face, I missed the drama. The dramatic hats of her youth were gone by her golden years, and I was sad about that.

When I moved to New York City and was barely making ends meet, I did a lot of shopping on the street (still do). A pair of clip-on earrings caught my eye as they shimmered on a blanket on East Fifth Street, and I bought them for her for a dollar. They were round circles of gold filigree with small inset white pearls—good paste costume jewelry. When I held them, I liked the fresh style of the setting and the heft of the fake gold. I gave them to Viola, and she loved them, mostly because I had scored them for only a dollar. She was examining them closely, as they were well made. She said, “Look at the stamp on these.” So I looked closely; on the clip of the earring, it said “Schiaparelli.” Viola wore good costume earrings designed by Coco Chanel's Italian rival. She loved that.

Viola Attends Lucy's Funeral in Minnesota

Viola made one last trip to Minnesota in November 1992 to attend Lucy's funeral. It was already bitter cold on the Iron Range. Viola did not make the trip alone; her youngest son accompanied her.

The wake was lovely, with friends stopping by, mostly children of Lucy's lifelong friends. By the time Lucy died, she had lost her beloved son, so my mother and aunt planned the beautiful service at Saint Joseph's Church.

Viola, now eighty-five, herself gave me so much comfort through the funeral, and in the days and weeks afterward. Viola had never known her own grandmothers, and she savored every story her own mother told her about them. Viola had a deep longing her whole life for the lost love she would never know from her grandmothers, and in some ways, when it was her turn to be a grandmother, she struggled with it.

Viola and Michael with their Sonny on the boardwalk in Atlantic City in 1938.

Looking back, I imagine that it had a lot to do with her relative youth (she was fifty when her first grandchild was born), the responsibilities of the factory, and my grandfather's declining health. She took delight in her grandchildren, but there could be a distance, which sometimes felt like disapproval on her part. Viola made enormous celebratory meals, and remembered every birthday and holiday. She made certain that she gave you, as a granddaughter, your first charm bracelet, birthstone ring, and wristwatch. She did everything right, but she wasn't yet comfortable with the easy affection that comes from the distance of an extra generation between grandmother and grandchild. It was obvious that she didn't have a role model in this regard, and she would have to figure it out. But it was to come, and it did, in full circle at Lucy's funeral.

The Little Black Coat

Viola wore a black wool A-line coat with a round collar, covered buttons, and matching piping to Lucy's funeral. She stood with us as we processed into the church. Somehow, Viola's solid presence at Lucy's funeral gave me a sense of hope, even though I knew I had now lost one grandmother, and that someday I would lose Viola too.

Lucy's funeral was moving for Viola; even though they had held one another at a respectful distance, there was an underlying camaraderie. Their Italian roots were buried deep in northern Italy, though Lucy's were high in the snow-capped Italian Alps in a remote but cozy village, while Viola's were in the expansive farm fields of the Veneto, with the Dolomites in the far distance, like hills of salt. They both possessed the take-charge attitude of the firstborn, and both worked all their lives as diligent businesswomen, who never officially retired. They both had an uncanny ability to lead large families, to end arguments, and to encourage good behavior.

Lucy and Viola interpreted the American dream in their own separate ways, but at the funeral, Viola realized they had more in common than she knew. They were small-town girls who knew how to take risks, who loved and lost and believed in a glorious afterlife.

Viola was impressed with Chisholm, how wide and clean the streets were, and how simple and yet substantial Lucy's building was. She liked Longyear Lake and the library. She thought the food at the luncheon held at Valentini's was hearty and tasty. Viola came away with a clear sense of the environment my mother grew up in, filling in the blanks from the letter that the priest had written so many years earlier. Viola liked what she saw.

There were lessons all around that day, if I chose to learn them.

The greatest lesson came from Viola, and is one that will hold me in good stead until I am old. There is nothing we can say to comfort the grieving, but there is definitely something we can
do.

We can
show up.

When you stand with someone who is suffering, they will never forget it. And neither will you. So of all the places you'll go, never miss a funeral. These are no longer ceremonies about letting go of the dying, but holding on to tradition, history, and memories. Those who grieve might not even be able to ask, and you might not think they need you, but they do.

I could have gotten through Lucy's funeral without Viola, but I wouldn't have wanted to. Viola's faith sustained me that day, and in her example of traveling to pay her respects to Mrs. Bonicelli, I felt a part of
one
family that, when it comes my time, I hope will sustain me too.

Chapter Nine
Children

Lucy in her living room on 5 West Lake Street with Orlando and Geraldine's children.

If you love your mother, your child will love you.

Lucy Bonicelli believed that the first five years of a child's life were the most important. The template of care would be set, habits formed, and routine established. The mother learns to
read
her baby and understand his needs as he grows out of infancy into toddlerhood. Before I had a baby, I didn't understand all the conversations about routine. After I had my daughter, I got it. The basics of child rearing begin with getting control of your home and creating structure. This structure is not a version of military efficiency; it's all about giving the baby a world that is secure and a mother she can count on.

In my family, motherhood is revered. I did not go through (many say a healthy period) of challenging my mother or grandmothers' authority. If I disagreed with them, I found a polite way to do it. Italians have statues of the Blessed Lady in our homes and yards for a reason. Motherhood is a sacred club.

A mother shapes family life, and hopefully, she brings what she has learned of her own mother's good habits and common sense to create her own family dynamic. This unbroken chain of gold, from mother to daughter, hands down
priorities
as well as practical advice. Through my grandmothers, I knew
their
mothers, and the kind of values that were inculcated in them.

Bind your child to you.

“Bind your children to you,” Lucy used to say, knowing that when we do so, our children's sense of self is rooted in a deep and abiding security that we are there for them. When a child knows this love and security, you are free to instill values that will build their character.

Routine is not negotiable.

The lessons I learned from Lucy are rooted in common sense. First, and most importantly, a routine must be established. A baby placed on a regular schedule of sleeping, eating, and play will become a secure child who will come to rely upon that routine, and thrive within the boundaries you have set for her. A routine helps the child, but it also helps you
understand
your child. If a child is on a schedule, and her behavior changes, you will quickly realize when something is off, and you'll be able to start pinpointing the problem and deciding on the solution. If your child is listless, when she's usually full of pep, you'll be able to figure out if she's sick, and the severity of it; if she's a robust eater and suddenly isn't interested, or usually goes down easily for a nap, and now won't, a schedule will help you decipher the problem. So much of parenthood is about reading the cues, and responding to them. In the comfort of routine, you will know your child inside and out. Children are happy and confident when they know what the rules are.

Lucy put the children to bed at the same time every night. She believed sleep was critical to the maintenance of good health and emotional well-being. Of course, there are reasonable exceptions to this rule, but the sleep schedule should not change often or much.

Like all new mothers, I felt completely at sea and anxious when I first had my baby. I soon found out that routine, like all the other disciplines in my life, would serve me in my new role as mother. Establishing a daily and evening routine was one thing I could do that I had some sort of control over.

To this day, my daughter is a good sleeper and volunteers to go to bed at night. When I see young children out late at night, or keeping adult hours, and then hear my fellow parents complain that their child is out of control, cross, or cranky, it's no wonder. The child is exhausted. And so are the parents.

Allowing a child to watch television late into the night is a stimulant. Some will say that the images on the television are harmless, but I completely disagree. You may not find the gunshots on
Law and Order
disturbing, but they will. You are depriving them of more than sleep by keeping them up at night; you are preventing them from developing lifelong good habits around sleep. Let your children develop the delicious habit of falling asleep after bath and book, so they enter the dream state calm and reverent.

Sometimes, after bath and book, Lucia is in bed, and I hear her talking or singing for a few moments. This is her private time before sleep. It's important for her to be alone, to think about her day, and to go off to sleep keeping her own company. One of my jobs as a parent is to guide her so she can be self-sufficient and independent of me someday. Parenting is a temp job. I have just a few years to teach her and enforce healthy habits. A consistent nighttime routine teaches her to develop a capacity to be alone, which I hope will provide her with a well of strength all of her life.

Never strike a child.

When I was growing up, it was absolutely acceptable for adults to hit children to punish them with the ultimate goal of instilling discipline. (It was legal for an adult to paddle a student at my public school.) As a child, I was hit as a disciplinary measure, and I assure you that no good came of it. It did not instill discipline in me, it did not make me a better person, nor did it guide me to right my wrongs, or examine my conscience so I might go forth and behave. It shamed me.

I was a “high-spirited child,” and in a group, I could be disruptive and silly. My worst transgressions, however, did not warrant a “beating.” Yes, that's what Viola called them. She never hit me (nor did Lucy), but Viola had a paddle with a photograph decoupaged on the wood of Depression-era children bending over into a barrel. It was as if they had grabbed a few Walton children from my favorite TV show, and asked them to pose.

The threat of the paddle was enough to scare me; Viola did not have to use it. I'd never seen a thing so awful: a glossed-up plank of wood with a hole drilled into the paddle handle for a lace of rawhide knotted on the end, suitable for hanging on the wall.

When I got older, I joked about the paddle, and “beatings,” but it isn't funny. Under no circumstances should any adult
ever
strike a child (or another adult, or anyone,
ever
, for that matter!). Hitting a child does not encourage better behavior; it creates a cycle of anger in the child, born of the powerlessness that comes from the blows, that when brought into adulthood may go without a name but rises up in other forms, and a deeper sadness that often leads to depression and despair.

The world will be unkind enough to your child (it comes to all of us); she doesn't need those who love her doing the same to her or worse.

Once our daughter was on a routine and began to grow, around the age of three, she began to assert herself. One day we were in her room playing, and she threw a CD down on the floor. I told her to pick it up. She ignored me. I asked her to pick it up. Again she ignored me. Now, I had noticed that my husband had a very clear relationship with my daughter; he was very loving, and also set firm guidelines which she respected. I noticed that she obeyed him when he asked her to do something, like pick up a CD. I did not have the same kind of authority.

So when Lucia ignored me, I said very clearly, “Sit down.” She looked at me, and got defiant. I said, “Lucia, sit down.” And angrily, she went to the chair and sat. I took a chair and sat down in front of her, eye to eye. At first she ignored me; then she began to place her toe on the floor like she was going to stand, and I held my ground. She began to cry, and cry, and cry. I watched the clock out of the corner of my eye, and within five minutes, the tears ebbed and she asked if she could pick up the CD, because she was sorry. I tell you this story because somehow, almost without my consent, I had fallen into the trap that I was the good cop, and my husband would assume the role of the bad cop. Unconsciously, I was copying my own upbringing, and yet I knew it wasn't fair, to my husband, to me, or to Lucia.

One of the aspects of motherhood that never ceases to surprise me is how adaptable children are, and how a bad habit can be deconstructed, and reason can rule if we are firm and clear in our goal. That day, I took control, and to this day, my daughter knows the limits I have put in place. Of course, we have our moments, but they are just moments, not a chaotic, angry way of life.

Never ignore a child.

Hitting a child is wrong; ignoring a child is neglect. Smile when they enter a room, put down the BlackBerry and focus. They need our attention; email can wait. It will be there in five years when your children aren't.

Discipline

Discipline is the art of repetition. True mastery of any talent cannot be achieved without it. In every job, regardless of what it is, there are rote steps and drudge work that must be attended to, whether we are painting a house, composing a symphony, or deciphering income tax forms. Discipline is the technique that helps us, step by step, to see the task through and get the job done to the best of our abilities.

Lucy taught me to enjoy the process of creativity. Each step brings particular satisfaction. Visualizing the finished product is the first step. Choosing the components carefully, then executing the design from pattern to final fitting gives the creator a sense of completion. Then, each creation one by one leads to mastery which in turn becomes excellence.

Good manners are not negotiable.

Lucy taught me directly, and through my mother, the importance of good manners. Manners make those around you feel comfortable and feel that their presence is respected.

The first rule of good manners is the
awareness
of the needs of others. To be polite and kind is the hallmark of good breeding. From an early age, I was taught the basics: Hold the door for the person behind you, regardless of age or gender. Be on time. If you can—of course there are times when circumstances make it impossible, and being late once in a while is human. The only time I tack on an additional fifteen minutes on an arrival time is when I'm going to dinner at a friend's house. I know I always need an extra fifteen when I'm a host, so I pay it forward when I'm the guest.

Viola with her grandchildren in 1970. This photo did not make it into my aunt and uncle's wedding album.

Dining at the table is social, and an opportunity for a child to observe your good habits up close. I never saw my grandmothers eat quickly, gobble food, or swig down a drink. Viola was ladylike, even when she had a beer and cracker after she came in off the tractor. Lucy ate slowly, putting down her fork between bites. The table was properly set in Viola and Lucy's homes for every meal. Neither ate in front of the television set on a regular basis.

Tablecloths for dinner, place mats for breakfast and lunch, a bowl of fruit staggered with nuts as a centerpiece, candles lit, music sailing through in the background—ambience was as important as the right spices in the spaghetti sauce. I learned how to set a table in my grandmothers' homes, and the importance of atmosphere. Eating should not only nourish but soothe and create a construct for conversation. Listening is a star point of beautiful manners, as is inquiring about a guest's family and health. Topics of conversation should
engage
, not
enrage.
Meals are fun, and everyone, down to the baby, should enjoy them. Lucy said arguments at the table made the food poison.

Never burden children with adult problems.

As a widow, Lucy was articulate about what it meant to be alone in making decisions and providing for her family. I told her once that I admired her for all she had accomplished, and she said, “You do what you have to do.”

Lucy wasn't looking for accolades; she was satisfied that she had made it through, and that her children were good people, raised to adulthood with strong values. She told me her greatest worry was that her children would look back on their young years with deep sadness at the loss of their father. Carlo died on August 24, and on August 28, my mom and her twin celebrated their eighth birthday.

Lucy did not want her children to be afraid, so she was stoic. Part of that stoicism was her nature, and some, she worked at. She would exude strength in the face of all challenges, and at the same time let her children be children. She would never burden them with harsh realities, but at the same time, she did not shield them from the truth of their circumstances. There was no shame in being working people. There was no shame in the struggle. It was not a weakness of character to be the opposite of rich. Wealth was not a goal; rather, providing for the family's necessities—food, clothing (she had that covered)—was the financial victory she worked toward. Survival, with all its pits and woes, was a triumph each and every day. Lucy had an ongoing sense of satisfaction that, step by step, she was making it through. She honored every accomplishment, great and small, and this gave her strength of purpose to move forward.