I worked every weekend but never got paid. The place was my Nona's two family home down the block. She was a savent in home economics. Folding fitted sheets, ironing linen and canning the tomatoes from her garden was what she taught like a Machivelli, even though she never finished eighth grade.. Household 101 as I called it, was to perfect the necessary skills I needed for my future career as housewife. The only job my encouraged by my parents.

I'd just turned nine, and Nona insisted on grooming me to perfection. I was her only granddaughter in America and she constantly exclaimed, "She didn't want to lose face with the relatives back home in Italy." They criticized our decision to move to America, "Saying I'd end up smoking, going to college, or something worse. I knew the something worse was ending up like Carmella Dragone. She was seventeen, unwed and had a two year old.

I sat at the dinette table buttering a panettone, wondering why my parents and Nona converted their basements into mini apartments. I wanted to be like everyone else on this block and eat in the upstairs kitchen next to the living room and not by the garage door. But, I knew they did not want their Capodimonte figurines to smell like oil and garlic.

Everyone on the block said Nona was lucky. Her tenant was an old man named Nunzio, he was quiet, paid the rent on time, and spent his retired days washing and setting his ninety year old mother's hair. Our tenets were a newlywed couple that took long showers and for some reason, made a lot of noise during the night.

I reached for my backpack which I always brought along with me. There was a spelling bee on Monday. Last week I misspelled the word amoeba. I really wanted to win this week and impress the teacher. She was unlike any woman I knew. She wore make up and frosted her hair. In a timid voice said, " I have to study for something very important today." I watched Nona and braced myself for her wrath. She hated anything that deterred me from her lesson plan.

She struck a match , and hollered. " Important! You do not know what is important yet." She lit the candle in front of the Saint Anthony statue. " Whatsa you family gonna eat when you married? Homework? Learn to make minestrone instead."

Nona always spoke loud. Sometimes it frightened me. She claimed it wasn't yelling but getting her point across clearly. But I felt it was because she had to make up for her the fact that she stood four foot nine. She always wore a heavy medallion around her thick neck and piled her white hair in a bun giving her a matriarchal look. The angles of her face were sharp and reminded me of the black and white photo where the people never smiled. Yet, despite her strictness, I adored everything about her.


She shoved the backpack aside, sat next to me and took my hand. I'd forgotten it was prayer time. We began a novena in Italian, Nona always said, "It wasa gooda for our souls. And hopefully get us into heaven." I'd try to concentrate but end up daydreaming about Keith Donavan's tiny nose and freckles. I wished he'd smile at me once in a while instead of the light haired girls in class.

It was then I noticed the freshly killed chicken on the counter. I tried not to stare at the twiggy legs, scrawny neck and open beak. Poor thing, just this morning it had laid eggs in the coup in Nona's back yard. The neighbor's said they were going to call the ASPCA, but Nona told them to "Shut upa."

I interrupted her muttering, "Nona, why can't we buy the packaged chicken from the A&P, the one that is my favorite color, marigold yellow? It is sold twenty four hours a day." I want to eat that chicken."

With out opening her old eyes she gave a disgusted look, " That chickena is full of chemicals. Today, bella mia, you are going to learn how to make minestrone soup. " She said it as if she was reciting Torquato Tasso, the famous poet from Sorento, Italy. She rose and blew out the candle.

"Cut those potatoes and fill the big pot with water." She ordered and began plucking the feathers off the chicken, it amazed me how her splayed arthritic fingers managed to sew the tiniest stitch, thread a needle, and ho the garden effortlessly. Meanwhile it usually took me several minutes to fold the towels the way she wanted.

The crystal cloudless sky beckoned me. I didn't want to spend another day doing these things. Today I wanted to play kick ball with the neighborhood kids. I was hoping they'd accept me into their circle, maybe invite me over for one of those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the one with the edges neatly trimmed off. I was tired of eating Nutella on peasant bread, chopping vegetables or making the perfect cross stitch.

I rose from the chair and tugged at her elbow. "Can't I go outside to play just this once? Please, please, please." I whined and carried on just like the chicken probably did before she broke it's neck.

Her old eyes looked tired now, weary from having to deal with a child at her age. I was her only granddaughter in America, and this made me her favorite. I loved the story she told of when I was born she pierced my ears with a needle. Everyone said I looked like a beautiful baby princess with thread as jewelry. I knew she could never refuse me. She hesitated then said, " Okaya Okaya. But I no like them kids. They fresh mouth and sustomato."

She was right, the neighborhood kids knew all of the curse word, and were very disrespectful. I'd never repeat anything they said, because I'd get a smack on the arm with the wooden spoon for sure.

Nona walked over to the window sill and held out my necklace, "Don't forget to wear the mal occhia charm."

I paused and remembered last time the kids teased me about it, saying I was weird. I loved my heritage, but today I did not want to look like an Ellis Island immigrant decked out with paraphernalia from the old country. And I could not tell Nona this, she would be insulted and I'd have to hear a lecture so I lied and said. " I do not believe in superstitions anymore."

Her mouth fell open. She leaned back as if I'd cursed all the saints on Easter Sunday. At that moment I felt terrible, and could not blame her for holding on to silly folk lore. On her own, Nona managed to smuggle a year's worth of provolone and homemade salamis in her valise when she came to America. She believed Saint Anthony helped her pass through customs easily.These small things helped her remember Avellino, Italy. Her old world superstitions were as much part of her as seeds were to the tomatoes she planted in the garden.

Quickly, I undid my braids and changed into Keds sneakers. She watched, horror stricken. " Whatsa matter, You ashamed to be Italian alla sudden?"

In a way I did not want to admit that I was a little ashamed to be ashamed. But I had made up my mind. Today I was determined to fit in with the neighborhood and the kids who lived here, get to throw the Frisbee, and possibly teach them what the word fungool' means. Maybe then they would like me. Nona tried to block the side door with her arms, but I was quick and ran past her before she could pinch my cheeks raw for disobeying her.

Her raspy voice cried out. " No come cryin' to me when your husband says you don't know how to make a minestrone!''

I ignored her, not caring about a husband, children or the correct temperature setting for laundry. I ran to the front yard. A group of the neighborhood kids were standing in a circle. They were making teams for the kick ball game. I smoothed my frizzy hair, made a quick sign of the cross, and eagerly approached them.




To be continued.........