The holidays in the last two months of the year – namely, Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc. – are often times for sharing hearty meals and catching up with relatives and friends we may not have seen for a while. These can be happy occasions, awkward encounters, or even stormy confrontations. Sometimes, these get-togethers lead to sad realizations about others and even about ourselves.
Years ago, when I still lived at home with my parents in Italy, I dreaded Christmas Eve. Not because of the food, though. Allow me this little digression:
As some of you may know, Catholic Italians traditionally celebrate Christmas Eve with a sumptuous meal of seafood. Both in Italy and America, relatives and other invitees come over in the early evening to dine on a vast array of fish and shellfish dishes. There are always tons of shrimp prepared in all sorts of ways, from braised or boiled for dipping in cocktail sauce, to stuffed and baked, and even in a rich marinara sauce for the bowls of pasta that kick off the meal. And, of course, there must be baccalà (dried salted cod), clams, mussels, octopus, fried calamari (squid) rings, and – particularly in Italy – capitone (a large eel) grilled, stewed, or baked. Guests can also enjoy salads, cheeses, stuffed mushrooms, latke-type patties of artichoke and other vegetables. The wine flows freely, and if that isn’t enough, there’s a table loaded with creamy pastries, homemade Italian cookies, cakes, and, in the U.S., cheesecakes.
Every December 24 in Italy, my father, mother, and I would have everything ready by 7 p.m. Then we’d wait. And wait. And wait for my sister, her husband, and their children to arrive. (My other sister was already in the U.S.) My father would grow angrier as each hour passed. Eight. Nine. No car in sight. He’d grumble that he was starving, that we should start to eat. My mom and I would convince him to wait, that it would only be a little longer before they arrived. Nine-thirty. When I again spoke in favor of my sister, my father finally exploded like Vesuvius. He called me lazy, stupid, all sorts of insults. Daggers in my heart and self-esteem. Me, a grown man, I wanted to cry. I escaped to my room. My mom came in and tried to comfort me. Headlights – the brood had finally arrived. I had lost my appetite. I knew I could not live there any more. I had to get away for good.
After overindulging at a recent seafood extravaganza at the house of one of my sisters, I was rubbing my stomach when I got into conversation with my cousin “Maurizio,” or “Mike” as he calls himself for the benefit of non-Italian speakers. He and his wife “Rina” had driven up 14 hours from a southern state. More precisely, Mike did all of the driving, as he always has. They would catch a few hours of sleep at road stops along the way.
Mike had dark circles under his eyes. He looked drawn, thin, and preoccupied. Unlike the last time I saw him, nearly a year ago, he used a walker and had a light motorized wheelchair in the trunk of his vehicle. Rina, who only has Mike and their adult children in the U.S., seemed to enjoy chatting and joking with her husband’s relatives and extended family. But her eyes betrayed her sadness.
Mike was diagnosed with a degenerative disease 15 years ago. His condition marches forth mercilessly, causing him pain, vision problems, insomnia, and anxiety. Some months ago, he inexplicably moved from a mid-Atlantic state to the south. To do so, he and his wife had to dispose of most of the contents of a very large, lovely house that was fully furnished and tastefully decorated with mementos from Italy, family portraits, and other precious memorabilia. All to enable downsizing to a one-floor, smaller house in a cookie-cutter development.
We were all puzzled by the move. Yes, Mike rattled on about how much he saved on property taxes, certainly a concern after he became too weak to keep working. He also raved about how much warmer the climate is down south and how much slower the pace of life is.
And that was the rub: both Mike and Rina had lived in the North since coming as youngsters from Italy. Mike was a teenager when he had arrived alone, and Rina was a toddler when her parents brought her over. The faster pace, the diversity of cultures, the access to the arts, entertainment, not to mention to good, Italian food was all they had known for more than 40 years. They were also used to spending time with relatives and friends as frequently as they wanted. How did they expect, we wondered, to adjust quickly to such a big change in their lives? And, with Mike’s condition, why would he choose to move so far away from those who loved him and could possibly help?
“He ran away,” Rina said to my wife and the other women who elected to stay put when some of the men (including me) whisked Mike off to a nearby casino – one of his favorite ways to pass time; the nearest one to him is hours away from his town. We had figured out long before that Mike chose to hide himself. “He doesn’t like anyone to see him the way he is,” Rina explained. Mike was always proud of his accomplishments. The reversal of fortune must be devastating to him.
Because of his condition, Mike now spends his entire day home, alone, waiting for Rina to return from her part-time job that pays poorly but provides them with health insurance. It is a job that does not allow Rina to utilize her considerable talents and experience, and she has been chastised by her co-workers for working “too fast.” She finds little in common with her colleagues, who are cordial but not too interested in her. Rina thinks that, as a “Northerner,” she will never see this change.
Before he moved, Mike used to go out with friends for meals and drinks, casino trips, lectures, films, concerts, food festivals, etc. Even if some of those outlets were available in his new surroundings, he is physically unable to take advantage of them. And, being so far away, few of his friends are able to see him any more. Rina said that many of them have even stopped calling him. I understand. Even I don’t call as much as I used to because I don’t want to bother him and I don’t know what to say to make him feel better.
I wish Mike and Rina could find a way to return to this area where I live or to someplace a lot closer. But, the truth is, my sisters and I and our spouses are all aging and dealing with our own deteriorating bodies and capabilities. So how much could we really help, other than seeing them a bit more frequently and being more available for moral support?
If I could run away anywhere, it would be back to my youth. As things are, one or two situations bother me, a lot. But I am mostly content with my life as it is. I just hope I can figure things out as I go along, as free of fear as possible.
Let me know if you like this post and if you have a comment. Has anything similar happened to you?
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Greener Grass, Bluer Skies –Sicily photo courtesy of Anton
ANTON CIRCLES HIS WORLD 