Don''t Sing at the Table

  Viola’s dream house, where she lived until her death.

  Viola admitted that a proposal from my grandfather was her highest romantic dream. She worried that my grandfather might not choose her. From the time they met, she chose him, even though she had a nice beau at the time. The nice beau, whom she called “the Sheik,” did not pass muster with my great-grandfather, as the fellow was flashy, and my practical Nono (as we called him) did not understand how this debonair suitor made his living.

  Viola listened to her father. She respected him and, in her way, adored him. He was dear and kind, and a dead ringer for Gepetto as described in the Pinocchio story. But for sure, my great-grandfather wasn’t going to offer up his firstborn to a less than wonderful man. So, Nono went to the local priest.

  If becoming a success in business was Viola’s first resolve, her second was to earn her salvation into heaven following the rules of her Roman Catholic religion. If the priest advised my grandmother on any matter, she heeded it. Her wise father knew this, and his plan worked. Viola broke up with Mr. Snazzy and turned her attention to my grandfather, by all accounts a catch, and a handsome, good-natured guy.

  As they swerved and curved in their unlikely romance, Michael left for a time to work in the Bronx, in New York, and then to East Norwalk, Connecticut. I never asked him, as I was so young when he died, why he left Viola behind after meeting her, and there are no clues in his correspondence. I imagine he had his own brand of wanderlust and wasn’t ready to settle down. There are letters, and entries in Viola’s diary that tell me their love was a struggle.

  Sometimes the goal of marriage seemed impossible to Viola, until the day that they took this drive. My grandfather said the magic words in his proposal of marriage: “I was thinking we should buy this house. What do you think, Viola?” She told me that moment changed everything. She knew then how much he loved her; in his query was the meaning. Michael Anthony Trigiani wanted to spend the rest of his life with Viola Perin.

  This house would be their home.

  As soon as my grandmother said yes, and they were married, they went to the bank, and secured the mortgage. My grandmother spent the next fifteen years in her home going to bed each night with the same visual in her head: that of the mortgage contract to the house burning. Viola would focus on this picture until she had paid off the bank and owned their home outright. Every business decision that she made, every dollar that went in the bank, was to pay down that mortgage and eventually to pay it off entirely.

  My grandfather believed in borrowing money, and Viola, in paying it off. Their partnership was evenly balanced in this regard, one side fueling the other to success. Viola told me that marriage was a great invention, because built into the contract is a business deal. There is a checks and balances system in place, if both partners agree to use it. When my grandfather ran the numbers, Viola would check them. When Viola had an idea in the mill, she always ran it by my grandfather. They took their partnership seriously. They went to a proper lawyer to make their contracts. They did not rush the process; they pored over every detail until both were satisfied with every clause and sentence. The partnership contracts for their mill took them three years to negotiate. At this time, they were married for ten years and had four children. Cautious does not begin to describe their approach to business.

  Owning your home takes a leap of faith. Choose what you can afford and what you are certain you can maintain. The current obsession with huge homes with enormous rooms and bathrooms, brand-new, custom built, would seem crazy to my grandmothers. Any home can be a palace, if you don’t walk the floors at night worried about how to pay for it.

  It isn’t square footage that creates opulence; it’s peace, calm, and the comforting knowledge that we can live well within our means that give us security. It would never have occurred to my grandparents to live in a home that they could not afford. A palace ceases to be home when it empties your peace of mind along with your wallet. Your home should not be about status, but about serenity.

  Buying a home was the basis of my grandparents’ overall financial plan. When they moved from Dewey Street to outside of town, they were happy, but the mood was bittersweet. Success bought them their home in the country, but nothing would ever be as sweet as the goal of owning their first home, and the proposal that made the dream come true. Years later, Viola would take the turn off Garibaldi to pass their first home at 37 Dewey Street. She missed it for the rest of her life.

  Invest in the stock market.

  Viola was encouraged to invest in the stock market by her husband, who with a sixth-grade education had risen in esteem in the community as a businessman, becoming a member of the board of directors of the First National Bank in Bangor, Pennsylvania.

  It was a very progressive notion to convince freshly minted Italian Americans to put money in a bank. They were highly suspicious of entrusting anyone with their money, and especially not a corporation in the business of making money. But Viola and Michael not only believed in banks, they put every cent they made into them. There was no mattress with cash, or hidden assets in the wall. For a couple of kids born at the turn of the twentieth century, they were practically financial renegades.

  Early on, with very few dollars, they began to invest and follow the stock market. Viola used to have me read the stock pages aloud to her from the newspaper as she made lunch. I never liked to deliver bad news, but when a stock was down, and I duly reported the information, she’d have a few curse words for the Wall Street Journal.

  Upon Viola’s death, her portfolio included mainly blue-chip stocks in companies that she had a direct understanding of, and whose products she felt an affinity for. The diehards included food companies, energy industries, and the never-fail (!) banking industry. She had managed to hold on to her stock portfolio until her death without raiding it to live. She promised herself that she would live in her home until she died. She visualized that goal also, and made it happen.

  Start working early and never, ever retire.

  Viola earned her first paycheck at the age of fourteen for 60 cents a week, while Lucy earned her first paycheck at the age of seventeen earning two dollars a week. They started working early, and began to save young. They never blew a paycheck, nor were in the position, by their own spending, to be living hand-to-mouth. They encouraged me to do the same.

  Like Viola, Lucy never officially retired. She died on the eve of her ninety-ninth birthday, in a stroke rehabilitation/assisted living hospital. Her hope was to return home, to her life and her shop on West Lake Street. Alas, she never did, but in that time, she never officially closed her shop, or moved from her home. It stood empty, and when I visited her, I would stay there.

  Viola sold her factory building a year after my grandfather’s death. She did not sell the name outright, but liquidated the contents of the mill, the machinery, the remnants of supplies, and the cutting table.

  Viola had now, late in life, a fourth career arc. After working as an operator for hire, then a forelady, and then owning and operating her own business, Viola returned to the mill as a machine operator. She took deep satisfaction from staying in the game. She believed retirement happened when they lowered you into the ground. So Viola officially stopped working in April 1997, when she returned to the Heavenly Father.

  If, God willing, I live long and productively like my grandmothers, and fellow authors such as Mary Higgins Clark and Maeve Binchy, while maintaining strength of body, mind, and a can-do spirit, I plan on never, ever, ever retiring. This is one instance where I can say never. I learned from Lucy and Viola that if you stay in the game and out in the world, there are new things to learn and savor in the final years of life. I plan to hold on to that philosophy until they wrestle the pencil out of my hands.

  It takes more than one job to make a living.

  Lucy was flexible when it came to taking on extra work. She looked at these short-term jobs as a way to make extra money and expand her skill set.

  I try
to take on any job offered me if there is a way that I can fulfill the obligations to the boss’s (producer or publisher) satisfaction. I learn so much when I take on extra work. I meet new people, develop new alliances, and am introduced to new and often better techniques. Sometimes, a side job will encourage new ways of thinking, or a new approach to my work. The additional compensation can go to pay down the mortgage, or provide a budget for a research trip that leads to more work. You never know. So if it doesn’t kill you, do it.

  Plan on the rainy day.

  The rainy day wasn’t a cautionary lyric in a Sinatra song for Lucy and Viola; the wolf was at the door, and he was howling. It wasn’t a matter of whether a rainy day was coming, it was a certainty: so be aware and be prepared.

  Lucy’s worries were centered around the fear that she had no family in this country, and therefore there was no safety net for her children if something bad happened to her. In a sense, Lucy willed her good health and long life, in order to take care of her family. She took care of her health, knowing that if she got sick, the entire structure of the family and the security of her children would be in jeopardy.

  Lucy never complained about her obligations, and while she loved to laugh, listen to opera and read beefy romance novels in Italian, she was thoughtful and private. She appeared, to outsiders, to be stoic and unflappable. But she assured me that there were many nights when she was afraid, and her obligations were so overwhelming, she would give in to her emotions and cry, covering her sobs so her children wouldn’t hear her. I don’t know what kind of a woman my grandmother would have been had her husband lived and realized his dream of becoming a shoe designer, but I imagine, with his gregarious nature, in success, she would have been more carefree.

  Viola, who experienced a level of prosperity, had a different view. She could make the occasional frivolous purchase, and aspire beyond her humble beginnings on the farm, knowing that her partnership with my grandfather would protect her.

  Viola worried about overindulging her children because she had a career. Unlike her childhood friends, who worked as operators, or were exclusively homemakers, she was the Boss, and was burdened with the responsibility of running the mill.

  At the end of a working day, she did not walk away from it. The kind of ambition Viola had in the 1930s and 1940s was the stuff of shop girl storylines in Hollywood movies. She encountered her share of detractors, but nothing mattered to her as much as the dictates of her own conscience. She was proud to work outside her home, and would not have chosen otherwise.

  Lucy was handed her circumstances not by choice but by fate. But I imagine that Lucy’s diligence and craftsmanship would have been there, regardless of the level of success and support she had from Carlo. She was also intent on working, because her craft added dimension and purpose to her life.

  When my mother married, she gave up her career. My parents married in the late 1950s, and that was the expectation. Now, whether my mother suffered because of this is another story entirely. I knew from the time that I was small that my grandmothers ran their own shows. I felt sorry for my beautiful mother that she hadn’t been able to work after she had our family. But as it turns out, my generation is back to basics, surviving like our grandmothers, fending off the wolf at the door.

  Chapter Six

  La Bella Figura

  Viola’s bella figura.

  A serene Lucy.

  The Basics

  Viola established a beauty routine and a look that was simple. She wore cherries in the snow lipstick, Arpège perfume, and a hat in the sun. Her skin creams were strictly Estée Lauder because she appreciated the free gift with purchase. Her sister Helen, the hairdresser, gave her the latest medium cuts for wavy hair, through 1980. Then Viola went with the modified Betty White: height on top, loose waves to the side, fringe of curls in a flip.

  Lucy used a face cream, powder, and a little rouge from time to time. I don’t know what they would make of my tackle box of cosmetics, but whatever I do, I do in the hopes of looking like my grandmothers.

  Begin each day in a state of calm.

  Lucy taught me to begin each day in a state of calm.

  In Lucy’s home, you did not wake up to alarms, chaos, arguments, and noise. Lucy rose an hour before her children, put on her coffee, ate her breakfast, and read her papers, and by the time the children were up, she was ready to help them get up and out the door.

  Eat a good breakfast.

  The small act of rising early and eating breakfast will make a big difference in your state of mind as you face the workday. When we take advantage of the early hours of the morning, we have a chance to think and prepare for our day. Once everyone is up, the day takes off and almost runs away from you. Here, in the serenity of early morning, you can take time for yourself and your thoughts. I read the papers, check my calendar, and read something for pleasure. I prepare my breakfast, Viola style.

  Every morning, Viola prepared her version of a latté, a bowl of steamed milk with half a cup of strong coffee in it. Viola added sugar, and then would take the heel of the bread from the day before and dip it into the milk and coffee. Sometimes she’d break up crackers in the milk instead of the heel of the bread. I substitute whole wheat toast with peanut butter, or I have an egg with the latté.

  The very act of holding the warm, oversize ceramic cup in a big easy chair in the quiet of the morning begins my day with a ritual that reminds me of the women that came before me.

  Lucy’s breakfast routine included a poached egg, toast, and freshly squeezed orange juice. She had an old-fashioned juice squeezer, and she made the juice fresh, as you sat down. She too, steamed milk and put a few tablespoons of fresh-brewed coffee in (yes, I was eleven) with a little sugar. She would have black coffee, juice, and an egg.

  Lucy’s newspapers were on the table. She read Corriere della Sera, the Italian newspaper published in the States, L’Eco di Bergamo from back home in Italy, and of course the Chisholm Free Press, edited by her longtime friend Veda Ponikvar.

  Lucy had a deep interest in politics. She was a lifelong Democrat and kept up on current events in this country and in Italy. She had lived in Italy as the roots of fascism were taking hold, and therefore had strong opinions about democracy.

  Viola read the Easton Express and the Wall Street Journal. When she was a girl, her family were also Democrats, but when she married, she became a Republican, like her husband. In the 1930s, Italian Americans were just getting a foothold in local politics and business, and my grandfather liked the Republican take on small government. He eventually ran for chief burgess (mayor) of Roseto and won. Viola dutifully ran the women’s Republican club in the early to mid-1930s.

  There is no beauty without intelligence.

  Breakfast, politics, reading the newspapers, and being involved in local government may seem at odds with the attributes that create La Bella Figura. For Viola and Lucy, feminine beauty was first and foremost about intelligence. “Nobody likes a pretty dope,” Viola once said. “No matter how pretty she is.”

  Informed opinions, the ability to participate in intelligent conversation, and a personal point of view made a woman interesting, and therefore attractive. Perhaps also, because both of my grandmothers held education in the highest regard, and they were unable to complete their own, they were hungry for information. They were self-educated, so a big component of their ongoing education was staying current. Viola kept the addresses of her congressmen and senators in her phone book, and when she wanted her opinion known, she would write to them.

  Beauty by definition was more than a combination of admirable physical attributes and a dazzling smile. Beauty was a greater ideal that encompassed awareness and ambition. If self-esteem is rooted in pride in one’s accomplishments, my grandmothers knew that no goal could be achieved without the development of a keen and curious mind. It wasn’t enough to have a pretty face, you had to have the smarts to back it up. And if you had the smarts, you’d better use them.

 
Purpose made my grandmothers attractive. Their ability to take care of themselves financially, to live alone happily, and to continue to work long after retirement age gave them energy and confidence. Nothing was more important to Viola and Lucy than to be independent and make their own decisions. They had opinions. Work kept them out in the world, connecting with people of all ages, it also kept them in the moment, and gave them a world view. The scope of their lives did not become narrow as they aged, it grew wider. And now, they had acquired wisdom so they had greater gifts to share. They weren’t consumed with worry about how they looked, because they were busy, living, participating fully in the world around them.

  Widen your net.

  I never saw either of my grandmothers bored. If there wasn’t an obvious project at hand, they created one. The last photograph of Viola, taken two weeks before she died, shows her crocheting as my father stands by. She was busy until the end. When I’m tired and want to quit, their industriousness makes me push harder.

  Viola and Lucy embraced aging as a particular and exhilarating freedom. Lucy looked back on her life with gratitude that she had made it through, and done well by her children. Viola would pick apart the past, and remember slights and hurts, but eventually she let go. At the end of their lives, they looked at the whole of it, the gift of it. Worry and anxiety was replaced with a quiet peace. Lucy and Viola had known romance and experienced true love. They accepted their portion and didn’t hunger beyond what they had been given. The wise woman knows when enough is enough.

  The best years in a woman’s life are after forty.

  Most of Viola and Lucy’s personal accomplishments (outside of their families) were achieved after the age of forty. They used all they had learned, and their experience born of hard work, to grow. They never fell into the trap of believing that the breadth and experience of life narrows as it goes on. Lucy raised three college graduates, an astonishing achievement for an immigrant without connections or education. Her son Orlando was a star athlete who had a four-year basketball scholarship to Notre Dame. Her daughters became librarians. The shoe store did fine, and now, alone, she continued working as a seamstress. Her life after forty brought her beloved brother to visit from Italy, and when she could not, her children and grandchildren went home to Schilpario.