This time last year.

A year ago today, out apple trees and pear trees were laden with sweet fruit.
I made applesauce, apple pies, pear tarts.
My friends and neighbors were showered with fruit products.
Relatives from Washington State spent the weekend with us, and we planned a bigger family reunion  with the rest of the troupe for 2011.

Well, here is October 2011, and we are all scattered to the four winds, bent and busy, barren and beaten.

It turned out that Brian's Memorial Ceremony reunited most  of the relatives, and friends we had not seen since we left Los Angeles ten years ago.  We promised each other to make an effort to come together for joyful occasions, the way God and Patriarchs had intended.

My relatives in Italy, however, will still be missing.

When people left to seek their fortunes on another continent, the send-off was very much like a funeral. People did not return for decades, sometimes never again. Few people have the resources to visit regularly.

Do keep in touch with your loved ones. Time is a precious commodity.

Anniversary: Part Two

My story is the story of America. In every one's memory there is a story of immigration and struggle, of learning new ways and a new language, of homesickness and hope. I'm just rereading Amy Tan's Joy Luck Club, a tour-de-force story of survival, a struggle to keep things normal, a faith in the future, and the unusual bond between a mother and her daughter. I cried the first time I read it; and I'm crying again.

But, I digress.

My story is quite simple, on the surface. My parents sent me to live with relatives in America as I pursued my studies. The plan was for me to return to Italy after a few years as a teacher. I did study; day and night, weekends and holidays, on buses, in closets, in bathrooms, at lunch counters. After four years I graduated with a B. A. in English. (not ESL)

I had great teachers at Immaculate Heart College in Hollywood. In the midst of the 60's revolutions, they sisters and lay faculty molded our dreams and characters. We were exposed to a liberal arts education and challenged to think boldly and ecumenically, beyond our religious parameters. We received world-class education while other campuses were experiencing unrest and revolts.

When I left Italy I had taken two years of English and was proud of my abilities. Maybe too proud. I had so much confidence that I fooled myself too. I thought it would be a matter of weeks before the mumble -jumble I was hearing would become understandable. With my relatives, I was forbidden to speak Italian. The uncle who had sponsored me did not want to translate for his wife. She had made that her first rule. You can imagine the many misapprehensions and misunderstanding the two of us had.

That, is another story, for another time.

I had been admitted to a junior college and attended it for a year before transferring to Immaculate Heart. My salvation? I knew the subject matter already. What I was doing was learning the vocabulary. By the time I transferred to Immaculate Heart I was managing well. It didn't hurt that two neighbor girls still in high school and with whom I shared babysitting duties wanted to be tutored in French and in Mathematics. My French was much better than my English. The arrangement helped.

To end the story, I never returned to Italy because I was hired to teach before I graduated. Catholic schools did not have enough nuns and priests to staff their classrooms, and they were recruiting among the graduates. I substituted for six months, in exchange for tuition during the last semester. By June, they begged me to stay; they prepared the paperwork to change my visa so I could work for pay, and I signed up for another year while I attended graduate school. I taught French, English, History and Philosophy. I postponed my return to Italy. By then, also, I decided to move out of my uncle's house and live at a convent with other lay teachers.

It was during that time that I met my husband, married and lived happily ever after. He wasn't even catholic. Italy and my family had to wait another two years before I could save enough money to pay for new family to visit my homeland.

During holidays though, the tug of homeland is still there, especially at Christmas and Easter.

Now, hubby and I have retired and live away from our own children. This Easter, we'll go up to Bandon Dunes for brunch and watch golfers tee-off at $300 a pop. We'll feel rich and spoiled. Life is good. It isn't perfect. It never was. We always have to give up something in order to reach a new goal. Maybe that's one of the reasons I like Easter so much: it is a story of death and sacrifice, a story of renewal, a story of transformation. However we see the parallels in our own lives, the anniversary reminds us of the arc of our lives, the ups and downs, the constant push to be fully present and in resplendent ascension in our humanity.

Anniversary.

Today is my 50th Anniversary. On this day, in 1959, I arrived at LAX with one suitcase containing four sets of clothes, a dictionary and one dollar. At the airport, I was told I'd be met by an uncle and an aunt who had promised my father they would take could care of me while I studied for the next four years. The TWA jet was late at LAX. It had stopped in Canada for fueling and was delayed because of weather. The stewardess, who spoke Italian and English didn't bother with the only two passengers on board. I assumed I had arrived at my destination and was about to get off the plane when she shouted something. Actually, I didn't understand much of what she said; I understood her gestures and her expression. It was the other passenger, an old woman who boarded the plane with me in Rome, who came to sit by me and translated the message.



She sat with me until we landed in Los Angeles. From Canada to Los Angeles she reassured me that in just a few weeks I would be able to understand everything. Believe me, she said, it will come to you, just as it came to me. She told me about herself, her shuttling back and forth from Italy to Los Angeles, spending winter in one place, summer in another. She had children all over the world. "You'll get used to everything, don't worry." Her words were reassuring. I imagined my life would be a bit like hers for the next few years; I could go to school for nine months and then return home in the summers.



When we landed, there was nobody to meet me. The kind lady asked if she could help. I told her not to worry, I was not scared. But I was. She handed me a piece of paper with her name and telephone number before she disappeared with a brood of children and adults who had met her. What a lovely family, I thought.



Two hours later, my uncle and aunt arrived. They had been on time, they explained; but the airline told them the plane was delayed; they left to get a bite to eat. It was late; I was sleepy and exhausted. We stopped at a drive-in and I had my first burger, fries and coke. I liked the coke.



Every time I have a coke I think of that first taste, the bubbles in my nose, the body aching, the fear of having been abandoned surfacing in my veins. That coke calmed me down that night. And it made that first summer bearable, when I realized that I was not going back home. It still does.



Coca Cola ought to pay me for this advertising!