Don't Sing at the Table Read online

  Don’t Sing at the Table

  Life Lessons from My Grandmothers

  Adriana Trigiani

  Dedication

  For Lucia

  Epigraph

  This book is a work of nonfiction based upon my conversations with and observations of my grandmothers, Yolanda Perin Trigiani and Lucia Spada Bonicelli. This is a portrait of my life with them as I knew it. I have told these stories on these pages from my point of view, painted with a personal brush, in colors I chose, for the purpose of sharing my personal experience. Any resemblance to others, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Adriana Trigiani

  New York City

  May 5, 2010

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Chapter One - Viola

  Chapter Two - Lucia

  Chapter Three - The Factory Life

  Chapter Four - Storefront Couturier

  Chapter Five - Security

  Chapter Six - La Bella Figura

  Chapter Seven - Sex and Marriage

  Chapter Eight - The Places You’ll Go

  Chapter Nine - Children

  Chapter Ten - Belief

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from Adriana Trigiani’s The Shoemaker’s Wife

  Chapter 1 - A Gold Ring

  About the Author

  Also by Adriana Trigiani

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Lucia Spada, around age 22.

  Yolanda “Viola” Perin, around age 20.

  Introduction

  Luck is a wily thing. You can have a run of it, or get hit once and hard with the lucky stick, or luck may always seem like that handsome stranger across a crowded room, completely out of reach, even when you’re wearing your best party dress and lipstick. You can see luck when others have it, but you know it’s not your turn. Sometimes it appears that luck is a birthright, making someone else’s life seemed charmed from the outset. Luck is usually seen from a distance, from a place of want.

  Not so for me.

  I was truly lucky to have been given two stellar grandmothers, Lucia Spada Bonicelli (Lucy) and Yolanda Perin Trigiani (Viola). They showed me, in their own ways, how to get out of my own way and carve out a fulfilling life,

  a peaceful life,

  a gracious life,

  and

  a secure life.

  My grandmothers bestowed on me, through their examples, the importance of developing character, rooted in kindness; and a spirit that might negotiate loss and rebound from grief to love more deeply. Their hope was that my spirit would serve to reinforce character when I fell short, made mistakes, or hurt someone I cared about through my own actions. For them, faith was the result of working through the spirit, and a tool, a means to go inward.

  In dark moments when despair kicks joy to the curb, and I feel I don’t have it in me to go one more step, I turn to my grandmothers for strength. In my memory are moments, glistening pop beads, the kind I played with as a girl. I string them together now in my mind’s eye and hold them close. They are not jewels to keep in a vault nor ones that would withstand any sort of appraisal. These are functional pearls, iridescent and simple in their beauty, yet indestructible. Unbreakable.

  As I remember my grandmothers, I marvel at how they spent their time, and how they chose to fill up the years of their long lives. As women, our time is often ruled by the needs of those around us, but when I picture them, it’s never in a crowd, but alone in a window or a doorway. They survived loss and times of deep sorrow, but they would tell you that they were lucky too. They earned their luck by the labor of their own hands and their determination to see a goal through to completion.

  Lucia and Viola poured themselves into the things they made, whether it was strands of fresh spaghetti or a wedding gown of duchess satin. They tended their gardens and their children. They built their companies and their relationships. They made time, they made things, they made a life.

  The life lessons my grandmothers taught me help me stay the course, and here on these pages, I hope their wisdom might inspire you too. The past has a patina. Once the colors were bright and now they have faded. But looking closely now, from a distance, the details emerge richer in tone and texture, and ever more lovely in memory.

  Adriana Trigiani

  New York City

  2010

  Chapter One

  Viola

  Glamorous Viola at age 20.

  Yolanda Perin Trigiani (Viola) stood at five feet five inches, but seemed much taller because she was short-waisted and had long legs. In her youth, she wore wide-brimmed hats, festooned with peacock plumes and adornments (silk flowers, bands of grosgrain, velvet berries), making her appear taller still. Even as a girl she had mature, striking looks and a serious countenance. Her ancestry was apparent in her strong profile, upright posture, and quick stride. “Here comes the Venetian,” they’d say when she walked down Garibaldi Avenue in Roseto, Pennsylvania.

  Viola’s thick, jet-black hair fell in smooth waves. She had a square jaw, a prominent nose with a high bridge, dark brown eyes that were neither large nor limpid, but dark and intense, with a downcast lid (later in life, she contemplated an eye job when her lids became heavy, and it was difficult to read or to see stitch work up close, but decided against the surgery). She had beautiful lips, straight, strong white teeth, and a wide smile.

  Think Joan Crawford.

  My grandfather, Michael (nicknamed “Dick”), thought his Viola was an Italian version of the stunning star.

  In fact, there was a bit of Hollywood stardust to their early courtship—their first date was to the movies to see Joan Crawford in Montana Moon. (By the way, Viola argued years later that they saw Carolina Moon. When I checked the chronology and told her that Joan Crawford made a movie in 1931 called Montana Moon, my grandmother replied, “I was there. It was Carolina Moon.” Oh, well.)

  My grandparents met when they were in their early twenties (he was four years older than she) in a pants factory in Bangor, Pennsylvania. She was tagged as a leader early on. She excelled as a machine operator, then was promoted to forelady by the age of sixteen. By the time she met my grandfather, she was a pro, with a few years of management experience under her belt and fifty operators to oversee. She mastered every machine on the floor, knew how to get the best out of her operators, and managed them to exceed their numbers and output. Operators that worked under her remember her clear, distinctive voice, which could be heard over the loud buzz of machines in the factory.

  Viola and Michael’s love story was fraught with near misses. My grandfather left for a time and worked in mills as a machinist first in the Bronx and then in Connecticut. Viola thought she’d lost him for good. But he eventually returned to his hometown, the factory, and to her, and, in 1932, they married.

  Michael Anthony Trigiani had southern Italian (Bari) good looks, dark hair, full lips, and gray eyes. In pictures, he also seems matinee-idol handsome to me, but that may be Viola’s influence on the subject.

  Back when she was wooing my grandfather, Viola would make him lunch every day and leave it for him in the pressing room. Those lunches became a theme with her. She made Italian delicacies, small, elegant sandwiches made with roasted peppers or thin-sliced capicola on the best bread, buttered lightly and wrapped in bleached, pressed cotton. There were ginger cookies, the size of a quarter, or slices of almond-scented pound cake, or oil pretzels, and always fresh fruit, figs, oranges, or a banana. There were thermoses of hot coffee, or bottles of cold soda. She thought of everything—utensils, napkins, portable ambience.

  At the end of the workday, Viola would pick up the empty basket and take it home to repeat the process the next morning. I wondered what my grandfather’s coworkers thought when their tough forelady extended this loving and gentle gesture to the man she loved each day.

  Viola packed lunches throughout her life for all occasions: hampers loaded for long car trips, goody baskets left on doorsteps for someone in need, and later on, meals on-the-go for social excursions, including her gambling runs with her senior girlfriends to Atlantic City. Viola was not a warm, fuzzy character, but she showed her generosity and caring in those picnic hampers.

  Viola was proud of her homemaking skills, even though she was never exclusively a homemaker. She was a working girl who became a working woman, ultimately co-owning her own blouse factory with my grandfather. A deeper meaning of the partnership was apparent in the name of the company: the Yolanda Manufacturing Company. Her ambition and determination was the engine, the driving force behind the founding of the mill, and the energy field that would sustain it for twenty-six years.

  Viola had the guts and the vision to make the leap from dutiful employee to boss. She also had the work ethic and, now, the experience to court business and satisfy the buyer with a great product. My grandparents were good partners for one another; he was strong, intelligent, and possessed an easygoing nature, while she was a relentless fighter and a demanding boss. My grandfather attracted the investors to put them in business, but Viola’s fine reputation guaranteed that the mill would turn out excellent-quality blouses, on time and without error.

  Years later, when she’d recount the history of the founding of her factory, she always gave credit to the three men who lent them the seed money to open the factory. She didn’t rest until she’d paid them back, with interest. While she worked o
ff the debt, she managed to run the mill, and also build a family. There was never any question in her mind that she would work after marriage, and would have help with child care for her four children.

  For Viola the very nature of femininity was tied to the skills acquired to create a gracious home life. Family meant nurturing, and sustenance meant good food, so she became an expert baker and an excellent cook. Like most farmer’s daughters of her day, they ate from their garden, and survived the winters by creating meals around fruits and vegetables they had canned.

  Viola canned jams and jellies, Italian peppers with alige (anchovies), and sweet pickles. She also “put up” tomatoes, enough that each child (and by extension, their children) in her immediate family would receive cases of peeled and crushed tomatoes every summer after the harvest. Viola sent enough mason jars of tomatoes to make gravy for an entire year, enough to last until the following summer, when the process was repeated.

  Viola, a math whiz, was so good with figures, she could add up what she was spending in the grocery as she shopped. She would maintain a running tally in her head until she made it to the checkout counter. I was amazed when the total on the cash register was within a dollar of her prediction. So it went with the cases of tomatoes—all of her children received exactly what they needed, calculated by how many children each had. It was an uncanny knack—to know exactly what was needed, and then to provide it.

  There was never any waste.

  Ever.

  My grandmother never threw anything away (clothing, bank records, contracts, wills, newspaper clippings, photographs; which is why I am able to write this book!). When I implored her to clean out her attic, she said, “What if I need that ribbon I saved someday?” She even saved the sheets of wax paper from cereal boxes. When unfolded and pressed, they were the perfect size on which to cool and stack the handmade crêpes she made for manicotti shells.

  Viola honored her tools and took care of them. In the deep drawers of her kitchen were her mother’s utensils—she used the same wooden-handled eggbeater and rolling pin that her mother had used back on the farm in Delabole. Viola took such excellent care of them, I use them today.

  Viola’s home was clean, neat, and orderly. She had a touch of an old-fashioned Mother Superior in her, as well as a hint of a grunt novitiate. She knew how to scrub, swab, and rinse like a nun working off a Lenten penance. There was something downright military about her approach to cleaning. When she taught me how to scrub a floor, she would wring out the moppeen with such force, the rag would be dry when she handed it to me. Her upper-body strength stayed with her to her death in the spring of her ninetieth year.

  There was a duality in her approach to life, as she ran the factory and her home on parallel rails. She was a powerhouse in the mill, a taskmaster of a boss, unyielding in her quest for perfection. She worked through sick days and holiday weekends, and made no apologies for wanting to make “good money.” If an operator was absent, Viola would sit down at the machine and cover for her. There was no difference in her mind between the manager and the employee. Her belief was that you got the job done—no matter what. But as driven as she was at work, she was just as insistent about being feminine: charming, interesting, socially engaging, and—the highest dream of all—elegant. American glamour was a goal. She believed sophistication was achieved by being an excellent hostess.

  Viola in pearls on Delabole Farm, with her family in 1928.

  Viola lived in four homes in her lifetime. Her parents emigrated from the Veneto on their wedding day in 1906, after a short stint with relatives, and moved into a two-room house with a slate roof in Delabole, where Viola was born a year later. The rent on their home was $3.00 a month, which the newlyweds could manage because Viola’s father went to work in the Slate Quarry immediately. Eventually, they moved close by to a farm set amid the rolling hills of northeastern Pennsylvania where the family grew to include five more children.

  Viola’s father, Davide, was a hardy but tender soul, loaded with ambition. Viola told me he worked from morning until night without complaint, pulling double duty on the farm and in the slate quarry. Viola’s determination came from his example, and was also born of necessity. When Viola’s mother died young at forty-three from pneumonia, the responsibility of running the home fell to her, as well as the care of the baby of the family, only five years old.

  Delabole farm was rustic yet lovely. There was a barn with cows (my great-grandfather made a good living supplementing his income from the local slate quarries by delivering milk during the Great Depression through his company, Slate Springs Farm). There was a hay silo, an old red barn for the horses, and a springhouse. The yard around the house was lumpy with rocks, but the goats kept the grass at a manageable length.

  There were no touches of opulence, no chandelier over the kitchen table, no fancy lamps or silk curtains. The farmhouse was comfortable and clean, with linoleum floors that could take a daily mop-down. Viola wrote, “We children attended the school across the road where our teacher taught eight grades. I went to school at the age of four not knowing a word of English. The teacher asked my name. I said, ‘Yola,’ so she named me ‘Viola.’ ”

  When Viola married, she moved to town, four miles away, into a charming brick home at 37 Dewey Street in Roseto, Pennsylvania, with a backyard where she planted a garden and could hang out the wash. They bought the de rigueur 1930s furniture suite in dark Victorian mahogany, like other young couples in Roseto. She replaced the linoleum floors of her youth with polished wood covered by wool rugs.

  In 1952, when her children were still young, Viola moved with her family to Flicksville, a small village outside Roseto, and into the home of their dreams, a Tudor built by a Bethlehem Steel executive, set high on a hill with an in-ground swimming pool on a few acres surrounded by lush woods. My grandfather, having grown up on Garibaldi Avenue in Roseto, was ready for a change, far enough away but not too far from his roots. As it turned out, neither Viola nor her husband Michael ventured far from their birthplaces. Only a few miles separate Roseto, Delabole, and Flicksville. My grandparents were buried in Roseto, a short walk from their first home as a married couple on Dewey Street.

  Flicksville was their final home. They enjoyed the setting, and poured a lot of effort into the upkeep of the land. Viola loved the house too, and lucky for her, it was closer to their mill in Martins Creek.

  I remember her kitchen.

  Ornate thick wooden doors, the kind you’d expect to find in an English castle, led into Viola’s kitchen from a slate-covered stoop in the back of the house, next to the garage and off the driveway. The color scheme was pure 1950s: aqua and Pepto-Bismol pink. There was pink straw wallpaper, and brown walnut cabinetry with black hinges shaped like swords held by armored knights. The linoleum floor was starstruck, literally—wide stripes of aqua and pink inset with shiny brass stars.

  The kitchen was small by today’s standards, but it contained absolutely everything Viola needed to turn out dinner parties for twenty guests or more. (Full disclosure: in the basement below the kitchen was a “canning kitchen” with a stove in the laundry room typical of many Italian American homes.) In the official upstairs kitchen were two generous countertops with recessed lighting for prep and assembly. There was a deep stainless steel double sink framed by windows, a four-burner electric stove, and an oven set into the wall, surrounded by more cabinetry. Tucked into a corner was a small pink linoleum desk in an alcove with a pink phone hanging on the wall, the phone number printed on the circular dial: 588-5746. It had an extra-long spiral of pink cord so Viola could talk on the phone and cook at the same time.

  In the connecting breakfast nook sat a table built by my grandfather and two straight walnut benches, by a big window that overlooked the grounds. On the opposite wall stood a plate armoire, made by a carpenter friend of my grandfather’s. A series of plates depicting foxhunting scenes in the English countryside were centered carefully in the dish grooves.