Each spring my peasant DNA demands expression. The primal need to get my hands into the loess of a garden urges me to plan a garden. There’s nothing like the smell of good soil; the feel of well turned dirt is incomparable! The sounds of birds building nests and tending their young fill my heart with delight. Life has returned to the Midwest. I am at-one with nature.
"The year’s at the spring
And day’s at the morn;
…
I spend hours of back breaking labor joyfully, kneeling in reverence to Mother Nature. The floral theme for the front yard is red and white this year. Nearly four dozen candy striped impatiens will greet visitors drawn to the Veranda which is surrounded by red and while striped geraniums and firecracker salvias. Soon baby rabbits will poke their heads out from the tell-tale holes we found in the front yard.
The back will host a variety of vegetables, herbs, and flowers. I have great hopes for the gladiolas. Sun exposure is perfect for the comestibles. Shady areas will feature forget-me-nots and the left over impatiens. Jolly dahlias will greet those who enter the yard. Peonies provide an early burst of color. The five-varieties-in-one apple tree already has delightful “baby apples.” Adding to the tree’s charm is a robin’s nest, carefully guarded by mom and pop red-breast.
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn:
All the plants are in. I can sit back and reap the benefits of my plans and toil. My husband has helped with the drudge work. He, however, is not as “at-one” with the seasons as I. The cause of his unease is the pesky squirrel.
My husband has a “thing” about squirrels. He hates them. We have a large red oak in the backyard that provides beauty and shade. Hubby insists that the squirrels use the tree to bombard him with acorns in the fall. Marksmen squirrels take turns dropping their missiles on his head. He wanted to have the tree cut down last year, but rationality prevailed.
The oak is perfect for aerie squirrel nests. Parent squirrels break off branches and tear leaves to make their cozy home. A high and comfortable platform where large branches diverge makes secure footing for their fledgling rodents. Three times this spring the man has risked life and limb to knock the nests down. He has fashioned a nest destroying pike from the extendable tree trimmer. He wields his pike with abandon while precariously perched on an extension ladder.
I expect to be made a widow over those squirrels. “What harm are they doing?” I ask. “After all the poor things have to live somewhere.” I urge him to relax, enjoy, and stop to smell the roses. I exhort him to be at-one with nature.
God’s in his heaven—
All’s right with the world." [Robert Browning’s Pippa Passes]
He should be more like me, attuned to the rhythms of the earth. He must learn to enjoy birdsong at dawn; listen for the twitter of baby robins with sweet anticipation; yearn for an early glimpse of those adorable baby bunnies.
Wait! From the front gutters a secret sparrow nest spills groundflood too near the foundation. Those d---d rabbits are eating my geraniums and salvias. Squirrels have been digging up the corms. All those hours on my knees! Husband, hand me your pike.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
Italian Americans in Chicago
On Thursday, May 8, the Casa Italia in the Chicago suburb of Stone Park was the venue for the start of a three day conference dedicated to exploring the roots of the Italian American experience in the Chicago area. The official title of the conference was “Reconstructing Italians in Chicago: 25 Authors in Search of Roots and Branches.” It was both a celebration and a process of discovery.
Two of principal organizers were Dominic Candeloro and Fred L. Gardaphe, both professors of Italian American studies at their respective universities—University of Illinois at Chicago and New York’s SUNY. Their energy and enthusiasm was matched only by their hard work. Much of the success of the conference can be attributed to their vision, dedication, and sweat equity. Many other committed researchers and writers contributed to the success of the event.
The presentations were varied and my appreciation for my ancestors enlarged. Although I was able to attend only the first day, I was impressed by the energy exhibited. I learned a great deal that day, and, of course, ate well in the process. I would like to share some of the “epiphanies” I experienced.
Billy Lombardo is a spare and fierce young man. He is passionate about his writing, his family, and his Italian American heritage. Billy is gifted. After telling the audience about his Bridgeport neighborhood experiences, he read a portion of his book, The Logic of the Rose. WOW! What a magnificent command of language that man possesses. His book is a prose work well worth reading. His poetry must be fantastic.
The irony of early twentieth century do-gooders brought a smile to my face. Social workers and nutritionists tried in vain to eradicate the eating habits of southern Italians. They tried to replace their healthful diets of whole grains, olive oil, and vegetables with red meat and potatoes. Little could they have predicted that today’s Mediterranean Diet is lauded by the medical profession.
I had no idea that Italian American communities flourished beyond the near West Side of Chicago, near Taylor Street. There were so many neighborhoods with their churches and community organizations. There were too many neighborhoods to enable Italian Americans the political clout that the Irish and other immigrants have achieved. Several speakers indicated that this Chicago Diaspora within the larger Immigrant Diaspora was intentional. Italian American neighborhoods were gerrymandered to prevent political power accruing to this group. Chicago Italian Americans will never forgive Mayor Richard J. Daley’s theft of “Little Italy.” This vibrant neighborhood was sacrificed to the University of Illinois at Chicago’s Circle Campus.
Several of the speakers revealed the anguish they endured while struggling with academia in order to have the Italian American immigrant experience admitted as a field of legitimate study. Doctoral degrees were placed in peril just trying to get permission to explore the field. It remains difficult to this day. One must ask why our families’ experiences and the talent of Italian American writers are considered unworthy of scholarly study. The sting of rejection is a deep and extensive. It pervades our identity.
The stench of the Sopranos, the Godfather and the Black Hand lingers subliminally when others think of Italian Americans. It will never wash away. This stigma denigrates the accomplishment and generosity of the real Italian American. Will we always be different, sullied by the assumption that somewhere in each family tree lurks a Mafioso?
I have always been somewhat uncomfortable with my Italian American Heritage. My mother did not have Italian ancestry. I was the family’s first “half breed.” I never quite belonged. This separation deprived me of an appreciation of an important part of my identity. I have come to realize that my Italian American relatives were as vulnerable as I. Conferences like the one in Stone Park clarify memories. My Italian American heritage becomes a legitimate source of strength. Beneficial reconstruction of my roots was promoted by Thursday’s experiences. Wish you could have been there!
Two of principal organizers were Dominic Candeloro and Fred L. Gardaphe, both professors of Italian American studies at their respective universities—University of Illinois at Chicago and New York’s SUNY. Their energy and enthusiasm was matched only by their hard work. Much of the success of the conference can be attributed to their vision, dedication, and sweat equity. Many other committed researchers and writers contributed to the success of the event.
The presentations were varied and my appreciation for my ancestors enlarged. Although I was able to attend only the first day, I was impressed by the energy exhibited. I learned a great deal that day, and, of course, ate well in the process. I would like to share some of the “epiphanies” I experienced.
Billy Lombardo is a spare and fierce young man. He is passionate about his writing, his family, and his Italian American heritage. Billy is gifted. After telling the audience about his Bridgeport neighborhood experiences, he read a portion of his book, The Logic of the Rose. WOW! What a magnificent command of language that man possesses. His book is a prose work well worth reading. His poetry must be fantastic.
The irony of early twentieth century do-gooders brought a smile to my face. Social workers and nutritionists tried in vain to eradicate the eating habits of southern Italians. They tried to replace their healthful diets of whole grains, olive oil, and vegetables with red meat and potatoes. Little could they have predicted that today’s Mediterranean Diet is lauded by the medical profession.
I had no idea that Italian American communities flourished beyond the near West Side of Chicago, near Taylor Street. There were so many neighborhoods with their churches and community organizations. There were too many neighborhoods to enable Italian Americans the political clout that the Irish and other immigrants have achieved. Several speakers indicated that this Chicago Diaspora within the larger Immigrant Diaspora was intentional. Italian American neighborhoods were gerrymandered to prevent political power accruing to this group. Chicago Italian Americans will never forgive Mayor Richard J. Daley’s theft of “Little Italy.” This vibrant neighborhood was sacrificed to the University of Illinois at Chicago’s Circle Campus.
Several of the speakers revealed the anguish they endured while struggling with academia in order to have the Italian American immigrant experience admitted as a field of legitimate study. Doctoral degrees were placed in peril just trying to get permission to explore the field. It remains difficult to this day. One must ask why our families’ experiences and the talent of Italian American writers are considered unworthy of scholarly study. The sting of rejection is a deep and extensive. It pervades our identity.
The stench of the Sopranos, the Godfather and the Black Hand lingers subliminally when others think of Italian Americans. It will never wash away. This stigma denigrates the accomplishment and generosity of the real Italian American. Will we always be different, sullied by the assumption that somewhere in each family tree lurks a Mafioso?
I have always been somewhat uncomfortable with my Italian American Heritage. My mother did not have Italian ancestry. I was the family’s first “half breed.” I never quite belonged. This separation deprived me of an appreciation of an important part of my identity. I have come to realize that my Italian American relatives were as vulnerable as I. Conferences like the one in Stone Park clarify memories. My Italian American heritage becomes a legitimate source of strength. Beneficial reconstruction of my roots was promoted by Thursday’s experiences. Wish you could have been there!
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