American Woman, Italian Style: Italian Americana's Best Writings on Women

A Taste of Memories

A Taste of Memories catherine tripalin murray 1998 Each concrete level leading up to the screen door of Ben DiSalvo’s Market in Madison, Wisconsin, was a challenge. Big steps, little legs, tiny feet. There was no way of knowing back then that each step taken was not only an achievement of sorts for a small child but also a giant step in the right direction. For beyond the door, standing on worn wood flooring and a ceiling fan slowly spinning overhead, I discovered a fragment of my heritage. I received a nod of approval from the handsome, white-haired, smiling proprietor from Bagheria as he stooped to my level and handed me a small paper bag of semenses (roasted, salted pumpkin seeds) to nibble on. He and my father traded greetings. These experiences at DiSalvo’s became perennial blossoms of intense ethnic identity for me. When the combination shopping trip/visit to the old Greenbush neighborhood culminated with a ring of the cash register, we hugged goodbye and left the store carrying a long, narrow package of bulk vermicelli, a package of homemade fennel-studded Italian sausage links wrapped in butcher’s paper, a heavy tin of Italy Brand olive oil, and a pungent chunk of Romano cheese for grating. For some reason, every moment from that particular day seemed to be stored within my cache of childhood memories. Was the grass really greener in Greenbush? Apparently, I thought so. I liked the faces I saw and the language I heard. I loved the food with mouth-watering aromas that wafted from house to house by breezes off Lake Monona—aromas similar to those that lingered in our kitchen, miles away on the east side of town. My Hungarian -born mother made few Italian meals for my Sicilian-born father, but when she did, the scents and tastes were worth remembering. I enjoyed visits to the old Greenbush neighborhood in Madison, Wisconsin , where my father once lived. As a small child, I sensed an aura, an indescribable feeling that I belonged. But something happened that day as 143 144 Catherine Tripalin Murray we left Mr. DiSalvo’s corner store that would further nourish my Italian pride. As we turned to the right on Regent Street and headed toward Daddy ’s two-tone gray Chevrolet parked alongside the curb, a group of ladies standing together at the corner turned to look at us. Within seconds, their hands were in the air. Quickly moving in our direction, they seemed frantic with excitement. My father was the son of their deceased friend, my grandmother , and it was an opportunity for them to make a connection with her. Besides, my father was a city sports hero, a fine athlete from the old neighborhood whose picture had appeared often in local newspapers. ‘‘Michele! Michele!’’ they shouted. The Italian community respected him and they were proud of knowing Daddy well enough to embrace him. While my grandmother’s friends were filling a void in my life, another chapter was being etched before my eyes. Each tiny white-haired woman wore a bun secured with hairpins at the nape of her neck and gold earrings that hung loosely from aging earlobes. All the women wore black—solid black. Black shoes, long stockings, and dresses. And each tiny woman clutched a white handkerchief in her wrinkled hand. They were all talking at the same time when they reached us. There were many hugs of admiration I wouldn’t understand until years later. After making a fuss over Daddy, they turned to me. One at a time, each woman cupped my face in her hands before placing one hand over her heart as the other hand was raised toward the sky. Looking up, then down at me, and in a rapid stream of language with sound levels rising to parallel the drama, each one assured Daddy of how much I looked like his mother, their friend, the woman Greenbush residents referred to as ‘‘Donna Caterina.’’ My grandmother, or ‘‘Nonna’’ as she would have been called, died a week before I was born. I never had a chance to hear her Sicilian songs or discover the pride in her eyes that would accompany the love she was waiting to shower on me. I missed spending time with her as she prepared old world recipes in her new world kitchen. She was a twentieth-century immigrant and her name was Caterina. I became an American version of her and was...