Back in those duffel bag green days of World War II Carl Donisi and I sat side by side in a red brick Catholic grade school. Every week I asked him how to say things such as city and soldier in Italian I had heard people in little grocery stores speak that language. “Sing” might be a better verb than “speak” because their conversations were operas to me. The black typewriter called English banged out words like winter, spring and chicken while the green Italian violin played vernata, primavera and gallina. By the fourth grade I preferred domani to tomorrow and pomodore to tomatoes. But I discovered that the biggest family in Italy was its language. Every word had sisters and cousins and brothers and grandmas. I wrote all the words that Carl gave me on 3” x 5” cards. A little white skyline of 3”x 5” card buildings rose taller and taller atop my bedroom dresser. I studied these vertical dictionaries and listened to the TRUE-TONE radio. The Lone Ranger program was just the time to review the colors. Nero, bianco, rosso…. During The Cavalcade of America, I reshuffled deck after deck of the Italian card game to test myself with new word combinations. The The Cavalcade of America told how great American presidents had saved the Republic. One evening President Jackson conquered the banks and another night President Jefferson preserved the peace. Autumn rains brought to my windowpane short water drop comets that silvered in the lights of a car and turned black when the car had passed the house. I’d munch a chunk of peanut butter fudge and pronounce words like bella giornata, solo, splendoso…. What kept me going? I wanted to go to Italy and speak to the people in Italian. That same year our school and town and Ohio moved into a green December that became a white December a week before Christmas. One day Carl invited me to dinner at his house on Charles Street. He took something from a shirt pocket and placed it in my hand: a black rectangle of printed words on a little blue paper. “Italiano?” Right. Mom’s idea. She wants you to read this little Christmas story.” “When?” “Christmas Eve” “Okay, I’ll try.” At recess during the three school days before Christmas vacation Carl “sang” the sounds of the story and I imitated his voice. On the appointed evening, Dad drove me to Carl’s place. The little white houses and snow-covered yards on Charles Street had been colored by Mother Nature with a blue crayon. “You all set with that story?” Dad asked. “As ready as can be,” I said. He waved and left me at the curb. Winds whined through porches and claimed them for Siberia. I noticed the blue-framed board faces of houses. I knocked on a door and a short woman in a white apron opened it. “Como sta,” I said to Mrs. Donisi and stepped inside. From the warm living room I could see through the dining room to the kitchen. Her famiglia grande stood or sat everywhere. “Bene,” she laughed and spoke a paragraph of rapid Italian. “Como sta,” I answered. “You ready?” she asked. I nodded my head and she hurried back to the stove. My North Pole hands reached into my pants pockets for the little blue paper. I found a small white ball of thread, two dimes and an old yellow bus token. In the other pants! The pants Mother washed that morning. How can I explain this to them? “Here is my family,” said Carl. “This is Angelo. Hello, Angelo. This is Dan. Como sta, Dan. This is Camillle. Hello Camille. This is Jenny. Hello Jenny.” I met everyone there from Frank and Florenda to Mimi and Mary. Tony I already knew from school. Ed was still at a lonely army camp in Texas where cold north winds rolled tumbleweeds over a black-tar parade ground. He had written that in a letter to his parents. But, was Ed in Texas or here? With such a big family, did Carl or anyone else know for certain who was home for Christmas and who was missing? So many faces and names! In my book everyone there could have been called Carl. The brothers and sisters were Carl at different ages, Carl a soldier in khaki, a fifteen-year old girl and even a bambina. They all had his black hair, brown eyes and white crescent smile, the smile of Italia. Most of all they had his big arms and broad shoulders. The bare Christmas tree also had arms, many sets of green arms that stretched out in a pose of eternal questioning. “I’m here,” he said. “Where the diamondi? Where…..?” But here came Mimi and Jenny with cardboard boxes of gold, silver and purple ornaments. Angelo laughed at his sisters and followed with strings of red, yellow and blue lights. Mrs. Donisi continued to work over the stove while everyone else decorated the tree. I noticed that Mimi’s feet stood still when she spoke English, but danced the times she said something in Italian. Camille told me in English where to hang a silver ornament and his superman arms relaxed at his side. He questioned Mary in Itlaiano and the powerful arms and hands gestured on their own. Dan uttered “very good” with half closed eyes that opened wide when ”molto bene!” left his tongue. Finally the ornaments and bulbs were on the tree. Tony and Mary turned off the lights and it was pitch dark in the living room. Then Frank plugged in the tree lights. “Eccelente! Diamondi! Cosi splendore!” The proud tree scattered red, yellow and blue on the walls and ceiling. I smiled until I remembered the Christmas story that was washed and put through the ringer. “Pop’s here,” yelled Carl. Mr. Donisi, a sturdy man, was already seated at the head of a long table when we filed into the dining room to take our places. I was prisoner 215806 walking the last mile in the Big House. “Any last messages?” asked Spencer Tracy who was Father Flanagan in my mind. “Tell my parents goodbye,” I implored the good priest. The white tablecloth, plates and napkins reflected off the silverware and made it white. I thought that it would be wonderful to be a knife or fork. Silverware is never called upon to recite an Italian story. The family looked in my direction. In my mind, I could see our parish priest as he read from a red book and mumbled Latin words. Near his altar a hundred candle flames danced to a hymn. Now he grabbed a silver incense holder and swung it toward the congregation. If I had on of those things I’d send some holy smoke amongst Carl’s family so that they would forget the story. I came out of the daydream and realized that I might not make it as a baseball player to the big leagues. Sainthood could be a good occupation to fall back on. To be a saint one had to tell the truth. Why not start now? “The little blue paper went through my Mother’s ringer this morning,” I said. “She washed the Christmas story with my pants.” “Tell us what you know,” urged Tony. Everyone smiled and waited for me to start. Pope Pius XII, who spoke twelve languages, smiled from the white pasta bowl. I began. “Ristorante, domani, vino, musica, casa, bambino,…” Curious smiles came from Tony and Camille that I mistakenly interpreted as approval. “…storia, statura, fortunate, fotografia…” Well, laughter rolled in high waves to the white walls and surged back to my ears. The 1937 flood. Should I stand up and run right out? Without my coat? Would a red face keep me warm? For how many blocks? I was ready to go, but just then Mrs. Donisi put her left hand on my shoulder to hold me down. Her right hand went up and froze the Sea of Glee. Even Carl’s voice came to a stop. “He has good accent,” she said with a wide, white smile. “Someday Billy speak.” Mr. Donisi told the story without reading from a little blue paper. The words became sounds on his lips that leapt one after the other into the room and died as echoes in my ears. And those words would live again when Mr. Donisi or someone else spoke them. Words have many lives, more lives than a thousand cats! Then we ate. “Pass the pasta, please. Il vino e delizione! More chicken? Yes, please. Gusto! Un altro poco di supa, per piacere. The salad’s great! Sapore e robosto! The wine is fine! Un altro poco di pasta? Si, con suco di pomodore. How’s the chicken? La gallina, e superba! How’s the eel?” Mrs. Donisi mentioned that the dessert was next and Mr. Donisi tried to guess what she had prepared. I thought to myself that we already tasted a sweet dish? Hadn’t Italian been with us the whole evening? How could I explain that feeling? I touched the white tablecloth with a finger. “Mr. Donisi, Inglese is bianco,” I said. Then I pointed to the Christmas tree that glowed red, yellow and blue through the living room darkness. “Italiano is russo, giallo and azzurro.” “Corretto,” he said. His eyes sparkled and he motioned to Mimi that I needed more tomato sauce. “Italiano e molti colori, molti pretty colori,” laughed Mrs. Donisi. “Here the pasticciarie.” She placed a silver try of pastries on the white table. “Italian is fireworks,” said Mimi. “Italiano e la vita,” said Dan. “Italian is a warm sun,” said Camille. “Italiano e celebrazione,” said Jenny. “Italian is ice cream,” said Carl. When I left their door that night, stars shone like white Christmas bulbs through the black branches of the trees. I carried a small box of pastry and a grando bottiglia di vino rosso. My father noticed the bottle of red wine when I got into the car. He loved wine and had made his homemade brand for years. He lit a Camel cigarette and steered the blue Pontiac away from the curb. Thoughtful white lamps whitened the street that pretended way in the distance to come to a point. We passed a house where the Christmas tree had all blue lights. The Bruggemans. Another house sent red, white and blue to us. Beautiful Christmas trees on every block. All were framed by windows in a winter gallery known as Charles Street. In my mind there were many voices: “ Tell us what you know. Someday Billy speak. How the chicken? Italiano e molti colori. Italiano e celebrazione. Italian is ice cream.” The End ~ © Bill Garvin (grvnwll@netscape.net) ~ November 10, 2003 If you enjoyed this page, check these out: Sledding A Christmas Carol Love Brings Feelings When Santa Was A Boy Snowballing And.......for many others, click the link for HOME. Home: Writers' Corner Index