But Never on a Sunday

My father, one of my only readers (thanks Dad!), has been writing about his parents. I thought I might like to share some of my memories of my grandparents. Since Dad wrote about his parents first, I will start with them.


Before I continue, I must make it clear that we spent a lot of time with our grandparents as children. Every Sunday, we visited either my mother's parents or my father's parents. We took turns; they each got us every other weekend. We did see a lot more of my mother's parents, since we visited them during the week also; but that is another post.

No matter which set of grandparents we visited, Sundays always started with church. We rarely went as a family; one parent would go to an earlier mass and the other a later mass. They each took one of us older kids and the baby, Matthew, stayed home with the other parent. I have to admit I liked going with my father because we'd sneak out after communion. Then there was a flurry of activity at home before we all got into the car around 1 :00 or 2:00. When Matt was a baby, the car was stuffed with his play pen, plus a bunch of other stuff. My mother always carried this large green bag, which we called...."the green bag." I believe its predecessor was "the blue bag." (Not the most creative bunch.) The green bag held diapers, wipes, pajamas for all of us, 6 changes of clothes and God knows what else. (Side note: I think my mother only stopped carrying a change of clothes for Matthew when he got married.)

Fran and Tony, or Grandma and Grandpa Pantaleno, lived in East New York. When we visited Fran and Tony, a crucial decision had to be made once we crossed the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island into Brooklyn: Do we take the Belt parkway or "the streets"? The Belt, as my parents called it, was often jammed with traffic, causing my father to swear like mad. The "streets" were often better, but not nearly as fast. If we took The Belt, we always passed this little tree right around the Rockaway Beach area. This tree was smaller than average and stood by itself. For some reason we waved to the tree. Yes, waved to a tree. My guess it was some desperate attempt by my mother to keep us all from squawking in the car.


My Uncle Anthony and Aunt Cathy, my father's younger siblings, lived with Fran and Tony. I think they may have lived in 2 different places while I was growing up, but I can't be sure. For some reason I think they moved next door to the house I remember them living in originally, but I could be wrong. I do recall that one of their kitchens had knotty pine cabinets, the same ones that are in my little country house in CT now.


Tony was a quiet, kind, and sweet Grandpa. He loved to drink his beer (out of a can or a little bottle) and smoke his cigarettes. Fran would make him sit on the steps that led to the roof outside the apartment for his smoke. Sometimes I'd sit with him. He always spoke very kindly to me. He worked in a shoe store and thus we always got shoes at either a discount or maybe for free. He'd bring boxes of new leather shoes for my mother to inspect and have us try on; the extras he'd bring back to the store. I think these were mostly our school shoes - "flat, black oxfords" - something I will never put on my feet again. He liked to laugh and tell silly jokes. I wish I had a chance to know him better; he died when I was 14. He had lung cancer, and must have suffered a lot. I remember one time we visited and he was in the bedroom. It was close to the time he died. My mother went into the room and closed the door. It was an accordion door, made of some sort of stiff cloth. I wanted in the worst way to see him, but my parents wouldn't let me. He must have looked pretty bad, and maybe my parents did not want me to remember him that way. I remember him smiling, sitting in his undershirt, watching the ball game.


Fran was also a kind, loving grandmother. She always had little treats for us. She did have some quirks, though. First, whenever we visited, we would round up any brown paper grocery sacks we had in the house and bring them to her; she used them as garbage bags. This was fine except she kept her garbage in the refrigerator. She did this so "it wouldn't smell." Odd.

She also would pull snacks out of some strange spots. High cabinets, behind the TV console. I think this is an old habit from when my father lived with her and he ate her stash of goodies.

Her cooking was different from my other Grandma's, but just as delicious. For starters, she'd pull out Wise potato chips (YUM!), cheese, crackers, pepperoni. Then we'd have our macaroni. This was served with meatballs, sausage, bracciole, and sometimes shredded pork in the tomato sauce, which we called gravy. Fran's meatballs had fennel in them, which was a big difference between her meatballs and my other Grandma's. They were very moist and delicious. After that she'd serve a salad, dressed with red vinegar, olive oil and salt. Oh and then we had another meal....maybe a roast with vegetables or a chicken. Why stop at just the pasta? Then came fruit, maybe nuts, and dessert.

We usually brought the cake. As we left our house my mother always asked "Are we bringing cake?" Then she'd run into Mrs. Maxwell's bakery, a big place near Fran and Tony's. She often got a German chocolate or some other delicious goodie. Sometimes my Uncle Anthony would bring his girlfriend, who is now my Aunt Michelle, over around dessert time. Aunt Cathy was there, and I loved her dearly (still do).

One strange memory I have is that my Uncle Anthony was studying to be a child psychologist (no that's not the strange part). I guess he must have needed a subject for his research and "Viola!"...I must have been the perfect age, maybe 8 or 9. We'd go into the basement and he'd show me all those inkblots and then have me read passages and answer questions. I didn't care, it was something to do. I wonder of the results are still around; they probably showed that I'd grow up to be a neurotic, sarcastic, lunatic.

In any event, I wish I had known my father's parents a little better. They were wonderful people who always made me feel special. I am glad we spent all those Sundays with them; they were some of the best times I can remember.