As a child, Easter Sunday was a very special day. Aside from being the holiest day in the Catholic Church, it was the day your mother dressed you up “extra special.” Girls wore their new dresses and Easter bonnets and boys wore their new suits and fedora hats. I wasn’t too crazy about wearing the hat, but I knew it made my mother happy, so wearing it for one day a year wasn’t so bad.

After church I was off to our grandparents’ home for the Easter Sunday dinner. They lived just down the street, and my mom was usually already there helping “Nonni,” with Easter dinner. My grandparents lived in apartment 20 on the 4th floor of a high-rise apartment building in the Italian section of the Bronx in New YorkCity (usually referred to as Arthur Avenue and coined as Little Italy in the Bronx). As you entered the building, you were immediately overcome by the sumptuous aroma of the special dinners being prepared for the day. No one ever locked their doors in those days, in fact, many of the tenants left their doors wide open, so you almost see the enticing aromas oozing out of their apartments as you heard beautiful music echo throughout the hallways: Mario Lanza’s Be My Love from apartment 4, Dean Martin singing Memories Are Made of This, from apartment 7, and, of course, Frank Sinatra always playing in apartment 10.

There was no elevator, so you had to be in good shape to make it up the three long flights of stairs. As I approached the first landing, I heard a voice say “Giovanni, vieni qua.” I didn’t speak Italian, but somehow I knew that meant “Johnny come here.” It was the lady from apartment 6. I never knew her name, or anyone’s name in the building. To me they were just apartment numbers. She saw me enter the building from her window on the first floor and was waiting for me. I entered her apartment and could smell the gravy simmering on the stove. Sunday was gravy day. I don’t mean gravy that you put on turkey or ham, I mean rich, thick Italian tomato gravy. Nowadays, they probably call it sauce, or pasta sauce, but everyone then knew it was gravy.

My grandmother’s friend of 50 years had made an Easter pie for my grandmother and wanted me to bring it up to her because she couldn’t make the stairs anymore. I thanked her, kissed her goodbye and headed up the stairs with the pizza rustica in my arms. As I reached the next landing, I heard that familiar sound again, “Giovanni, vieni qua.” This time it was from apartment 8, another one of my grandmother’s friends was having coffee with her sister who lived in apartment 9. She had made homemade bread and cookies, which on some occasions, I can still smell to this day. She offered me a cookie, which I gladly accepted. It would make no sense to refuse, because if I did, she would be offended and hound me unmercifully, until I eventually gave in and took one anyway. I left there with a round loaf of bread with hard boiled eggs baked right into it. Her sister went to her apartment and came out with a freshly baked Italian cheesecake for me to also bring to my grandparents. A man from apartment 11 then saw me and gave me a bottle of his homemade wine to bring up to my grandfather. He made the wine right in the basement of the building. I knew this because he and my grandfather made wine together down there and I once helped turn the press to squeeze the grapes. He asked me if I wanted a little vermouth before I left. I politely refused, as I was only 13 at the time. I often wonder if that was just a test, and if I accepted, he would tell my grandfather that I was drinking. I think not, but I still wonder at times. So, I made my way up another flight of stairs with the bread, cheesecake, wine, and rustica safely tucked away. By now I’m trying to sneak quietly past the remaining apartments because I could not carry anything else. Just as I pass apartment 18, I hear, “Johnny, is that you?” I turn and see a friend of my grandmother’s. She lived alone and never had children of her own, so she always gave presents to me, my sister and my three cousins. She had five large Easter baskets, filled with candy and chocolates. She pinched my cheeks and said “here, this is for you and give the others to your sister and your cousins.” She then pinched my cheek again and kissed me goodbye.

By the time I reached apartment 20, I looked like one of Santa’s elves helping out on Christmas Eve. My hands were filled with food, wine and candy, but my heart was filled with love.

Yes, Dino, memories are made of this.

~ By John Fasano, my cousin (and the big brother I never had)

This was also re-published by Bronx LittleItaly com On April 19, 2019

Author’s Notes: Take some time to think about a beloved childhood memory of yours. Comment below. I’d love to hear about where you lived and how it shaped your family traditions. ~ CinDiLo

______________________________

SUBSCRIBE in the form on this page to When The Clock Strikes Midlife blog for the FREE monthly subscription to the ‘Midlife-On-Purpose Planner’ & the ‘Week-By-Week Intentional Living Worksheet’  tools for the Midlife woman to live life on purpose and CREATE her OWN happily ever after.

* This website contains some affiliate links. I receive a commission on sales via the link to our vendor partner. Clicks are tracked by means of a code that is contained in my affiliate links. These affiliate links help us to cover the costs of hosting this website and provide you with quality items or services to enhance your (mid)life.

______________________________