I have very vivid memories of what weekends looked liked as a child, because they were just that, weekends. They often started on Friday night when my Dad arrived home from work. There would be some sort of take out food, either All American or pizza from Stella's, but it was always eaten together. My father would then do grocery shopping for the week, and when he returned the smell of toasted pound cake was soon followed by a gigantic bowl of ice cream with whipped cream, sprinkles and tons of You Bet Syrup. Saturday nights were special, yet every Saturday it was basically the same thing. We had the luxury of living back to back with my Grandmother, who lived across the street from my Great Aunt Connie. There was a gate in my yard with a blue slate path that led to my Grandmother's back yard. On Saturdays, as my Grandmother and Great Aunt Mary prepared dinner for some nights as many as 18 people, we would congregate after 5 o'clock mass at Aunt Connies for what I now know was my first taste of Happy Hour. There was always a lot of noise and a lot of laughter. Sometimes we were treated to cocktail that were made from cherry juice and (don't judge) a splash of sweet Vermouth. At some point Nonnie would make her way across the street to beg us to come to dinner, and we would slowly make our way across the street. There was always an elaborate meal, as plate after plate would be piled onto the table. Without fail, something would be forgotten in the over, burnt (we would refer to that as ala Nonnie style) and always as we cleaned up and made room for desert, we would find a dish that never made It to the table. Having my Grandmother living basically in my back yard, allowed for Saturday night sleep overs, which in turn allowed my parents to enjoy a Saturday night without having to worry about 4 kids (all about a year apart). Nonnies house was old, and comfortable, and had all the familiar sounds that I long for today in my own home. The creaking of the stairs or the floor boards in the hall, the squeak of the bathroom door and the screaming of the heat as it traveled through the pipes. Sunday morning started early. Sometimes we all got up for 6 o"clock mass, all piled into the old blue Oldsmobile, as we drove the scenic route (which meant that we would take every side road imaginable to get to the next town, just so my Grandmother could avoid driving on a major road or highway) to St Barnabus. One of her favorite stories was how, as we all filed into the pew (at least 7 little kids, all with bed head and sleep still in our eye's) the lady in the pew in front bends and asks my Grandmother which orphanage we were from. She'd chuckle about that every time she told the story. Or some days we'd stay in bed, waiting for them to return from church. There was always the routine stop at the bakery, where my Grandmother would shop as if the world was ending. They would return from mass with bags of baked goods and as you lay in the big old beds upstairs you could smell the coffee perking downstairs, and the smell of toast, laden with butter toasting in the broiler (this style toast is called Nonnie Toast in my family, and there's not one person in my family that doesn't know what it means or who doesn't make it when longing for comfort food). We would all squeeze into the sunny breakfast nook and breakfast would go on for hours. There was always a pile of newspapers, but you were not permitted to read them at the table, it was a pet peeve of my Grandmother. Sometimes church friends would visit, and sometime there were aperitifs, small little shots of Grappa, or blackberry brandy. There was always an abundance of butter and cream and Nonnie was notorious for mixing concoctions that probably should never be placed together. She had an adventurous palate and I thank her today for my willingness to try just about any food,at least once and not order the ordinary when dining out. I've been thinking a lot about my Nonnie this weekend, and missing her a lot. She loved this time of year, when everything in the garden was in full bloom. She was also very proud of her grand children and their accomplishment, cutting out newspaper article that mentioned their names, and keeping them in book. She was always excited to see one of us on TV, and would tell anyone that came through the door. This weekend my husbands D2 lacrosse team won the Semi Finals in OT to send the Dowling Lacrosse Team on to play in the NCAA National Championship game next Sunday in Boston. I can only imagine how proud Nonnie would have been of him and I can't help wonder if she has been watching from above. There a old folk law about Hawks that Erin shared with me one cold winter day on our way home from a photo shoot (gosh, i miss those days). It's says, if you see Hawks flying near your home, it is the spirit of those close to you that have passed on, watching over you and keeping you safe. It's a story that I hold close to my heart. The Hawks are abundant in my yard and on my drive to work, and as I pass by one sitting on a light pole I scream out loud, "HI NONNIE, I MISS YOU". And I'm sure she hears me.
