The Hot Seat- Donna Mazalin

It was a warm afternoon but comfortable outside. We were in my Nonna’s backyard for a summer gathering – maybe a Memorial Day in the mid-late 60’s, in her Chicago neighborhood of Washington Heights. My Nonna (maternal) Gelsomina lived together with my uncle – her youngest son, Eugene. He was referred to Babe by all the family. He was Godfather, and I would call him Uncle Babe. He never married.

On this day like most others, Nonna sat still in her chair. It was one of those with the webbing that crisscrossed between metal rails. She didn’t engage much in conversation. Her attire was always the same: a pale colored house dress with some kind of sleeveless undershirt underneath. Her close-cropped gray curly hair was plastered inside a hairnet. A hanky was tucked inside her bosom (do we still use that term) and another already damp and crumbled in her hand. I remember her crying a lot. No obvious reason. Just intermittent tears.

When we first arrived, some of my cousins were already there. I was quickly drawn to the aroma of my Nonna’s marinara sauce simmering on the stovetop. Jello molds, potato and other salads were placed in the fridge for safekeeping. Her pasta and sauce that she always made with neckbones was the only pasta sauce I could ever eat leftover - even cold. Long after she passed away and not until more than 20 years later would I smell and taste a nearly identical sauce in a restaurant, a pizza place no less. Either my Nonna had been reincarnated or the in-house cook was a descendant of Cosenza (Falconara, Albanese) in the Calabria region. In any case, I would return to that pizzeria countless times until they closed, just so I can relish the flavor and the memories. No one in the family that I was aware of, including my mom, had a specific recipe. It was never written down for us. See, my Nonna was completely illiterate, and had never attended school a day in her life reincarnation of 82 years. Even as she came to America with her children in 1928, it was demanded by her husband that everyone must now speak English and become Americano. But she refused.

As my mom was born soon after my grandparents’ arrival in the United States, Italiana would never be her native language. She would learn minimally through exposure to cousins and others in the family who did carry on with the language. The Calabrese dialect or Italiana overall was not available when I went to high school, as it is these days. So, having a conversation with my Nonna throughout my 17 years with her was always a challenge. Relationship building was never a part of our lives and seemed to just be taken for granted. Even small talk was always a bit broken, though my mom understood much more than she spoke, so she would fill in the blanks. Nevertheless, we all loved her and have shared stories, good and sad, throughout the years.

Settling in for the afternoon, the grill started as the charcoal was lit, and flames shot high right away. The Italian sausage would be placed on the grill first, split of course, and the burgers and dogs later. Finally, the pasta was brought outside along with all the salads, Jello molds, paper plates, etc. Most Italian families I know serve pasta even on a scorching summer day. My dad was sitting next to my Uncle Babe and telling him some story while we ate mostly from flimsy plates on our laps. My brother Joey, about 7-8 years old at the time, kept pulling at my dad’s shirtsleeve trying to tell him something. “Dad, dad, I’ve got to…” and my dad would shag him away and tell him to quit interrupting. “But dad” he kept on trying to get my dad’s attention for a few minutes more. My brother was now desperate to tell him something. Something urgent.

All of a sudden, the detached garage that was next to the alley and at the back of the yard went up in flames! “Mama Mia” my Nonna screamed and cried out loud as she threw her arms up in the air. My uncle had an open bucket of gasoline in the garage for his lawnmower. My brother loved playing with matches and other dangerous things. He must have been bored and often a bit hyper and had been roaming around the yard and ventured into the unlocked garage. He had only a couple of matches left in the matchbook after burning some weeds and flowers. He lit those last few and watched them burn down in the book until they started to singe a finger. He tossed the lit book of matches into the bucket assuming it was water. It was not. He figured it out fast though he could not seem to get the message across to our dad.

Our family outing had turned from typical to frightening. The fire department arrived in enough time to save about half of the garage. We were all safe but unsettled. My dad didn’t like to be interrupted, and though my brother knew he would get in trouble, he tried hard to get his attention instead of yelling out FIRE. My Nonna plucked that hankie from out of her undershirt and sobbed the rest of the afternoon. My dad was now feeling bad for not listening to my brother immediately.

This prompted memory put some things into perspective for me. We should not brush off our kids when they want to tell us something, anything. We need to listen. There will be days in their teenage years when they may not speak to us at all. Only grunt. These days, faces and focus are buried in screens. Verbal communication, like the art of handwriting, has become a lost art. In the days before technology took a front row seat in our lives, we would talk to each other – look at each other in the eyes. If not face-to-face, by phone. A landline with a long curly cord that we could twirl in our hands unconsciously while we carried on conversations.

I often think about the days growing-up in my small family of four – but knew that all our holidays would be spent together. Summers and winters. Hanging out with cousins behind the bar on Christmas Eve, listening to music on our record players in our bedrooms. We knew what to expect. A big welcome, hugs and kisses, and the goodbyes that took forever. There was no fear of missing out (fomo) back then as I often feel these days; most of those family units have grown, while mine has shrunk. We always knew what we would have to eat depending on the holiday: Baccala on Christmas Eve as we sat around a covered ping pong table or at the bar, and standard BBQ faire with pasta of course, in the summer outings. When the extra-large coffee maker would start to brew, we knew desserts were just ahead. We knew who would leave early – or who was going to drive Uncle Babe and Nonna back home (he never drove a car). As the holidays were often at our house, we knew there would be leftovers, including the pasta I could later snack on, even cold.

Thankfully, there was only that one fire in our family, Of course, as that time frame was in the late 60’s, and since there have been four divorces among us and two of the nine cousins would pass away. My brother Joe, always firing up something – a grill, a campfire, a joint – is no longer here. He died just short of his 63rd birthday. Back when full-family gatherings were second nature, we created memories that linger and some that just pop up when prompted to tell a story. I would never become anyone’s Nonna or grandma, though I cherish my only son, Eric. I can only imagine a large family surrounding me each and every holiday, indoors or out.




About the Author: Donna Mazalin began studying Italiana at the age of 60 and remains a devoted student of the language and culture. She is currently writing a memoir about her experience attending school in Italy to begin those studies. Back home in the south suburbs of Chicago, she continues learning through study groups, films, reading, and writing. Donna also works selectively as a Human Resources professional and earned her degree in Organizational Behavior and Development from DePaul University in her early 50s. Maybe a late bloomer but definitely a lifelong learner. Donna values the opportunities and welcoming community of Casa Italia.