Life’s Reflections

It was quiet. The evening, in its fourth hour of darkness, was enveloped in a sense of serenity. Teetering on the threshold of frost, the chilly air was warmed by small fires in the center of the teepees. Puffs of smoke billowed from the hole at the apex, vanishing into the night. The small, illuminated conical structures paled in comparison to the radiating full October moon. Its brilliance and magnitude gave it a regal aura as it floated amongst the dancing stars and twirling planets. This moon commanded reverence from all those fortunate enough to be in its presence. The night’s silence was broken by the occasional howling of a small pack of wolves, as though their song of praise.

Today marked the end of a full week of festivities celebrating the return of the earth’s nightly companion. The celebration, held every October, was especially significant this year for it marked the 200^th anniversary of the moon’s return. The week’s jubilant events, consisting of ceremonies, feasts, dancing, and athletic contests, tired the village’s people, who now lay slumbering beneath the big, round, glowing guest of honor.

Only one stirred. Running Wolf had been to fourteen Return of the Moon celebrations, although she had no recollection of the first few. With energy still soaring through body and mind, she tossed restlessly. Unanswered questions about the disturbing details of the festival’s origins circulated relentlessly in her mind. Overtaken by the taunting queries, Running Wolf slipped into her moccasins, wrapped herself snugly in a red woolen blanket, and pushed through the front flaps of the teepee, entering the cold night. Her lean figure, running effortlessly, was silhouetted by the brilliant moonbeam. With each exhale, she puffed out small clouds that lingered before her.

Soon, she reached the northern-most teepee in the village, a place of honor reserved for the oldest, wisest tribal elder. Sing Owl lay tucked inside with vivid, often prognostic dreams floating through her slumbering mind, while emitting a few intermittent, staccato snores. A very long life and an inquisitive nature gave her the insight and wisdom she now has.

Running Wolf knelt beside the protective flap of hide that served as the teepee’s door. Mimicking the howl of a wolf to announce her presence, she awakened  the elder. Singing Owl sat straight up, immediately recognizing the call of her young friend. Her single long braid, mostly gray with sparse evidence of her once black hair, draped over her right shoulder.  Her wiry, thin body and sparkling eyes gave Singing Owl the appearance of being much younger than her advanced 132 years. Although her mind was still as active and curious as in her youth, her body exhibited signs of aging. Nonetheless, Singing Owl greeted each new day with a prayer, followed by a slow run through the surrounding forest to take a dip in the nearby stream. A ritual since childhood, Singing Owl occasionally shares the routine with Running Wolf. 

“What are you doing up this late?” Singing Owl asked her friend, glancing at the sky to check the time. “Ah. Something is bothering you.” Singing Owl nodded before Running Wolf uttered a word.

“It’s the Return of the Moon Festival,” blurted Running Wolf. “I want to know what it really means. I understand it’s to honor our magnificent moon’s reappearance, but why,” she pleaded, “why did it disappear for so long?” Read more

My new bike search began with my fingertips furiously typing the names of different bike manufacturers in a Google search: Specialized, Giant, Kona, Trek, and more. I studied geometries, suspension, and components, and watched different bikes zipping along trails in YouTube videos.

After a couple more weeks of pedaling my old Giant NRS 1 around Rockland Lake, I was getting eager to hit the trails on a new bike. What happened next, which lead me to the bike of my dreams, is revealed in the letter I wrote to the district manager of Trek. It was quite a series of events, and nothing says it better than what I wrote to Trek!

“December 5, 2022

Dear John Burke,

Compelled by the stellar customer service I received while purchasing a new bike from Trek  Bicycle – Closter in Bergen County, New Jersey, I felt a strong need to convey my experience to you. I write this not only as a life-long mountain biker and consumer, but also as a business owner. My husband and I own Westwood Music Studios, a private music school located only five miles from the Trek store, so we share the same customer base, and I fully understand the dynamics of doing business in the area.

It is important to first give you a brief synopsis of my cycling background, as it has great significance to Trek, the bike industry, and my recent experience. My first mountain bike, purchased in 1989, was a Trek 7000, fully rigid bike. At the time, I thought it was the greatest thing ever created, and that together, my bike and I were invincible – able to ride over anything and anywhere, and so we did! We did …. until my beloved Trek 7000 was stolen from my home. Fortunately, the police found the bike unscathed, arrested the thief, and returned it to me. Yes, my Trek came back to me, so I named it, Boomerang! After years of grinding and pounding through the rough, rocky terrain of northern New Jersey, Boomerang was grinding to a halt. When discussing marriage with my future husband, who I had introduced to mountain biking, he asked if I wanted a diamond engagement ring, to which I replied, “No, I’d prefer a new mountain bike.” Read more

My life on two wheels began with three, a tricycle that I rode in circles and zig zagged through my small urban yard. With the passing months, which were like years to a toddler, I ventured longer distances, pedaling up and down the long, narrow alleyway between my house and the neighbor’s. The cement corridor was barely wide enough for the tiny trike’s three-point turn. Up and down and more tours of the backyard, I was getting adventurous but wanted more. At the end of the alleyway, one large step leading down to the sidewalk marked the absolute boundary, the line I dare not cross. Pedaling back to the yard, I was boxed in by wire fences separating the properties. The neighbor’s yard on the alley side, a double lot property with a grassy yard and a boy a couple of years older than me, was especially appealing. If only I could break through that fence!

Before long, my knees were coming up to my chin when pedaling the tiny three-wheeler. It was time for a big girl’s bike, a bike with only two wheels, well, two plus another two miniature wheels mounted to the rear axle – training wheels. For my inaugural ride, my father wheeled the pink and white Schwinn Pixie down the alleyway, crossing the forbidden threshold, the big step down to the sidewalk. I was free – sort of. Instructing me in the physics of motion in four-year-old terms, my father trotted behind me as I pedaled up and down the sidewalk, sometimes leaning to the left, and other times tipping to the right, giving each training wheel its chance to prop me back up. The faster I went, the more I stayed up on two wheels. Soon I was zipping along with my handlebar streamers fluttering in the breeze.

My big rite of passage came a short while later when, with screwdriver in hand, my father removed the training wheels. I was on my own, free to ride up and down the sidewalk …. but no further. Rounding a corner on our block, where I’d be out of sight of my mother’s watchful eyes, was forbidden. After all, these were the city streets of Paterson, New Jersey, not country lanes. On occasion, my father would take me to the schoolyard on the next block where I could ride in the enormous concrete yard surrounding the red brick building, a building I would not enter for another year when I would start kindergarten. The schoolyard, enclosed with a green wrought iron fence topped with spikes that seemed to pierce the clouds, kept me safe – safe and confined within its perimeter. Read more

Zucchini flowers! Standing in the train station in Naples, Italy, with a large suitcase at his side, a friend recorded an audio message to me, while waiting for the train home to Vienna, Austria. He explained the contents of the suitcase represented the things he most loved about the land of his ancestors: sausage, zucchini flowers, buffalo mozzarella, and boutique shop items, all evoking a sense of nostalgia. Upon hearing zucchini flowers, excitement and nostalgic feelings raced through me. I barely listened when he recited the names of the other items; all I could think about were the zucchini flowers.

Growing up in the industrial city of Paterson, New Jersey, known for its silk mills, I was surrounded by densely stacked houses and concrete, not exactly a place you’d expect to find zucchini flowers growing. The houses on my block were mostly the same, two-family homes with tiny backyards, separated by narrow alleyways. However, there was something different about the house directly across the street where my childhood friend, Fran lived. Lifting the latch of the green wrought iron gate, I often hiked up the eight steep cement steps to her front yard, and then up another set of six, leading to the front porch, where I rang the bell, eagerly awaiting my young friend to answer. The resonating ring was typically followed by the call of a middle-aged woman with a thick Italian accent. “Franz-a! Nenzi is here”! Such is how Rosina pronounced our names, Fran and Nancy.

Fran ran to greet me in a dress with the big bow in her hair bopping to the rhythm of her feet, clad in little leather shoes and lace socks. There I stood in shorts, a T-shirt, sneakers, and most likely, a scab on my knee, frequently sustained when running around and rough housing with the boys. We were as different as night and day but, when not playing football with the boys or riding bikes, I liked spending time with Fran, playing with dolls, although mine were Teddy Bears and stuffed dogs. Read more

“Yes! That’s for me”! I didn’t have to think twice when the salesman at the bike shop showed me a mountain bike for the first time. Standing before the knobby-tired dream-come-true, images of me as a young girl, trying to pedal my tiny-tired Schwinn through the dirt in my back yard leaped to the forefront of my mind. Clear as a bell, I recalled my childhood wish that a bike would be invented to ride over rocks and through mud, as my little Schwinn succumbed to the terrain. “I’ll take it”! I announced. Adding a helmet and bike rack to the bill, I happily forked over my hard-earned cash, as a bike shop employee attached the rack to the back of my car. Next, my new prized possession, a Trek 7000, fully rigid mountain bike was mounted to the rack and I was off to a new life.

The year was 1989 and I was a young adult albeit still the same mud-loving, rough and tumble Tom Boy as when I desperately tried pedaling my Schwinn around the yard. I had no idea what mountain biking was truly all about, except that it meant I could finally ride a bike over virtually anything nature threw my way. After convincing a friend to plunk down his cash on a mountain bike, he and I ventured into the woods of the hilly, rocky topography of northern New Jersey. With my long ponytail dangling out the back of my helmet, I raced up my first trail. 

A competitive judo player since the age of twelve, I was in top shape, ready to combat any mountain and all of its rocks and roots. Zipping along the trails, our rides always began with a steep climb that seemed to go on indefinitely until we were rewarded with scenic views, snappy single tracks, and white-knuckled descents. The sound of rocks, spun free by the knobby tires and sent pinging against the bike frame, was music to my ears.

Propelled by the confidence that my Trek could roll over and eat up anything thrown in front of it, we were unstoppable – invincible! With my feet secured to the pedals in toe clips, I took on anything, including a few things that weren’t exactly meant for a 1989 vintage, rigid mountain bike that sent me sailing OTB – over the bars – or smack down in the dirt more than a few times. One such time was when pedaling through a winding trail that opened into a wide, flat region of the forest. Off to the right was a steep cliff, rising sharply up about twenty feet. It was pure dirt and resembled half of a half pipe looming above the flatlands. Getting a running start, I pedaled furiously, convinced I could make it to the top ledge. Several failed attempts didn’t deter me but on my final try, I nearly made it up and over when my bike slide out from under me, and with one hand on the top tube and the other digging into the dirt, we slid, face down, to the bottom. The result was a bruised ego and a totally torn to shreds biking glove. Read more

When the coronavirus pandemic first began weaving its way through American society, it sent people scurrying to the supermarkets, filling their carts with everything they needed and didn’t need in preparation for a life of quarantine, locked down and hunkered down for an undetermined period of time. At the checkout counter, behind roll after roll after roll of toilet paper swiftly gliding down the conveyor, sat bags of flour. It wasn’t long before the only flour left on store shelves was the white powdery residue that had spilled out, marking where they once stood. People sought comfort in returning to the basics of baking. Soon kitchens across the country were wafting of fresh baked breads, cookies, and pies, harkening back to simpler times.

It was the work of a microscopic organism that forced people from the bustling streets and over-scheduled schedules to shelter in place, to slow down, spend time with family, relax, stay in touch with friends on Facebook, WhatsApp, and Instagram, google recipes, and to breathe, breathe in the aromas emanating from their ovens. A wave of soothing calmness soon washed throughout the land.

Recipes calling for nature’s own ingredients: apples, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, vanilla, honey, lemon, butter, and of course, flour, burst with flavor, tantalizing pallets, filling stomachs, and satisfying souls. Minus the additives and fillers, excessive sugar, and hair-raising doses of sodium, the all-natural, home baked recipes not only tasted good but didn’t threaten one’s health. Relying on old trusted recipes and sometimes altering them with a little of this and a little of that from pantry shelves, gave birth to new variations and new flavors. Perhaps there’s a deeper underlying lesson in this. Maybe we can learn something from that simple apple pie recipe and experimenting with it. Read more

Born one and a half years before me, you got to do everything first, well, almost everything. You crawled, took your first steps, celebrated your first birthday, said your first word – I think it was Dada, and even sat on Santa’s lap, all before I popped my head out into the world.  

I always looked to you to see what was coming next in my life. I saw your hair turn from golden blonde to a dark brown, as did mine, except yours was darker but we both had wavy curls.

When your first day of school arrived, you were ready to take on the academic world, wearing a maroon dress with a white lace collar, Mary Jane shoes, and white anklet socks with lace around the tops. With shoulder-length wavy hair carefully combed in place and clutching a tiny bookbag, empty except for a pencil and an eraser in the shape of a dog, you marched out the front door hand-in-hand with Mom, as Dad took picture after picture. Dad and I trailed behind Mom, leading the way – a whole half a block – to the two-story red brick elementary school. Running up the school steps, you whirled around, posing for Dad, whose finger sent the shutter rapidly clicking. I wished I was running up the steps that day – I wanted to go to school with all the big kids, too. Instead, I went home, gathered my teddy bears and stuffed doggies, arranged them on the floor of our bedroom, plopped myself in front of them, and with crayons I wrote A B C and 1 2 3 on a piece of paper and began teaching my class. My turn did come one year later when, wearing a blue dress, I ran up those same steps, spun a revolution and posed for our photographer father.

He wasn’t a professional photographer, but it was his passion, just like it was for his father, our most beloved grandfather. We all lived together in a two-family house with a small backyard in a major city on the east coast. Grandma and Grandpa lived on the second floor, and we’d often see them smiling down upon us from their large kitchen window, as we ran around playing or splashed in our tiny pool. I tended to run faster and tumble harder, the first hint of our slight differences among our commonalities. During the warmer months, our grandparents would sit in the yard with us – that was always a special treat! Grandpa often wore his brimmed hat, beneath which his eyes twinkled and his smile radiated warmth.

American residents and eventual citizens but Italians by birth, they passed their genes and culture on down to us. We identified as Italian, even though our mother, of Dutch Scottish, and German ancestry, had not a drop of Italian blood. We loved sitting in front of our grandmother rhythmically rocking in her white rocking chair, begging for more stories about her childhood in Italy. Stories about their big stone farmhouse with the chickens and farm animals dwelling in the ground level, the acres of olive groves, and our favorite, the tales of grandma’s bed shaking, as Mt. Vesuvius rumbled in the distant north, filled our ears with family history. Grandma always ended her stories the exact same way, by pressing her forefinger against her lips, saying, “Shhhh…. We’re really Austrian.” Austrian? What? We’d later learn some of her ancestors had come from Austria as one of the “ruling families of Austria,” and were awarded the land in Valle Cilento a generation or two ago.

We watched in awe as Grandma rolled homemade pasta dough on a big wooden board on the kitchen table and when we were old enough, we joined in. The most important part of the culture they passed on down to us was music. Grandma played the mandolin as a young girl but hardly ever touched it as an adult – the wooden instrument sat silently in a dusty old case in the attic. Guitar was Grandpa’s instrument and we are told that before we were born, the family would gather in the living room every Sunday and play their instruments. Aunts, uncles, and cousins visited weekly, bringing along their instruments and voices for the Sunday serenade.

You were the first of us to receive formal music training, the first one to have piano lessons. I clearly remember peeking around the corner into the living room where you sat, still and erect, on the piano bench with the teacher beside you. Note by note, you began plunking down little melodies and before long, I found myself in the same position. Our music lessons continued throughout childhood: you stuck with the piano, diligently practicing, but I soon turned my attention to the clarinet, guitar, and drums. I loved them all, you just one, but together we filled the house with music, along with Dad, who played the tenor saxophone and clarinet in a jazz band.

One day the mood in the house turned sullen and Grandpa was no longer there. You were six and I, only 4 ½, too young to understand death. Throughout my entire life, I would always feel a special bond with Grandpa and as an adult, came to regard him as my guardian angel, or at least one of them.

A very big milestone soon came – your First Holy Communion! You looked like a bride walking down the church aisle in your white dress and veil with rosary beads dangling from your hands held in prayer. Afterwards, the family gathered in our home and you received gifts of money and a gold cross necklace from grandma. Sitting around the dining room table in celebration, we vied for the biggest slice of cake – Italian rum cake covered in buttercream and sliced almonds. I loved picking the almonds off and nibbling on them, while you, daintier than me, broke off even pieces with your fork, eating them one at a time. Fast forward one year later and I got to be the one in the little white dress and veil walking down the church aisle, followed by a similar celebration, the centerpiece of which was, an Italian rum cake.

The years started to roll by. We were enrolled in dance lessons, ballet of all things; you loved it and I absolutely hated it. We did one dance recital together and all I remember is the tutu itched and I twirled the wrong way in our group performance. Graceful and elegant, you continued with a few more years of dance lessons and recitals. I quit but could be found in the audience of your recitals. The tomboy of the two, by age twelve I’d found my niche in judo, on the mat grappling with the boys and throwing them around. I played with the boys more in general and loved football and playing army, while you enjoyed playing with dolls and being with the girls. I was more like Dad, and you, like Mom.

By that stage of our lives there was something we loved equally – boys! We giggled over teen idols in the secrecy of our shared bedroom, and at age fourteen, you had your first date. Dad was furious and beside himself, but Mom beamed and was the one who drove you and your first boyfriend to the movies. I flipped the pages of teen magazines, ogling over the singers in boy bands for, yes, you guessed it, one more year. My first date was a lot different though. It was with a boy from judo class, and he took me to his high school dance. I learned how to kiss that night.

Our high school years were full of more crushes, dates, breakups, and new boyfriends. There were many nights we’d stay up into the wee hours sharing in each other’s teen love stories. School was important for both of us, and you went through all four years of high school on course to enter college to become an English teacher. All subjects grabbed my interest; one minute I wanted to be a scientist, then next a lawyer, an artist or a musician.

During my freshman year of college tragedy struck. I had come home from my day of classes to an empty house. Our family deli was closed and even Grandma wasn’t home. I was alone until you arrived a little while later. There’s no need to go into details – we both know what happened. Mom had suffered a stroke that afternoon and would die one week later. We held each other tightly in our arms, afraid to let go, tears soaking our clothes. The grieving period lasted a year or so and we moved on with our lives, but the pain remained.

You finally met the love of your life in your junior year at a college football game. He was to become an accountant, a CPA, and you, a high school English teacher – you always knew what you wanted. It wasn’t long after college that you walked down the church aisle again – the same church, only this time you really were a bride. You were simply stunning with your long dark brown hair falling beneath your veil against the pure white satin and lace dress, as Dad escorted your slim figure to the altar. As your maid of honor, slightly taller and with a more muscular build due to years of judo, I stood witness as you exchanged your vows. The wedding reception was traditional, complete with a jazz band made up of Dad’s musician friends. He sat in on a few numbers, playing tenor sax along with his buddies.

Well, this is where I had to wait more than one year. As you now had two children, a boy and a girl, I still searched for my own true love. I thought I‘d found him a couple of times but no, those relationships didn’t work out. Judo remained a constant and kept me grounded but it was in music where I’d find my soulmate. We met in a music store where he was the manager and taught classical guitar. Renewing my interest in the instrument, I signed up for a lesson, which led to one date and then another. Now it finally was my turn to walk down the aisle but there was no real aisle. Always being more of a free spirit and a rebel, different from the rest, my husband-to-be and I chose to get married on the grassy banks of the Hudson River in a gazebo. I wore a simple white dress with a flower in my hair, as I made my way to the gazebo, behind the ring bearer and flower girl – your children. This time you were the maid of honor. The reception was free spirited and buffet-style with several of my judo friends in attendance. And yes, we did throw each other around the dance floor! 

Four months later we once again found ourselves wrapped in one another’s arms, sobbing. Dad had passed away and now we only had each other, as all of our grandparents had now passed into the afterlife, as well. Together, we buried him on Christmas Eve. Timing can be so cruel.

My husband and I opened a music school, which started with just the two of us teaching side by side. He taught guitar and I taught piano. Throughout the years we added more teachers of different instruments, growing into a rather large school with eighteen faculty members. You continued with your job as an English teacher and did freelance writing on the side, while my creative side came through in my art, photography, and writing. Our children were of the canine variety, and I had several Akitas throughout the years. 

The one funny thing is your daughter was more of a tomboy like me. Yes, I felt it was my duty as her aunt to introduce her to judo when she was eight years old and she took to the rough and tumble sport just like I did – it must be genetic! Your children are grown now and very happy in their careers – your daughter is a writer, again, there’s the genetic component, and your son is an engineer. 

A horrible pandemic swept the world in 2020, and the US got hit hard. Our state of New Jersey, along with most of the nation, was put on lockdown. All non-essential businesses, including our music school, closed due to the state mandate. I took protective measures extra seriously because we both know how deadly tiny viruses and bacteria can be. We continued teaching music lessons remotely, using Zoom, and I wondered what our future would be like, and where it would be.

I set my sights on Europe, where the culture is richer and society more civil. I was awarded my Italian citizenship a few years ago after learning our grandfather was still a citizen of Italy when Dad was born, making both of us eligible for Italian citizenship. I’ve fallen in love with Italy and Austria, and the decision is between the two. Both are in my DNA – in our DNA – and I will eventually carry that DNA back to the land of our origins.

Yes, I was the one who got to live – the strong one. Tragically, you never really did get to experience all those wonderful things I wrote about. You never did walk down the aisle to make your First Holy Communion or as a beautiful young bride, escorted by our father. You had no children, so I have no nieces or nephews. Born healthy in the bitter cold of early February, you died only five days later, on Valentine’s Day, after contracting a staph infection in the hospital shortly after your birth. Maybe this is where I get my seemingly innate distrust of doctors and the US medical system from. You’ve been watching over me, like Grandpa, as a guardian angel, sending me warning signals to keep me out of harm’s way. I’ve been listening!

With both of our parents gone, I often wonder what my life would have been like had you lived. What would your life have been like? Did I just create in writing what would have actually been? I never did see your hair turn from golden blonde to dark brown; we never got to hold one another in our arms, to laugh together, share secrets or wipe each other’s tears. We are two sisters who, separated by death, never met. As I cast my eyes to the heavens, I just want you to know, I love you, Ellen Marie.

Love,

Your Little Sister, Nancy

There is no one specific moment in time when I recall having first heard of or met Bucky Pizzarelli – it’s as if I’ve always known him. Growing up in Paterson, NJ, my grandparents, Gus and Jenny Triggiani, owned an Italian deli on the corner of Union and Preakness Avenues. Our family deli was several blocks away from Bucky’s parent’s Italian grocery store, also on Union Avenue. 

When I was young girl, my father, Art, who played tenor sax, would occasionally take me to hear Bucky perform, after which they would always greet each other with a smile and share some laughs. Both families, Pizzarelli and Triggiani were Italian immigrants who settled in Paterson, making their livelihood from food and music!

Following family tradition, I, too became a professional musician and married classical guitarist, Vinnie Musco. Together we established a music school, Westwood Music Studios. Vinnie and I often went to hear Bucky perform throughout New Jersey and New York and would always spend time with Bucky chatting about Paterson, music, and especially guitars. Bucky was the “rock star” everybody wanted to meet, and I carefully observed how he would always warmly greet his admirers with a big smile. Bucky was so happy to share music or even just talk about it with everyone from a young beginning student, to adults who played an instrument as a hobby, and other professionals. 

On stage, his smile radiated his joy and passion for music along with the notes resonating from his guitar – they were one. A clear memory I have of Bucky that stands out is the day he came to visit our music school, a quick 3-mile drive from his house. I waited outside, spotting him instantly when I saw a black Mercedes coming down the street, piloted by a man wearing the biggest smile you ever saw. He had a fun time playing the guitar with my husband and enjoying our second-floor view overlooking Westwood, NJ. An eighteen-wheel truck rumbled by and Bucky laughed, “Wow! Look at the size of that truck! They must be bringing in the baritone sax!” It was a great day filled with smiles and music.

In more recent years, we would visit Bucky at his house, sometimes playing music, sometimes not, but always smiling and laughing. As I reflected upon his passing, I realized that all those years Bucky had been teaching me important life lessons: to happily pursue your passions, find joy in all aspects of music, and to recognize the beauty in the music in everyone, whether a young student or a seasoned professional. Most importantly, he taught me to live life with a smile.

I know you’re smiling down on us, Bucky, and I’m smiling right back up at you. Thank you for everything and please say hi to my Dad for me.