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.
Music is in our DNA
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.
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.
It was my first venture to Europe and I was flying solo. My husband remained home to oversee our business and care for our only child, a furry two-year-old long coat Akita named, Romeo. Prompted, nudged, and encouraged by an Austrian friend who helped organize my trip, I found myself standing curbside at the departure terminal for Austrian Airlines amid the crumbling ruins of Newark, New Jersey, kissing my husband goodbye. Having not traveled by air in many years, I didn’t know what to expect …. on either side of the pond!
Waddling toward the snaking check-in line, encumbered with an oversized towering backpack that could easily fit a compact electric car, and a smaller one that wasn’t so small, I eyed the other passengers towing their wheeled luggage with ease. As I said, I hadn’t flown in a long time, but I’m tough, I thought to myself – a former competitive judo player – I’ve got this! As the line inched forward, the others shuffled ahead with smoothly rolling suitcases at their heels, while I lugged and wrestled with mine, sweating, as though in the finals of a judo tournament. Reaching the counter, I handed my opponent over to the airlines clerk who, exactly like a judo official, weighed it in and attached an Austrian Airlines tag around one of the straps, placing it on a conveyor. I watched it vanish into an abyss, wondering if and where we shall meet again. Read more
I don’t know your name but I wish I did. You shuffled in leaning on your three-pronged cane, escorted by a woman more than half your age. Taking small steps, you searched for a seat. The woman, spotting an empty chair next to mine, ordered you to sit. Dutifully and with effort, you slowly bent your knees, lowering your body into the chair. You looked at me. Why didn’t I ask your name? You asked the woman why you were there. Curtly, she replied she’d tell you later. You accepted it. Time went by. You again asked the reason for the visit but the retort was equally as short and uninformative. With dignity, you nodded. I sensed your kindness. Who was this woman I wondered, an aid just doing her job? A few more verbal exchanges between the two of you left me ill at ease. Why does she speak to you like this? Why didn’t I smile at you more? Why didn’t I ask your name? The clock continued to tick, as we all awaited our turn to meet with different consulate officials. You crossed your legs, accidently knocking over your cane. I reached for it but the woman grabbed it first. You looked at me saying, “thank you” for my attempt to heIp. Read more
Daughter of Two Worlds: The Face of My Father is available in paperback directly from Holly Leaf Publishing, and in paperback and ebook formats from Amazon.
