Art, Mary Santi

Mary Santi

More Down the House

Joan Nilon

2

Part 1 of “Down the House” first appeared in the Summer 2017 issue of The Beacon. The author explains, “Down the House” was the command from Nana during the 1940’s and 50’s of my childhood for her family to gather at the old stone and brick house on Valentine Ave. in the Bronx where she raised her seven children. The story continues below.

On Sundays at Nana’s, the usual fare was broilers, cut up chicken parts done to golden perfection, along with roasted potato wedges, vegetables and salad. Holidays were so much fun for all of us. On Thanksgiving and Christmas, a huge, nicely browned stuffed turkey sat on the kitchen table under Nana’s watchful eye ready for carving by one of her boys, usually my father, the oldest, or Uncle Artie, the youngest who was my godfather. The dining room was crammed with place settings and chairs. We all ate hungrily, happily and comfortably. After the meal, with lights turned off, we’d gather to watch the plum pudding in blue flames, fired by the whiskey Nana poured on it. At Easter we’d start off with the usual salads and the beef egg drop and dandelion soups. A leg of lamb was always the star of the table, but for my mother there was a small roast beef. My mother had grown up on a farm and was adverse to eating lamb. After dinner my cousins and I crawled from our seats and under the table around the adults who stayed talking. My cousin Dot and I ran down the hall of the parlor and adjoining living room where we entertained ourselves and the uncles and aunts who drifted in to sit on the couches and stuffed chairs to relax. On the ancient phonograph we played grainy sounding records, the Charleston and jazz tunes that we danced to with great enthusiasm and to the accolades of our adoring relatives. When we had exhausted ourselves, Uncle Artie would put on a cherished record of Enrico Caruso singing Pagliacci. As weary, but exhilarated kin walked down the hall to the closet and our hats and coats, we all continued talking excitedly. We were a gabby family, both in person and on the phone. It was in this closet room that Aunt Adda let us cousins, Dot, Helen and me try on her dresses, hats and jewelry and show ourselves off to all who were there. Even if no one else but us kids were there, we still reveled in the dress-up times. She even let us do ourselves up in garish outfits at Halloween and Thanksgiving to beg at the apartment house on the corner of 199th St. She sewed her own clothes and Nana’s too, including coats and perky hats.

As Aunt Adda eventually led us down the outer hall, through the foyer and out on the porch, she’d hold court with tales of the old days. The one story I always remember her telling is the time grandfather gathered his seven offspring on that very porch and lined them up. He asked them with seriousness, “Who are you?” Their expected answer was, “I am Italian.” By the time we reached the age of seven or eight, we were allowed to go outside without grownups. We raced down Valentine Avenue, sometimes with cousin Charles who was our age, to the corner candy store at 198th St. and spend the few cents we had on jewel colored hard candies, which were a penny a piece. Soon after we were sent along 198th St. to the Jewish bakery for luscious freshly baked rolls and around the corner to Briggs Ave. and the German bakery for wonderful smelling cakes and pies. In a more mischievous vein, at about the same age, Dot and I would walk up and down Valentine Ave. She was pretty high energy (later called a firecracker) and looked for excitement. Follow along. That I did. When she told me to pull the handle on the fire alarm box at 199th St., I did so obediently and sure enough the fire truck from around the corner on Briggs Ave. came by. I honestly don’t remember if there were any consequences. Another pastime to ward off boredom as we grew more adventuresome was getting into one of the family cars parked at the curb near the house. No one locked the car door then. Prompted by Dot we’d roll down the window, call out to passersby and stick out our tongues at them. In the meantime, as an honor student in the fourth grade, I was chosen by the nuns at St. Francis school to be a leader in the procession of students in honor of the Blessed Mother. All of the girls were dressed in pretty white dresses and flowing lacey veils which reached down to the middle of our backs. The boys wore navy blue suits and crisp white shirts. All of this while flower petals were strewn before us down the aisle and incense filled the air. I was also chosen to be an angel for the second-grade students making their first communion — dressed in a long white gown and a crown of flowers on my head. All this showing the dichotomy of the human condition as early as childhood.