Y'know, I think everybody should have crazy family. The cousin that eats only Heinz 57 on toast sandwiches until his 14th birthday. The aunt that sells Avon and consults TV psychics. The great aunt that brings you in for a hug then fills your nostrils with powdered snuff she's been stashing in her lip. The uncle with spare/enlarged body parts that likes to show off. To be completely candid, I think it's a shame if you don't have these kinds of characters in your life. Being "embarrassed" as a boy helped make me fearless as a man. The weird things your family does to set them apart, to teach you individuality, strength and independence are invaluable: mortifying in childhood, fortifying as an adult.
I made a remark to Martina the other day that every single member of her family is a very vividly-drawn character. There are no "black-and-white" people in the group. Nonna Betty has a warmth that suggests a sepia-toned living room shot with family gathered, dressed in Sunday best, perfect posture and practiced smiles. From the time I've spent with her, there's a sense of kind propriety that impresses me. I've been told she was a vision of loveliness as a younger woman, but her perfect snowy curls and her neatly-tied and smoothed apron suggest that her flower still blooms for her family as she roasts beef for dinner and tends to her day-to-day at the local bar she owns.
Nonna Cicciona, on the other hand, is definitely technicolor. She's that amazing old movie that you remember in monochrome as a kid that has a nearly too-vivid-for-real-life feel to it now that you're older. She's a rubber chicken, spit take and bicycle horn all rolled into one. The things this woman SAYS. Amazing. This morning Martina spent half an hour with her, chatting and doing her hair for Easter. But last night we had to consult the calendar to be sure the moon was in its proper phase to effectively coiffeur before making definite plans to curl for the holiday. And when the style was done, Nonna Cicciona perched herself curtly on multiple hand-crocheted cushions beneath the ancient arm-and-helmet hair dryer, bejeweled fingers folded tightly between bosom and belly, chattering with us about the gossip in town and asking how I enjoyed the most recent confection she made for me, apple strudel. Later that afternoon, I see her outside, getting a little sun, new 'do crumpled a bit under her gigantic flowered hat. If I hadn't seen it all myself, I'd have sworn it came from an episode of "I Love Lucy," dubbed in Italian, English subtitles. But I think her script would be geared more toward HBO than network.
Papa Alessandro is a barrel-chested fireplug of a man. His mammoth callous-laden hands nearly crush mine on every shake. He's a mechanic by trade and the power he has in those bear paws never fails to surprise. I'm the guy his daughter brought home--AN AMERICAN, no less. I'm sure there's a protocol to the whole thing I haven't figured out 100%, though I'm trying. He's generally pretty stolid, but when he breaks into a smile, you can almost hear the face skin pull back to reveal a toothy smile and deep creases around his mouth and eyes where a million jokes have landed. He's a Polaroid from the seventies--you can still make out the colors, though most of his details have taken on a pinkish/brownish hue.
Mama Alessandra? She's the painting above the fireplace. Like most great mommas (mine being the pattern on whom all others are drawn, of course), she is the heart of the home. She's the glue that holds it all together, be it in a warm, enveloping hug, an offer of a snack or a drink, another place at the table, or an approving smile. There is an air of special and valuable to her classic beauty that is most effectively expressed in canvas and oil.
Brother Mattia? He's an ad in a magazine, probably for Vespa. He's young and slick, working with Papa Alessandro in the garage and has a soft spot in his heart for internal combustion engines and hockey; his girl of seven years, Giulia; and his sister. He was the one I was most eager/nervous to meet. As much as Martina loves him, I knew he was the one on whom I needed to make the best impression. He's a listener. There's a stillness in his demeanor that suggests wisdom and strength uncommon in someone his age. I admire it.
And Martina? She's the masterpiece I found at a yard sale. We met on a boat and I approached her and made an offer. And every day I find something more precious and beautiful about her. There are a few layers of paint-by-number on top of the piece de resistance, but we're diggin' through it as best we can. Lord knows I'm still a work in progress. <grin>
