July 2024

Frank Di Piero - Italian American Moment

Frank Di Piero was born in Chicago and is 100% Italian origin. He has traveled to Italy many times and attended two study abroad programs in Italy, one in Roma and one in Firenze. He is the former President of The Harlem Avenue Italian & American Business Association and was on the committee to start an Italian American Studies Program at Loyola University Chicago. He is a Director of Casa Italia, and LITTLE ITALY Cenetta. He is a volunteer at Casa Italia Library and the Italian Cultural Center.

Summers Weren't Long Enough

ED IANNUCCILLI

JUL 01, 2024

The summer solstice is a pivot that generates excitement and time to speculate. Why? Because the days are longer, and longer days help me hang on to summer as I did in my youth. Nowadays, extending days is paramount as the sun sets.

I had more energy then. Yes, I know I was younger and was expected to have vitality, but there was something more. The sun’s energizing rays helped to power my mood. My serotonin levels had to be oozing through my skin. Tomatoes helped. That round, red juicy fruit was like the apple to Snow White; irresistible.

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My grandfather's garden was full of them, and his trees were laden with cherries, apples, pears, and figs. On many a summer day, I sat in that garden with a shaker of salt in one hand and a tomato in the other, strafing my shirt with seeds and juice with that first crunch.

And for some summers we had a bonus. In partnership with my aunt and her family, we rented a cottage by the Narraganset shore. What a thrill. After years of Sunday caravans from Providence, we were going to stay.

   It was a chalky, cinder-block bungalow squatting deep on a grassy knoll across the street from the beach. A knotty pine wall divided the cottage’s interior into two living spaces. Centered at the cabin’s entrance was the only bathroom for four adults and five kids.

On each side was a kitchen with an ice box, a wooden table covered with a flowery oilcloth, and a cot. The bedroom had two double beds, one for my parents and one for Peter and me. Uncle's snoring poured through the thin wall into our bedroom. On some evenings, two fog horns were synchronized; his and the Point Judith Light.

I stored my beach treasures . . . a smooth black stone, a dry starfish, a conch shell that held the ocean’s roar, some periwinkle shells, punk, a deck of Bicycle cards, and a gimp bracelet on the windowsill next to the bed.

    We woke to the brilliant sun, put on our bathing suits, had cornflakes for breakfast, and strolled barefoot across the street to the beach with towels draped around our necks.

  “Watch the traffic. Careful in the water. Don’t go too far. Tell the lifeguard you’re there. We’ll be right over.” Moms being Moms.

“See ya,” we barked as we headed to the beach. We fiddled at the water’s edge, skimmed shells, rode the waves, caught crabs, and dug holes to China. We flew kites, made sandcastles, and collected shells, rocks, starfish and periwinkles.

I was not quick to dive. The icy water hurt my ankles, and the stones hurt my feet, so I stopped, rose on tiptoes to keep the cold from my crotch, wet my hands, then my arms and shoulders, and waited for the next wave. Then, with a puff, I dove, rose quickly, and gasped. “There, I did it!”

We spent all day at that beach, crossing to the cottage for lunch when we saw the Block Island Ferry. Sometimes Moms brought peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Kool-Aid to us. I had an RCA portable radio to listen to Red Sox games.

Our sunscreens were an umbrella and a tee shirt, so the first few days of baking in the sun were brutal; terrible tender burns, taut skin, and gunks of Noxzema Cream at night. A sunburn meant wearing an undershirt the next day, even in the water.

At the day’s end, we showered outdoors. We were hot and covered with a thin layer of grisly salt and sweat. Naked, enclosed, and protected under the blue sky and fleecy clouds, we were invigorated by the icy water. The Ivory soap’s smell readied us for the Johnson’s Baby Powder and soft, white sweatshirt that smelled, yep, of Ivory Soap.

At sunset, we flew kites or walked to the rocks and caught crabs at low tide. Ah, yes, crabbing on the rocks.

The blue sky and clouds hung as if tethered on fishing lines. The beach glistened as the light of the setting sun gave way to an early moon. My sunburned skin was tight and tender, and the salted hair on my arms bristled under the rub of my sweatshirt. The heat of a beach day turned to a cooler evening. Carrying pails off we trekked to the far end of the beach to catch crabs.

I looked over my shoulder at the variety store’s red shingled roof growing smaller as we walked further. Lingering beach-ers were sitting on folding chairs, books in their laps, eyes fixed on the horizon, riveted by the rhythm of the waves.

I swung my red pail with the white handle and leaned forward into the gentle evening wind, a wind that at other times took my kite to those same rocks. The soft sand yielded to mud; the mud gave way to the sudsy water.

Beyond the rocks was a mansion on a bluff. I loved that house; a sprawling single-story, yellow home with a black-shingled roof and white gutters. A path wound its way from that house to the rocks. I wondered if rich people crabbed.

Rocks of all sizes in shades of black, gray, green and brown were strewn with seaweed, moss, fishhooks, and a network of frayed fishing lines. Periwinkles were perched like rows of dunce caps.

For bait, I pulled a large, tenacious mussel from its bed, smashed it with a rock and tied a string around it. I threw seaweed into the pail, dipped my mussel into the water and waited. The first crab inched out from under the rock. Back he went. Patience. Dangle the bait. Out and back, he went. Out again, he paused, grabbed the mussel with his claws and dipped his head into the flesh. I pulled slowly. He was on. I jiggled the crab over the bucket, and he fell.

  Bunches more came. I loaded the bucket and watched them crawl, one over the other, trying to escape along the smooth sides, undaunted, no matter how many times they slipped back. As the sun set, it was time to go. We skated over the rocks to the shore, the store in the distance. I turned to see the rocks disappear under a thin veil of dusk. The waves washed my footsteps away.

I showed the catch to Dad. “What are you going to do with them?"

"Keep ‘em.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. Just have ‘em, I guess.”

“They’ll die, you know. They need to be in the water. It might not be a bad idea to let them go.” We walked to the water’s edge. I inverted the pail and dumped the crabs. With claws held high, waving goodbye, they scurried into the sea, finding their way to the rocks.

   I coddled pieces of smooth beach glass in my pocket. It was time for a frozen Charleston Chew. A soft breeze carried the whiff of seaweed.

The days were long. The bed was welcome. Before drifting off, I thought of this day and then dreamt of the next.

Summers were not long enough.

The Photo Angel - Kate Kelley

Meet Mildred Annetta (Weldon) Schneider (1914-?) born in Millersport, Ohio to parents Joseph and Ida (Petty) Weldon.

Annetta was one of six siblings. She married a bridge worker named Russell Schneider on September 16, 1933 in Wood County, Ohio. The couple made their home in Toledo. Records do not indicate if there were any children born to this union.

I am pleased to share that this beautiful portrait will soon be on its way to Annetta’s grandniece in The Buckeye State! Thank you to Dianne Hyde for donating her image to The Photo Angel project.

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