The Nonnas

The Nonnas

Every summer, we visited my Italian grandparents’ bungalow on the Great South Bay. Two tiny bedrooms on the main floor flanked a dining room/kitchen area. An ancient gas stove, the kind you light with a match, commanded the kitchen. An old refrigerator stood next to a table which sat anywhere from eight to eighteen. A door in the dining room opened to a steep stairway to a dormer attic filled with double beds, cots, and cribs. A screened porch stretched across the front and backdoor steps led down to a communal yard. The bathroom held a free-standing sink, an ancient toilet (flushed only when absolutely necessary), and a glass-lined water heater. The shower was a cold-water hose out back. A sign over the front door read “Capacity 12; 52 on Weekends.”

We kids considered it paradise.

All six houses on our dead-end street were filled to the brim with at least three generations. Kids spilled out every morning, grabbed their friends, and headed to the pier to fish or crab or to reenact epic dramas on the rocks along the bay. In the afternoon’s heat, our parents swam with us at the bay beach or loaded us into cars, and the whole neighborhood headed to the ocean beach. In the evenings, we gathered around a huge table under a grape arbor to feast on pasta, fresh veggies from the garden, and “frutti del mare,” the clams, crabs, snails, and fish caught each day. As the sun set, we gathered around a wood-fire in a rickety old grill, swatting mosquitoes, as the little ones fell asleep in their parents’ arms and the big kids skittered about while grandparents warned us to watch out for the fire. 

“Paisans,” related by our common heritage, the grandparents, and some of our parents often slipping into Italian, we laughed at generations of funny stories, cried over lost but never forgotten loved ones, sang sentimental songs, and cooed over every baby joining our family. Holding this huge family together were the “Nonnas,” our grandmothers. 

The grandfathers arrived every Thursday night and left on Sunday afternoons. Our parents cycled in and out as work schedules allowed. The Nonnas stayed all summer to cook, clean, and care for their children and grandchildren. They tended the garden, cleaned the crabs, clams, and fish, cooked the pasta, washed mountains of dishes, changed diapers, washed faces, swept porches and steps, haggled with vendors selling produce from the backs of trucks, bandaged fingers cut by fishhooks, scrubbed and wrung out mountains of clothes and sheets, hung them out to flutter over the backyards, told stories, and hugged everyone. We kids didn’t realize how much love was wrapped up in our Nonnas hard work. We all helped out a bit but our paradise rested on the labor of our Nonnas who loved us so. 

After we were settled into bed, the Nonnas dropped exhausted into lawn chairs around the fire to share stories of their grandchildren, their worries and hopes, their sorrows and joys. Now we are the grandparents. When our grandchildren visit, we are sometimes exhausted, but we wrap our love around our grandchildren and remember the Nonnas who loved us so. 

Paradise returns.

Unsung Hero

Unsung Hero

July 25, 2008

The list of heroes is long and varied. Peter Pan vanquishes Captain Hook by tossing him to the ticking crocodile. Harry Potter saves the wizarding world from Lord Voldemort. Frog remains cheerful despite spending his year with the dour Toad. Amelia Bedelia triumphs over the illogical English language. Max becomes the King of the Wild Things and finds his dinner still warm. 

Yet there is one hero who goes unsung in the world of children’s literature, one hero whose name remains unknown, one hero who might only be described as wet. That hero, a moral compass for children everywhere, is the fish in The Cat in the Hat.

You recall the tale. Sally and her brother are withering away from boredom. It’s too wet to go out. It’s too cold to play ball. So they sit in the house doing nothing at all.  

BUMP!  The door flies open and in steps that rogue among rogues, The Cat in the Hat. Immediately the mayhem begins.

Now, as you remember, their mother was out, so when the Cat proposes some good games and some new tricks, Sally and her brother do not know what to do. Should they follow this leader into realms unknown or should they continue to gaze at the dribbles of rain on the window glass? 

At this moment, our hero speaks: “No! No! Make that cat go away! Tell that Cat in the Hat you do not want to play. He should not be here. He should not be about. He should not be here when your mother is out!”

 Note the commanding tone of our hero. He has no doubts about the wisdom of following Mother’s dictates. After all, what is the seat of all wisdom? A mother’s lap.

The Cat, recognizing a worthy foe, counters with smooth words and acrobatics. He hoists the complaining fish, trapped in his proverbial fishbowl (oh, the philosophical implications), into the air and, quoting the messenger angels, says, “Have no fear.  Have no fear!  My tricks are not bad.”  

The cat falls and our hero plunges into a nearby teapot — that universal symbol of hearth and home (at least in England). From there he continues to expound, “Do I like this?  Oh, no! I do not. This is not a good game. No, I do not like it, not one little bit!”  

His warnings, alas, go unheeded.

The Cat refuses to listen to reason and introduces his friends, or should we say his minions, Thing One and Thing Two. The fish, immediately recognizing the danger, shouts, “Put them out! Put them out!” But the children, enthralled by the charismatic Cat, ignore him. Thing One, Thing Two, and the Cat demolish the peaceful afternoon and most of the house. 

Belatedly, our narrator awakens to the danger of allowing unbridled passions into his quiet existence and says, “I do not like the way that they play!  If Mother could see this, oh, what would she say?”  

Too late!  Mother is in sight. What will they do, oh, what will they do?

Ever the hero, the fish rallies and counsels, “So, DO something! Fast!”  

Taking command, Sally and her brother order the nefarious Cat to clean up his act (and the house). As Mother enters the Cat exits with a tip of his famous striped hat. Mother, in parental innocence, asks “Did you have any fun? Tell me. What did you do?”

The question of the ages: When faced with moral choices, oh, what do we do? The fish, our hero, without status, without laurels, without even a capital F in his name, might answer, follow your conscience, listen to the wisdom of your elders, think before you allow outsiders to influence your choices in life. 

Yet, even with this paragon of wisdom, this philosophical giant, this, well, why don’t we just say it, this fish, living right in their midst, Sally and her brother cannot give an answer.  

As the fish smiles in his bowl, they gaze into the reader’s eyes and ask, “What would you say if your mother asked you?”      

(Thanks to Dr. Seuss. The Cat in the Hat, 1957)

The Conversation

We were in reading group.  We had been writing letters to our partner school in Namibia, Africa. We had looked at maps and photos of the learners there and were now writing thank you notes for some gifts they had sent us. One of my students had actually been to South Africa, the country directly south of Namibia, and he and some of the others were discussing the pictures of our African friends. I was editing another student’s letter when I overheard the following: 

They wear uniforms in their school.

Yeah, and they don’t wear shoes.

 Their skin is really dark. Are they black? 

Some people in South Africa call them colored.

Do they like that? 

 I don’t know. But if it were me, I think I’d like to be called by my name.

There’s an old song from the musical “South Pacific” called “You Have to Be Carefully Taught.” The song states that parents teach children to be prejudiced. Hour after hour, day after day, children are taught to judge others by the color of their skin, their disabilities, their nationalities, and the language they speak, not by the content of their characters, as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. dreamed.    

My students, as children often do, had struck right to the heart of the matter. All people have the right to be recognized for their individual humanness. People don’t want to be labeled; they want to be called by name. Isn’t it wonderful to hear someone call your name in love?

This conversation impressed me. My students are only seven and eight years old. They don’t have much life experience. A trip to Africa is a rarity for young children. Somehow, thanks to their parents’ teaching, they realized a great truth; calling people by name not only honors them but also communicates the respect we must have for each other if we are to get along in this diverse but wonderful world.

Our partner school in Namibia has over seven hundred students and, although the official language is English, most people still speak their village language. We don’t know which of these many learners will be able to read our letters. We don’t know their names. 

But my students do know one very important thing. When I asked them how we should address our letters, every one of them confidently called out, Dear Friend.

Now I Understand

Now I Understand

Our son, a chemical engineer, dedicated his doctoral thesis to “My parents who won’t understand a word of it.” His father objected, “I understood several, a, and, the…” 

New readers must master many skills: identifying sounds, connecting sounds to symbols, building vocabulary, and comprehending text. Comprehension involves accessing previous knowledge, understanding vocabulary and concepts, making inferences, and linking key ideas. Here are a few tips for parents who want to help their children increase reading comprehension.

1. Preview: Before reading a new book discuss the title and pictures. Previewing suggests vocabulary and the storyline which might be expected. “This story is called The Three Bears. What do you think it is about? Let’s look at the pictures for some clues. What kind of house is that? What foods do bears eat?”

2.  Predict: Look into your crystal ball. Before reading, help your child predict what might happen in the story. Use the title and pictures. When reading, stop to review what has happened, ask clarifying questions, verify previous predictions, and make new ones. “What will happen when the bears leave the door open?”

3. Compare: “How are the three bears different from/similar to other bears? Define fiction and nonfiction. Does this story remind you of any other stories — real or fictional?

4.  Review: Discuss story points during and after reading. “How did Goldie get into the house? What does she do inside?” After reading, ask your child for opinions, suggestions for other endings, likes, and dislikes. “What else might have happened when the bears found Goldie? Which part of the story did you like best? What made you happy (worried, angry, etc.)?”

5. Connect: Connect the story characters or events to your child’s life or other stories. “Do you remember when we left the garage door open all night? What did we find the next morning? A skunk! What else could happen when you leave a door unlocked? Do you know any other stories about someone going where they shouldn’t?”

6. Map. Ask questions about the characters, setting, plot, problems, and solutions in the story. “Where did the three bears live? What was it like there? Who was in this story? How would you describe Goldie(the bears)? What happened before Goldie came by? How did Goldie get into the house? What did Goldie do before the bears returned? What happened when they did? How do you think Goldie (or the bears) felt? How would you feel? What do you think Goldie (or the bears) learned? What else could have happened at the end of the story? Don’t overanalyze. Keep it fun. 

5.  Model: Good readers don’t fall far from the library. Parents who model the purposes and joys of reading have children who are more likely to read. Flaunt your library card! “If Mom and Dad enjoy reading so much, I want to do it too!” 

Make reading a BIG part of your lives. Share books and reading time. Help your child succeed at reading by making it a family affair. 

(This is the sixth in a series about reading success.)

Living in a VUCA World

Living in a VUCA World

In 1985, Madonna had a huge hit singing about a “material girl” living in a “material world.” Children today face a different challenge, living in a VUCA world — a world that is Volatile, Uncertain, Complex, and Ambiguous. A military term used to describe the unsettled world after the terrorist attacks in 2001, VUCA describes the chaotic times following a disrupting event, such as the recent pandemic and social unrest, in which anxiety rises to unprecedented and unrelenting heights. 

Anxiety, once intermittent, is now constant. According to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services “Anxiety is now the number-one mental health disorder for both adults and children.” Parents, caught in the unrelenting news cycle and job tensions, pass anxieties along to their children. Pressured by the unreasonable expectations of society, parents demand high academic, athletic, musical, artistic, and social achievement from their children. Children give up their individual interests to meet parent expectations. Social media applauds winners and ridicules “losers” while removing students from genuine human interactions and friendships. Children, once innocent of the world’s pressures, sink under the weight of them.

In her book, Ready or Not: Preparing Kids to Thrive in an Uncertain and Rapidly Changing World, educational consultant Madeline Levine writes that children living in a VUCA world can feel powerless, unintelligent, and worthless leading them to feelings of “demoralization and victimization.” Luckily, parents can help children develop the skills necessary for thriving in an uncertain world.

The first step is to examine your coping skills. How do you deal with anxiety? Do you fall apart, blame others, predict gloom and doom? Or do you look at troubles as opportunities, times to invent creative solutions, and to find light in the darkness? Do you see yourself as part of the problem or as part of the solution? Do you complain or make plans? Levine writes that the “well-being of parents has a critical and continuing impact on our children’s well-being.” In other words, parents are models for their children. Parents who cope well will have children who cope well.

After developing their skills, parents can teach their children the skills necessary to thrive in today’s world. Levine suggests cultivating emotional intelligence, “the ability to recognize, understand, and manage one’s own emotions and the emotions of others,” self-regulation, “the internal guidance system that allows us to direct our own behavior and control our impulses,” and engagement, an “optimism and enthusiasm about learning.” Knowing that they can take a deep breath, take time to think, do a little research, make a plan, and believe that they will succeed when stresses come, give children a sense of power over circumstances. They learn to act, not react, in situations of stress. 

Parents must make their homes safe places — places where children can be themselves, explore their own interests, feel that they are an important and contributing member of the family, and absolutely believe that they are loved absolutely. A parent’s love conquers a VUCA world when it is constant, unwavering, honest, and sure. So, instead of “anxious children” living in an “anxious world,” your children can rest securely in their parent’s love. 

Stay calm, and parent on. 

(All quotations are from Ready or Not: Preparing Kids to Thrive in an Uncertain and Rapidly Changing World, by Madeline Levine. I highly recommend it!)

Patchogue Mornings

Patchogue Mornings

Capacity 12

52 on Weekends

Once in a while, when walking through the yard on a cool summer morning, I get a whiff of paradise. A cool breeze, the scent of fresh basil, or the call of a mourning dove, and I am there.

In the early days of the last century, my great-grandparents bought a summer bungalow on a dead-end street a block and a half from the Great South Bay in Long Island. The family took the train from Brooklyn then hired a horse and wagon to travel the last few miles. A sign hung over the front door — Capacity 12 — 52 on weekends. I  imagine their excitement as they came in sight of the bay — the same excitement I felt whenever we did the same.

It was a small house with just a dining room, kitchen, and two small bedrooms downstairs but the glories of the house included a screened front porch and an open attic accessed by a steep staircase. I imagine my great-uncles and aunts arguing about who would get to sleep in the attic just like we did. 

Huge trees hugged the attic’s windows and every breeze blew a scent of the bay into our dreams. Arising early, we trooped downstairs in our pajamas and out onto the airy porch. Six houses snuggled close on our block. We called to our friends on their porches, “What are we doing today? Are we going fishing? What time are we heading to the beach?” Always “we,” never “you” or “I.” We were one family.

After breakfast, we wiggled into our bathing suits and tumbled down the back steps into our shared backyard. A dozen children, many of them cousins, might be waiting for us. We mixed and matched age groups as we grabbed our fishing poles and headed for the pier. We chattered as we set our lines, “Remember when the snappers were running? Remember the eel in the crab cage? Uncle Joe ate it!” 

Afternoons, the whole neighborhood headed to the beach. The older kids jumped right into the bay. Toddlers splashed in a wading pool filled with salt water pumped from the bay. Some days, we loaded up the station wagons and drove to the ocean beach. Hauling lunches, playpens, and blankets, we struggled over the dunes onto the beach. While the adults played cards or gabbed and watched the little kids play in the sand, we leaped over the ocean waves — always accompanied by a parent or aunt or uncle to keep us safe.

Later, as we showered under a backyard hose, the Nonnas cooked dinner fresh from the garden flanking the backyard. We ate under the grape arbor at a table that sat 12, or 15, or as many as wanted to join us. After dinner, the Nonnos played a card game fueled by rivalries going back to Italy. “Due!” they’d shout as they slapped down a card followed by raucous laughter. After dark, our friends and families, young and old, gathered around a fire — a circle of light and family.

Four generations enjoyed that bungalow before it was taken from us by a not-so-friendly fire. Our memories and friendships survive. The generations live on. Paradise lives inside us ready to awaken any summer morning. 

A Network of Mutuality

A Network of Mutuality

At the beginning of every school year, my students gathered to talk about classroom rules. After reviewing the usual list, we’d add one more: In our classroom, we support one another. My second-graders had a lot of ideas about what this meant: We help one another with math. We share our crayons. We pick up someone who falls. We invite our classmates to play.

Building a sense of community is a vital educational strategy. Classmates work together for the benefit of all. When one succeeds, we all succeed. When one fails, we help pick up the pieces. We walk together and leave no one behind. We weave a network of mutual respect and care that we carry forward into our lives.

Sometimes we forget that our fate is connected to the fate of others. What affects one, affects all. Martin Luther King, in a speech in 1968 at the National Cathedral the week before he was assassinated said, “We are tied together in the single garment of destiny, caught in an inescapable network of mutuality. And whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. For some strange reason, I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be. And you can never be what you ought to be until I am what I ought to be. This is the way God’s universe is made; this is the way it is structured.”

Our sense of mutuality gets lost when we take sides against one another. In our nation today, we have split into camps — each claiming the right to victory and demanding the defeat of the other. We forget that we are bound together by our mutual rights, as our founding fathers stated, to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We forget that our nation endures because we have mutual goals. When we stop supporting one another, we will all fall.

On the night Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated, Robert F. Kennedy, who was campaigning for the presidency, stood before a crowd of his supporters to deliver the terrible news. Kennedy then called for unity: “What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness; but is love and wisdom and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.” 

Our fates are tied together. No one will truly succeed unless all succeed. Love, compassion, and wisdom will bring justice. In a network of mutuality, it is not my justice but our justice. For our nation to endure, we must support one another. Only then will we have justice for all.

Our “garment of destiny” must not be shredded by divisions among us. Our mutuality is “inescapable.” To achieve justice for all we must support our neighbors — new or old. When we employ love, wisdom, and compassion no one will be left behind. 

(Quotations from The Soul of America: The Battles for Our Better Angels by Jon Meacham, Random House 2018)