For all the descendants of Ralph and Nancy Sabatini, especially my children, who have often asked me to write them stories about the family, and growing up in Detroit. Life was different back then in many ways...
First I will tell you about Ralph Sabatini, our Grandpa, whom you never met, much to my disappointment. None of the
stories can come close to my memories of him that swirl in and out of my
thoughts, but remain strong and loving in my heart. Sometimes they flit across
my mind, other times I sit and think about him as hard as I can so I will never
forget to think of him. Thank you to my mother for helping me to correct some of my seven year old memories trying to make sense in my well-past-7-year-old mind! Therefore, if you saw this post before and think I changed it some...I did.
Grandpa probably saved my life when I arrived in Detroit,
after being born in Honolulu, Hawaii, a navy brat who didn’t know the paradise
I was being whisked away from to come to what I came to term, “my mother city”
of Detroit. I started calling it that when I realized that Detroit had as much
to do with the shaping of who I am as my family. (We have a powerful family,
with powerful personalities, so that says a lot about how Detroit affected me.)
I was born underweight (my mom smoked), and I couldn’t
seem to be able to gain any weight despite how much I ate as a little, tiny
baby. This was a problem that was apparently not uncommon among the babies whose parents came to Hawaii to serve. Doctors didn't how to explain it, but did nicely mention it.
According to legend, when my mom stepped off the
plane in Detroit, with me in her arms, it was only a short time before my grandfather met me, and he reportedly started crying
and fussing in both Italian and English. He and asked my mother, “What’s wrong with her? Why aren’t you feeding
her? Give her to me before you kill her!” I’m not sure
if that’s what he really said, although I understand a lot of what he said was
done in Italian, but my mom got the impression that her Daddy was not happy
about her thin baby. She apologized to him indicating that I ate like a horse, and still gained no weight. She told me I looked like a frog, all arms and legs!
What I am sure about is that he really did put me on a new diet, which included lots of pastina and Italian bread crusts, among other things which he insisted on preparing himself. I understand that I happily gnawed on EVERYTHING he gave me and must’ve surely appreciated, because six months later, my photos showed me as a happy, much chubbier baby! [My mom added that I was 12 pounds at 6 months and by 12 months I weighted 24 pounds, doubling my weight.] I still have a love for pastina and Italian bread crusts to this day! Bread is almost a sacred relic to me. My mom taught us to “kiss” any bread we threw away for being stale, moldy, smashed, or otherwise inedible because, she told us, it is a “sin” to waste good bread and bread that you have to throw away for being bad is almost a crime. I can’t tell you the faces we must’ve made putting our lips on moldy bread to kiss it before tossing it into the receptacle. That I DO remember, going back to a very young age when I still “minded” my mom.
What I am sure about is that he really did put me on a new diet, which included lots of pastina and Italian bread crusts, among other things which he insisted on preparing himself. I understand that I happily gnawed on EVERYTHING he gave me and must’ve surely appreciated, because six months later, my photos showed me as a happy, much chubbier baby! [My mom added that I was 12 pounds at 6 months and by 12 months I weighted 24 pounds, doubling my weight.] I still have a love for pastina and Italian bread crusts to this day! Bread is almost a sacred relic to me. My mom taught us to “kiss” any bread we threw away for being stale, moldy, smashed, or otherwise inedible because, she told us, it is a “sin” to waste good bread and bread that you have to throw away for being bad is almost a crime. I can’t tell you the faces we must’ve made putting our lips on moldy bread to kiss it before tossing it into the receptacle. That I DO remember, going back to a very young age when I still “minded” my mom.
Grandpa spoiled his grandchildren ROTTEN! In fact,
our moms were the most vocal about the double set of standards he had for his
grandchildren and his children.(Being a grandma, I do understand this
sentiment. I have NEVER raised my voice to my grandchildren). He went
to the bank once a week, bringing home penny bubblegum from the gumball machine in the lobby. They were individually wrapped, dark blue
bubble gum. Julie, Ralph, Philip and I (especially, as the four oldest kids) would be waiting around for
him to get home because he always played this game with us of holding his hands
behind his back and asking us, one at a time, to pick a hand.
There was ALWAYS either gum in NO HAND (he liked to tease) or there was gum in both hands (so we would be right). Sometimes he would pretend he ran out before he got to the last kid, and he would just shrug and say, ”No, more. Sorry.” That child, sometimes me, would start to look thunderstruck with disappointment until, miraculously he would present his hands again and show the gum was always there. [I remember the gums as being stale, hard to chew, but my mother says no. They were fresh.] The gum stained our lips, tongue and our hands, but we loved it. We always ate it, and usually remembered NOT to throw the papers down on the ground. (After Grandpa passed, my own dad tried to play this game with us because he knew we would miss Grandpa. I’m sorry to tell you that we always refused to take the gum from my dad because HIS gum TASTED stale BECAUSE he was not Grandpa! My dad soon tired of the game and just gave it up.)
There was ALWAYS either gum in NO HAND (he liked to tease) or there was gum in both hands (so we would be right). Sometimes he would pretend he ran out before he got to the last kid, and he would just shrug and say, ”No, more. Sorry.” That child, sometimes me, would start to look thunderstruck with disappointment until, miraculously he would present his hands again and show the gum was always there. [I remember the gums as being stale, hard to chew, but my mother says no. They were fresh.] The gum stained our lips, tongue and our hands, but we loved it. We always ate it, and usually remembered NOT to throw the papers down on the ground. (After Grandpa passed, my own dad tried to play this game with us because he knew we would miss Grandpa. I’m sorry to tell you that we always refused to take the gum from my dad because HIS gum TASTED stale BECAUSE he was not Grandpa! My dad soon tired of the game and just gave it up.)
There was another game he used to like to play,
always teasing with us, and that was when it was time to go home from a big
dinner and a family visit at his and Grandma’s house. He would sit in a chair
near the front door (which later became Uncle Bernie’s chair’s corner, Not
Uncle Bernie’s corner, but HIS CHAIR’s corner) and he would pretend to be
staying out of the way while we climbed into our snowsuits, boots, leggings,
hats, scarves and gloves and then Grandma would start handing us bowls and bags
of food to go home. As I walked past his chair he would start yelling, “Where
are you going with that? That’s MY food! Bring it here!.” He was so convincing,
I always believed him, and had to be rescued by another relative as Grandpa was
pretending to take it out of my hands. It used to scare the crap out of me, for
a second, until Grandpa would start laughing, as he lifted the cover and then
said, “No, no, no, this is YOUR food! What are you doing trying to give it
back? That’s for YOU to take home. Take it home now.” And he’d just let me go.
I’d take a few tentative steps then run for the door before he changed his mind
and asked for the food back again (which he sometimes did). All he had to do is
laugh for me to know WE were having a joke!
I still laugh out loud when I think about the one
time I remember him babysitting “us five kids.” We were rotten! Grandma made
pillow covers out of corduroy and with snaps on the side, each one a different
color pillow, so there was enough for all of us to lay on the floor and take a
nap, or watch T.V., or just listen to the grown-ups talking. Because there were
different colors, it can be assumed that we fought for our favorite colors. WE
thought we each had our own colors, but sometimes we would realize NO ONE had
their own pillow at Grandpa and Grandma’s house and we had to “work it out.”
Well, on the day that Grandpa was babysitting us, we had lunch and were
supposed to be taking a nap when the quiet argument over who had what color
pillow ensued.
Grandpa had a cane, he used
it for walking, but I know he used it to reach us from across the living room
that day. As we continued our hushed argument about where to lay our feet,
legs, arms, heads and behinds, we kept bumping each other until Grandpa took a
tone of voice that registered on most of the older kids that Grandpa was not
playing with us. We laid quietly, eyes squeezed tight, feigning rapid descent
into sleep…except Suzanne, who kept giggling. Grandpa did the unthinkable and
actually reached across the room, a corner of his behind holding onto the
corner of his chair and outstretching his arms with his cane until he reached Suzanne
and he cracked her with that cane a couple of times. Jessica was laughing into
her pillow (I heard her, and I thought she was next) but then Grandpa left the
room really annoyed, swearing under his breath.
As soon as he passed into the back, we all started
laughing at Suzanne. Just like the movie “Friday,” when Chris Tucker tells Ice
Cube, “you gotta be a dumb mutha fucker to get fired on your day off…” Getting in trouble when it was nearly impossible! We
couldn’t believe Suzanne actually got our Grandpa mad enough to tap her with
his cane. None of us really got in trouble with him, although he fussed a lot,
he never hit. Suzanne was originally trying to get Laurie in trouble, but it
back-fired on her and Grandpa showed his ire. We did, by the way, fall into a
quick nap after that because he told us he was going hit us all with the cane when he
came back if we weren’t asleep. Sure, we heard he come back, but gave no hint
that we were anything but sleeping, except for Jessica who did continue to
giggle. Either Grandpa didn’t hear, or he pretended not to hear, because she
didn’t get caned. I don’t know why it is so funny to me, but I am laughing now
remembering it. He moved slowly much of the time, but he moved quickly that
day!
I remember how Grandpa loved to feed us, and to
surprise us with odd foods. One day he was eating GOAT EYES in some kind of
broth, and he showed them to us. Then he put one in his mouth and rolled it
around on his tongue to show us he was really going to eat it. We started
crying once he started chewing and swallowing because it was pretty weird and
we kept waiting for him to tell us he was joking, which he eventually did. It
was after he passed before I found out he really DID eat goat eyes. I remember
Julie Anne and I staring into each other’s surprised face saying, “No way! He
said he was just joking!” He just pretended he didn’t really eat them for us,
so we would stop crying. Later, it became “bragging rights” in school to help
stand toe-to-toe with kids who ate chitterlings and thought that was something! [My sister Jessica asked me to recount the fact that my grandfather widened the tines of the fork he claimed as his own to use because he felt the regular forks did not hold enough spaghetti. Also, it was a rite of passage to correctly wind the spaghetti around the fork as we ate. Slurping was not acceptable and if a spoon was needed to help catch the twisting spaghetti, then so be it. Slurping spaghetti among Italians is like not knowing how to use a fork at all.]
Grandpa with us kids, Grandpa cooking, Grandpa
telling stories and laughing, Grandpa and his garden…there are so many things
about him I cherish in my memories. His tomatoes were the “off limits” portion
of the yard. We could walk up to them, but we could not enter their plot, for
fear we’d trample them, bruise them, or knock tomatoes off the plant
prematurely. Whatever it was, we didn’t dare go tramping in his garden, but we
enjoyed eating his tomatoes. He told us how he used to grow tomatoes in Italy.
I remember his tomatoes were the pride and joy of his garden, although he grew
many other things. He did not use chemical pesticides on his tomatoes. He planted marigold flowers between plants as a natural repellent against tomatoes worms and other pests. Grandma sprinkled flower lightly on the leaves sometimes as she was taught, because the bugs who tried to eat the leaves in her garden would make paste mixing with their saliva, in essence, cementing their mouths closed. He used to can tomatoes, too, and make sauce out of them. And
NEVER NEVER NEVER were we allowed in the kitchen when he cooked, for our own
safety. We just floated on the aroma until he came out of the kitchen with a
big bowl, or a big pot, bringing it to the table.
I remember watching him make polenta, standing in
the doorway of the kitchen before being shooed away from the kitchen door, mouth
watering. He always made pasta for those who didn’t like the polenta. He had a
board cut to the exact size of the dining room table. Then, he’d come out and
spread water all over the board to help the polenta slide more easily over it.
Then he’d bring his HUGE pot of polenta to the table and pour it in the middle
of the table and spread it out carefully, leaving only the very edges bare.
Then, he let it sit for a couple minutes while he scored it with his fork, so
the ridges would hold the sauce better. Then, he’d carry his HUGE pot of sauce
to the table an pour it over the polenta, moving it around over the top of the
polenta until it was completely covered. Finally, he’d go get his goat cheese
to sprinkle on the polenta (for those who wanted it, it was passed civilly, and
politely around the table). Once we were all seated, we said grace and started
to eat. We could never, ever finish all of the food he put on the table. We had
to eat a space clean on our part of the table before we could have the greens,
or salad, or whatever went with it. And he always had his glass of wine to
drink. He made his own wine and vinegar, too.
Last story today, about the “dream visits” I used to
have with Grandpa. The first time I remember dreaming about him was a few days
before he died. I dreamed that he died and I was very upset. At that point, he
was bed-ridden with kidney problems, that’s all I really know about his
condition except that a "crooked boss" who was against union organizing and fair treatment of his employees allowed the scaffolding to fall into disrepair and he landed
on a garbage can on his back, doing eventual fatal damage to his kidneys. [The difficulty he had with the mafia earlier was when he first got married and they tried to charge him 10% of his income as "protection money” and he didn't pay because the parish priest told them to resist. They tried running his car off the road and he was forced to quit his job for his own protection. He ended up taking contracts out of town for sometime after that. My grandmother took a job working at Fannie Mae's chocolate for a time because the mafia did not typically harass women or children.
Grandpa was very religious, and even spent three hours on “Good Friday” at Santa Maria’s Parish on a cross, from 12:00 noon to 3:00 p.m., the hours selected as the time represented on the cross. He was selected for the highly honored position of proxy crucifixion for the church that year. My mother told me it was a great honor for him. As he hung there, he was being rewarded for being a good Catholic. Also, it was supposed to provide the unique conditions associated with the crucifixion, often being said to assist in the religious ecstasy. [My mother asked me to explain it like this].
Grandpa was very religious, and even spent three hours on “Good Friday” at Santa Maria’s Parish on a cross, from 12:00 noon to 3:00 p.m., the hours selected as the time represented on the cross. He was selected for the highly honored position of proxy crucifixion for the church that year. My mother told me it was a great honor for him. As he hung there, he was being rewarded for being a good Catholic. Also, it was supposed to provide the unique conditions associated with the crucifixion, often being said to assist in the religious ecstasy. [My mother asked me to explain it like this].
I used to dream about him while Grandma was still
alive, and I would tell her about the dreams. She would sit down and listen to
every word, never interrupting, never looking like she didn’t believe me. She
told me once that I was very “blessed” that he would “let me” dream about him
because he had stopped her from doing it. When I asked her how he could stop
her, she told me, “he doesn’t like it when I dream about him because I always
wake up sad. The last time he came to my dream, he told me, ‘go on with your
life, Nancy. I’m not going anywhere. I will be here for you when you’re done.
You still have to live, so stop dreaming about me.” She told me she hadn’t had
any more dreams about him since that time. So, she was happy for me to share my
dreams with her.
After I married Keith, I got very ill after a friend
of mine from work died as a result of her job. She was the 5th woman
to die in 10 months, and she came to be very important to me, so when she died a
lot of things changed. I ended up leaving my job and went into a depression for
a bit. I started losing weight and didn’t want to eat at all. I ended up in the
emergency room several times and no one could tell me what was wrong. They just
plugged IVs into me and sent me home afterwards. I even fell out of bed one
night and lay on the floor crying, too weak to get back into bed, and Keith had
to pick me up and put me back in bed. That night, I had the dream about Grandpa
and Grandma.
Grandma had
died within a year of that time and I was still grieving the loss of her (which
I still am). At any rate, in my dream, Grandpa was fussing at me for losing so
much weight. He told me I was starting to look like a skeleton. Then he told me
he knew how to make me better. “What you need is some tripe, and some Italian
bread and some wine, and NOT that Boone’s Farm crap you have in your
refrigerator!” I did have Boone’s Farm in my refrigerator. My dream changed
scenes to Grandpa and Grandma’s kitchen, before I-75 was built (which I
remember) but there was a different stove and table and different counters and
curtains in the kitchen. When I woke and described them to my mother, she said
that was the way their kitchen looked before we came back to Detroit to
live after the stint in the Navy.
Grandpa was standing at the sink (which also was
different) and he had a panel of tripe in his hands as he was running it under
water, to rinse it off. Then he put it in a big pot with lots of salt in the
water and boiled it. Then he dumped it and did the same thing again. He warned
me it would smell bad, but that was the part that was boiling off. Three times
he boiled the tripe and rinsed it at the sink. Then he called me over to feel
it. “See, this is what it feels like when it’s clean, it’s squeaky. If it is sticky,
it is not clean yet. If it is yellow, it is old. It must be closer to white. Two, three times is enough to boil it usually.” Then I
felt the tripe with my fingers so I could see what he was talking about. Then
he cut it into about 1” squares and set it aside while he cut up the beef and
browned it in garlic and oil. Then he added back the tripe, some tomatoes,
carrots, celery, and potatoes peeled and cut-up. Finally he just covered it
with water, then he added more spices (after the spices he added to the
browning meat, as though the meat and the stew had to be seasoned separately).
Then, he brought it to a boil, and lowered it, simmering it until the food was
cooked. He told me to get some good Italian bread, with a good crust on it, and
the red wine. He told me what was wrong with me was in my stomach, and tripe
would always make me feel better. (ADDED: The seasonings usually consisted of salt, ground black pepper, basil, oregano, a bay leaves and of course some beef bullion to add to the beef flavor of the broth).
Grandma was in the dream, too, smiling, and watching
Grandpa explain to me how to fix the tripe. The only thing I remember her
saying is to tell me to write everything down for Keith, and to make a grocery
list so he could go get the items I needed from the store, which I did, which
he did. I had to lean against the counter several times while I was cooking,
but I insisted that I do it myself. We got some Italian bread with the crust
and some Lambrusco wine. The tripe was wonderful. I didn’t even eat it as a kid
because I didn’t care for it, but on that day, it was the most wonderful food
ever. I saved a bowl for my mom and brought it to her and she tasted it and
said, “This is Daddy’s tripe! How did you learn to make Daddy’s tripe?” So I
told her about my dream. From what I remember, she told everyone in the family
about my dream and the tripe. She asked me for the recipe, but it was something
that just seemed to come naturally to me that day and I am not sure I ever
wrote it down, although I have made it since then.
The end result was that the food miraculously changed
my constitution and I was up and walking around well by the next day. After
another day of eating it, I felt well enough to start cleaning my house again,
which I had neglected a “giant tad.” I did recover and the food, I believe did
have something to do with it. I can still envision his hands, busy at the sink,
showing me how to cook it. And Grandma’s smile watching him was the loveliest I
think I’ve ever seen her. I miss them both.
Grandpa was born April 16, 1900. Grandma was born March 21, 1909. So you know.
Grandpa was born Raphael Mario Sabatini in Italy, in the Abruzzi (or Abruzzo) region, in Roccavivi
Grandma was born Nancy Agnes Sabatini in Detroit, Michigan. Her parents and oldest sister Rose were born in Calabria, Italy. Her other sisters were also born in Detroit. (Mary, Stella, Adeline, and Elizabeth [called herself Betty])
Want to see Roccavivi today?
I hope you enjoyed this first installment of The
Family.
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What a beautiful post ❤️
ReplyDeleteThank you, Shelly. I remember Grandpa holding you. I remember when he died, and you knew his body was open to view before being laid to rest, you kept telling everyone, "Shhhh, Grandpa is sleeping." You insisted he not be awakened. You were probably about two years old. We thought it was cute that you were looking out for him because you were small, but fierce about it. Ask your mom. I bet she remembers.
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