A Big Birthday

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Various kinds of pizza are needed to celebrate a birthday! – tangled pasta.net

By Mary Anna Violi | @MaryAnnaVioli

Yesterday we honored my paternal uncle in celebrating his 98th birthday. He is the last of my father’s siblings, a family of three sisters and three brothers. My Italian immigrant father passed away just shy of 96, long after he had later brought his two younger brothers to the U.S. For various reasons, his three sisters remained in southern Italy. From 1933 onwards, my father’s family became geographically divided. Yet they always remained in touch throughout those many years.

Last night at the pizza party my cousins held for their father, I thought about how brave my father and his brothers were to come to a foreign country without having learned any English prior to their arrival, and with little money in their pockets. Granted, my father had a cousin who encouraged him to come to his newly adopted town, but to take that ship from Naples and sail to New York’s Ellis Island required a great leap of faith. Yet the three brothers all built new lives here, married, raised families, practiced their faith, and prospered in their own ways.

Last night my uncle looked on cheerfully as we circulated among one another, talking, laughing, and having a fine time. I thought about how much my late aunt, his wife, would have loved having the family together. Her good nature would have embraced the festivities. We all miss her very much, especially my uncle. Sometimes when I visit him, he says, “I don’t know why I’m here! For what?” I answer that he is now the patriarch of our family, that we need him to lead us. He tells me that I’m crazy, that no one needs him anymore. But he is wrong: he is the living link to our past, not that we think of him as a museum specimen, rather to know that we can turn to him for our family history and anecdotes. He reminds us from whence we came, of the struggles, the milestones, the essence of what makes us, for all intents and purposes, us.

Ciao for now.

Gloriana

Buckingham palace

By Mary Anna Violi | @MaryAnnaVioli

I have a new, vicarious pleasure.

It has nothing to do with erotica.

Another knows of my secret delight.

I feel certain Netflix will not betray me.

My joy is in watching The Crown.

            I admit it: I am an historical royal aficionado.

There you have it.

My guilty gratification revolves around a young queen.

Said royal attempts to navigate the stuffy, stodgy waters of royalty.

I don’t know how she breathed with the world watching.

The costumes, the setting, the politics all captivate me.

In spite of historical inaccuracies, The Crown’s narrative is good.

It’s more than good: it’s riveting, as are the actors.

Viewing all the protocol and precedence, I’m happy to be a non-royal.

But don’t take my word for it.

Watch it for yourself and see what you think.

Maybe you’ll get caught up in the thorough Britishness of it.

I know I did.

Ciao for now.

 

 

 

 

My Alma Mater

 

 

The Old Well House, IU Bloomington - tangledpasta.net
The Old Well House, IU Bloomington – tangledpasta.net

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By Mary Anna Violi | @Mary Anna Violi

This weekend I’m back at my old stomping ground, IU Bloomington, where I spent my undergrad and grad school years.  This is Mom’s Weekend at my daughter’s sorority house.  Blowing in to town around 6:30 p.m. on Thursday, I met my daughter at her house, handed her the cooler filled with Italian Easter bread, Italian lamb cake, Belgian bunny cookies, and homemade tortellini.  After checking into our hotel, we sped off for a late dinner at The Uptown Cafe.

This particular Mom’s Weekend is a milestone of sorts:  After her May graduation,  no more Mom’s Weekends, no more Little 500 weekends.  Nostalgia washes over me.  While she’s working at the School of Journalism, I’m imbibing a Venti Zen tea at  Starbucks in the IU Memorial Union, a sprawling Indiana limestone structure with gothic windows reminiscent of medieval England.   The cacophony of students and faculty seated at the morass of tables in this large Starbucks is upbeat.  It’s Friday; today’s sunshine promises a sun-drenched weekend.  Classes end later this month, so soon, so sadly, but not for the students, I’m certain.  The rapid passage of these four years takes my breath away.

She chose IU Bloomington over Loyola-Chicago.  Not that I don IU spirit wear on game weekends, although Hoosier Fever was endemic during the legendary Bobby Knight years.  With Bobby at the epicenter of IU basketball, we students circled in his orb.  We spilled out on to Kirkwood Avenue, celebrating wildly after the NCAA Championship wins.  Good times.  Anjelica has had classes in Ballantine, where I savored almost every English class during my undergrad years.  She has walked much the same routes that I did on her daily campus treks.  She is fortunate that the School of Journalism stands on the original, the prettiest part of the campus.  IU is a limestone wonder, but the older buildings remind one of Harry Potter’s Hogwarts.  During her first two years, Anjelica was ensconced in Collins Living and Learning Center, located a block from the “J-School”.  Collins played up its kinship to the Harry Potter books and movies.  After she pledged the sorority, she initially missed Collins’ Disco Calzone Nights.

I remember the raging intellectual curiosity of the 1970’s on the campus:  The anti-Vietnam War protests; the combative Feminist Movement; civil disobedience; the fall-out from 1964’s Civil Rights Act; and Watergate.  While protests still occur on the campus, they lack the mammoth national proportions of protests of yore.  Yet as I gaze around me, a surge of hope washes over me.  This generation may lack the passion we had of the ‘70’s, but students are poised to explore the depths of commitments, no less intellectually challenged in this 21st century. I remain hopeful for the future through the leadership of students like my daughter.

My alma mater, flawed though she may be, nonetheless stands tall.  Big Red Rules!

Ciao for now.