Читать книгу The Dwelling Place of Wonder - Harry L. Serio - Страница 8

Maria Gracia had lupus for many years and was now dying of cancer. She was the last of the family to live in my grandfather Luigi’s house on Garrison Street in Newark’s Ironbound section. It seems that as one approaches death, the memories of the past take on a particular poignancy to the extent that even incidental experiences are magnified to life-changing turning points. We talked about those memories. I remembered the words of Joy Ufema, a thanatologist who once said that when you are on your death bed the only thing that you will have left will be your memories, so make sure they are good ones. And we did have good memories to share.

Mary, as she was called, was one of ten children. My grandfather was married twice. When his first wife died, he married her sister, so my aunts and uncles were not only brothers and sisters, or half-brothers and half-sisters, but also cousins. But more important, they were family.

I remember as a child the large kitchen table around which the family would gather for Sunday dinner. It was the same table they would use to work on artistic projects, and later at night to play games and share stories. It was to this table that they brought their boyfriends and girlfriends, and later their husbands and wives, and then the grandchildren. The table was the center of our family’s life. It had the color of soft caramel and the peppermint-green design stamped into its metal top is still impressed on my memory.

Before I left the basement kitchen, I asked Mary whatever became of that table. She said that it was in the back part of the cellar. I looked in and there it was, covered with paint cans and tools and seldom used housewares. And yet, in its state of dereliction I could still hear the sound of laughter and love and taste the bread and wine of distant memory that still holds us together.

All our family gatherings were celebrated with huge amounts of food. My Italian grandmother would call us to the table with “manga, manga,” and my German grandmother would bid us “essen,” though sometimes she would say to the kids, “fressen”—the word used when cattle feed. Brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and all the cousins who had not seen one another for long periods of time would sit down and talk. Even those who had disagreements with other members of the family would put aside their differences and actually acknowledge each other’s presence and, at the very least, make small talk. Breaking bread together is able to do something for the bonding of people that nothing else can do. The hunger of the stomach is mild compared to the gnawing hunger of the heart. Gandhi was right when he said that to one who is starving, God often appears in the form of bread.

When Jesus told Peter to feed his sheep, he was talking about the spiritual needs of his flock—spiritual needs that are part of the human hunger. We may not live by bread alone, but there is a strong connection between the spiritual and the physical. If you are starving, you are not interested in philosophy. This is why the church has a mandate to be concerned about those who are in need. You cannot separate the physical from the spiritual.

For Luke, table companionship, eating a meal with others, opens people’s lives to the presence of the risen Christ. Some scholars argue about whether or not the meal that Jesus shared with the two disciples on the Emmaus Road was the sacrament of Holy Communion. That’s not the point! What Luke is trying to tell us is that whenever or wherever we share a meal with others, there is a sacramental aspect to the meal because Christ is present.

Christ was present at our family table, but never mentioned or acknowledged, except for the occasional, “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” which never had any religious significance. The divine presence was in the relationships.

My most frequent recollection of the Serio family is that they were a fun-loving group, always joking with one another. I can’t recall too many serious conversations—even the deaths, whether natural or otherwise, of acquaintances had some dark humor in it, as though laughter would dispel the inner terror like whistling in the cemetery at night. At the funeral of family members, in the midst of sadness there was always some amusement. When my uncle Gene died and was “laid out” at the Buyus Funeral Home, the first night of the wake we commented on how appropriate it was that he had a smile on his lips, as though the joke was on us. Gene had finished his course and now was enjoying our struggles through life. By the next night the undertaker had removed the smile.

Gene epitomized the mood of the fifties. I remember him in his khaki slacks, his love for opera and Broadway, and his curiosity and willingness to try new things. He always seemed to have some art or craft project going on. On a trip to Las Vegas he brought back for me a box of rock samples from the desert. It is one of the few gifts from childhood that I still possess. When he died, my grandmother gave me the ciborium that was used at his funeral mass. I still use it each year as a chalice at Christmas Eve candlelight communion.

The Serios knew how to entertain themselves, usually at each other’s expense. When tape recorders first became available for home use, the Serios had one—it was probably Gene’s. He would conduct “Man-in-the-Street” interviews after the format of some radio personality named “Mr. Anthony.” On one occasion Gene lowered the microphone through the heating grate above the kitchen stove (houses were usually heated by a stove in the basement, the heat rising through a grate to warm the room above). Luigi was yelling at his wife, Angelina—he did this often, and she always ignored him—and he was recorded on tape. When it was played back, he was so angry that he stormed upstairs yelling even louder. All of us, even Angelina, could hardly keep from laughing.

Luigi had been a railroad man in the old country. His routine was precise. On a work night at exactly 9:00 p.m. he would take his wind-up alarm clock from the top of the stove and climb the steps to his bedroom. From then on it was expected that the noise and chatter would diminish. It seldom did. My sister-in-law, Carole, learned the house rules one particular night when the table fellowship was especially raucous. As soon as they heard Luigi’s footsteps on the stairs, all the children scattered out the door or to the back room, except for Carole who was left to bear the full force of Luigi’s wrath. “What’s a matter?” he growled, “You no gotta home?”

The Serio house on Garrison Street was small, but each person had his or her own space, and one could move from room to room, or even a part of it, and sense that person’s occupation of the space. That so many children could live in three rooms always amazed me.

In late afternoons when the shadows would lengthen and the sunlight would enter the darkening room at an oblique angle and the muted sound of an Italian opera could be heard in the distance, there was a feeling that we were living in another time and another place, both mysterious and secure.

Angelina was very religious. Only her daughter, Sue, seemed to inherit her piety; the rest of this second generation family had been secularized by the American culture. There was a picture of Jesus on her wall that frightened me as a young boy. The Jesus with the exposed, flaming heart was too graphic; I just didn’t understand the symbolism at that age. Now in a time of open-heart surgery and antacids for heart-burn, the picture might be appropriate for some graphic advertisement. Angelina was always laughing, especially when Luigi would get angry. They fed off each other—the more she laughed, the angrier he became, until he left in disgust.

Seldom could I understand my grandmother. She never mastered the English language, and I never became fluent in Italian, but her love transcended speech. Every encounter was an opportunity for her to give you something, whether it was a coin, a piece of fruit, or some token that represented her generous spirit. Most often she wanted you to eat.

Angelina was a terrible cook. If she didn’t like the taste of her pasta sauce, she would grab the nearest bottle of wine, or pour schnapps into the vegetables, or add some other ingredient that would drastically alter the taste from what one would expect. Whatever there was in the refrigerator that she wanted to get rid of ended up in the sauce. Her daughters took to preparing dinner as an act of self-defense.

But it was never the food; it was how it was prepared and served—with love. Her table was always a welcoming place. Her table would forever be a place of memory.

The Lord’s table is a table of memory and of love and acceptance. We are drawn to that spiritual table because it is prepared for us and we are welcome there. All our hurts and sorrows are healed and we become whole.

In Robert Benton’s story, Places in the Heart, the cinematic version concludes with a communion service in a small Baptist church in rural Texas. Gathered before Christ’s table are friends and enemies, murderer and victim, black and white—life’s protagonists and antagonists all sharing the bread and cup and offering the possibility for spiritual unity in a time to come.

When the Spirit of Christ is present, every table is holy.