Going to Arthur Avenue with Nonna Lucia
Copyright © 2002, Azar "ACE" Attura
(Photos will be posted as soon as they are found)
"Azzarrina!!! Shirinella!! Vieni Qui!!!" "Sbrigati! Sbrigati!", dice la mia bella Nonna Lucia.
A warm summer day. Two happy little Bronx Ragazzinas - Azar (That's ME -- Ace!) and Shirin (Sis), squeaky clean straight from the bathtub on a bright Saturday morning (having been scrubbed by Nonna Lucia, and plied with slivers of fresh Reggiano Parmegianno so we wouldn't squirm around in the tub so much!). We were very happy little kids because we knew that Nonna would be taking us on our weekly (or sometimes twice weekly!) trip to Arthur Avenue, 186th Street, the Chicken Market, and to Assunta and Aurelio's on Prospect Place!
The ritual was always the same. Nonna helped us get dressed first. I wore my shorts and sneakers and a little shirt. Sis usually wore something frillier (and in 1957, usually wore her Lady and the Tramp skirt that Mom Sylvia made for her). Then Nonna dressed, and we'd witness her ritual. We kids would stand near her bed (the huge bed that we used to fall off of when we'd have pillow fights), and watch her, fascinated. She would walk in, wearing her Nonna shoes and her sensible slip. She smelled so good!! Her perfume, Evening in Paris, which she loved to dab on her pillow-soft skin, was neatly arranged on her glass-topped bureau with the pictures of the saints that she used to kiss (we could see the lipstick imprints on those pictures). Although Sis and I never liked the scent of Evening in Paris, we loved those unusual dark-blue bottles, and the little gold cardboard cat-with-the-feather-tail box that the bottles once came in.
We would hold our collective breath as Nonna laced up her corset over her slip. "Ooof-a, Ooof-a", Nonna would do a little dance as she tightened the cords and laced herself into her armor. Sis and I would stare at her and think the same thought -- "Am I gonna hafta do that when I get old???!!!"
A dress (usually black) and a hat (usually black with a little netting) would complete the ensemble, and Whooppeee!!! Down the stairs of 615 Pelham Parkway, through the stoop and off we'd go to catch the bus (#12). Nonna would try to hold our hands, to no avail, ("Ragazzine!! Aspetta, per piacere!!") as Sis and I were jumping up and down with delight. Walking through the little grassy park on the way to Boston Post Road, Sis and I skipped and hopped our way to the bus stop. On the way, near the ahem.. .public comfort station between the Pelham Parkway el and the bus stop, Nonna would stoop down and would always find at least one dime on the ground -- that was bus fare "Theese-a people who run for-a the bus -- ALWAYS drop the money!" she'd triumphantly exclaim.*
(*Please note, I LOVED the way my Nonna talked. It is not my intent to be using these phonetics in a disparanging way)
We didn't always take the bus. Nonna was a young 56, back then, and living at 615 Pelham Parkway meant that we were about 3 blocks from the Zoo, the Farm in the Zoo, and the Botanical Gardens (sheer Heaven for a little kid!!), and just a few more blocks to Arthur Avenue . So sometimes on nice days we'd all walk to Arthur Avenue. We'd look for fish jumping in the Bronx River, smell the Wild Lilacs and enjoy their beauty when they were in season, and look at the Skunk Cabbages growing fat and happy behind the fence around the Bronx Zoo. "Nonna! Nonna! Can we go to the zoo??" "Not-a today, lella (her term of endearment) -- joosta too much to do!"
Arthur Avenue!!! Noise, light, laughing kids, stickball shouts, handball walls and playground basketball games. Outdoor markets ("Aspetta Signora" the old man manning the market stall would say as he went behind the fence to pick fresh herbs for her), indoor markets that looked like outdoor markets (you know which one I'm talking about - it recently celebrated an anniversary), cement floors freshly hosed down, the wonderful smells of fresh Finnochio, pungent aromatic Basil (ah!!!!), and Oregano would scent our way as we trod past vendors selling their fresh produce. Big black plums, huge fragrant peaches, scores of zucchini, shiny sensuous purple-globed melanzana, Italian plum tomatoes (Sis and I used to play catch with them at home until one day, when we dropped a very overripe one on the floor and had to clean up the vitriolic mess), and a seemingly unlimited variety of produce, much of it home-grown, filled the wooden stalls and beckoned to us. In the early 50's there was even an old white horse (who wore a straw hat in the summer) hitched to a cart, standing patiently at the curb.
Sis and I chose to wait outside for Nonna as she went into one specific shop to buy olives (fat little green and black olives swimming in huge barrels), cans of Tonno, and huge cans of Olive Oil with pretty decorations (Nonna went through the olive oil VERY quickly). Outside the shop were the usual wooden bins that held produce -- but THESE bins held --- Live Snails!!! (My grandfather Giuseppe LOVED to eat them -- I tried them once -- they were..ok..but too gritty). Like waiting in line for confession, and counting the minutes that each person ahead of us spent in that dark curtained room, Sis and I counted Nonna's time inside the shop by monitoring the snails' slow progress as they crawled up the sides of the bin. "Nonna is in there FOREVER!! That snail went from the bottom to the top and Nonna's STILL not out yet!!!" Once a little snot-nosed kid came up to us when we were watching the snail races, and he HIT US!!! Sis and I started to go after him, but unfortunately, Nonna suddenly materialized from inside the shop, holding tons of parcels -- "Guarda Questi!" she said as she thrust select parcels into our arms, effectively stopping the incipient fight and letting the perpetrator get away!!! (Hey kid, I'm still looking for you!!!!)
A visit to the Macellaio (butcher) was another source of great fun for us kids. The butcher's shop was home to a Black and White Momma Cat, and rolling and running through the great curls of sawdust that lay on the floor were a passel of kittens which we loved to play with as Nonna haggled with the kindly butcher. It was in that very same butcher's shop in 1952 when I went in and proudly cast my ballot for Miss Rheingold (I voted for Mary Austin). All the adults leaning on the counter looked on with smiles as I checked my ballot and then stood on tiptoe to place it in the ballot box! One day when Sis and I were at school, Nonna brought home a black round object -- "This is-a from the butcher!" she said, all smiles. Sis and I looked at this strange black object -- "He gave us a plum???" we said. "Stupide!!" said Nonna, smiling -- and then she handed us a..handball!!! We played with that thing for ages -- we quickly learned to jump out of its way when it took a wrong bounce and went for the nose -- that thing was heavy and hard, and a bonk in the nose usually brought blood and bloody screams from whoever it hit!
"Nonna! Nonna! Let's go to the chicken market!!!" Sis and I would yell -- what bloodthirsty kids we were at age 4 and 5!!! We'd go into the smelly (not unpleasant, not for us anyway) small store with damp floors and were surrounded by a cacophony of clucks from the chickens in their wooden boxes stacked 4 or 5 high. I felt very sorry, however, for the rabbits -- I did not want THEM to die. But the chickens (sorry chickies) were another story -- they were food. Nonna would look at the chickens and then say to one of the big burly Italian men there -- "I want-a questa!!" He would take it out of the cage and then take it (sometimes there were two) to a big metal box where he wouldahem dispatch it or them). Sis and I would watch, fascinated. There really is truth to the saying "Running around like a chicken without its head." Enough said. After that, the chickens would be passed on to another big burly guy (who was very hairy... read on, and you will realize why I thought this was very incongruous) -- this guy was the chicken-plucker. He did it by hand, until 1952 or 53, when the market became the proud owner of a big rotating metal drum covered with THOUSANDS of rubber fingers which did the plucking automatically -- all he had to do was hold the dead chicken over these flying fingers, and then singe whatever feathers the fingers could not get to. "Plop!" would go the now-naked chicken into butcher's paper, wrapped, bound and ready to go home with us. I remember carrying that package many times. I also remember at Easter-time, Nonna bringing home live baby chicks from the chicken market (little "Pio-Pio's" we'd call them) to us when we were 4 and 5 years old. We'd play with them and feed them corn meal. When they got older and started sprouting tail feathers, Nonna would bundle them up and bring them back to the chicken market. Invariably, whenever she'd bring home a chicken from the market, Sis and I would ask her - "Is this one of our Pios??"
Down the block and around the corner from the Bronx Zoo was the dough store. Nonna usually made her dough from scratch, but sometimes she availed herself of this luxury of ready-made (almost as good as hers) dough. Nonna would always tell us "Wait outside for me!" She NEVER let us go into the store with her until we were much older. We'd wait (this was always a short wait) and Nonna would come out with a big lumpy package wrapped with string -- Pizza Dough (or cookie dough, depending on what she did with it -- but she usually made pizza with it). When we were teenagers, Nonna decided that yes, we could now go into the store with her. It was a small store, with the owner and his kids, white-aproned, white hatted, running here and there to fill orders, a long skinny counter and room for customers to stand behind the counter no more than one-person deep. "Nonna", asked now 15-year old Ace, "Why wouldn't you let us go in with you when we were little kids?" Nonna replied: "Because it's small in here." .Nonna, I'm still trying to figure out that one!!!
Sometimes after an afternoon of shopping on a Saturday we'd make a beeline for Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church. There, surrounded by the soft sanctity of dark wooden pews, dim lights, warm, sputtering red-lit votive candles, ancient vecchia nonnas softly whispering mumbled prayers in Italian, and the golden trim of the altar glowing softly in the dimmed lights of the sanctuary, we'd line up for confession, being careful not to rattle our packages in that sacred space. For 25 cents we'd light a candle, say our penance, and hoist ourselves fully laden, up the stairs and back into the brightly lit noisy whirling world outside. Sometimes there would be a festa going on out there -- like July 26, the feast day of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Booths selling colorful statues of the saints, holy medals and rosaries, colorful decorative lights festooned over the streets, vendors cooking zeppole and selling them as fast as they could make them, little girls dressed in native Italian costumes over starched crinolines, song, music, processions, the happy shouts of the festival-goers and participants alike that would echo and reverberate through the streets, and the somber penitents carrying statues of the Virgin, statues of the saints, festooned in flowers (real and fake) and covered with bills of different denominations. What a blaze of beauty those festas were!!!
Many is the time that, happily laden with Dough, Chickens, Basil, Tomatoes, Olives, Olive Oil, Finocchio, Tonno, Zucchini and other luxuries of Italian comestibles, Nonna, Sis and I would walk over to the shrine of Italian Pastries -- COLAVOLPE'S!!! Sis and I couldn't wait!!! Their lemon ice and Torrone ice was fabulous!!! A big (well, we were little kids and everything looked big to us) clean store with mirrors, glass counters, displays of wedding almonds wrapped in various types of lace and ribbons.. and.. the cannoli shells sitting on the counter. The man behind the counter would fill the Cannolis to order. They were the BEST!!!! It was a rare day when the Cannolis actually made it home with us-- we'd usually eat them on the way to the next store, or if Nonna was visiting our "aunt" Assunta (which she did quite often whenever we'd go shopping on Arthur Avenue) we'd proudly carry the Cannoli in a box to Assunta's. Sadly, Colavolpe's is now gone, but it persisted well into the 80's. It is a wonderful memory now.
Nonna and Assunta knew each other from the time Nonna first set foot on US soil in 1930. Assunta, and her hairdresser husband Aurelio (who worked from their home) lived in a white apartment building on Prospect Street. Their building was right next to a schoolyard where kids of all shapes and sizes played basketball. Sis and I would pass by it on our way to Assunta's and would stop and watch the games. You could hear the happy yells and the thonks of the basketballs from Assunta's windows -- we were always leaning out of her kitchen window to watch. Assunta had a wonderful slightly raspy sing-song voice flavored with her native-village Italian inflection. She was a great cook and she and Nonna were very good friends. Nonna's first home in the United States was in Assunta's neighborhood; her beloved husband, Nonno Giuseppe, brought his family out of Mussolini's Italy, to start a new life here. Nonno Giuseppe, the co-founder of the American Legion in Rome, a tall dignified, fun-loving man, suffering from the effects of Mustard Gas (he served in the First Division of the US Army in WWI), found a job as a waiter in one the nearby Italian Restaurants. His war-wounds caught up with him though, and he died in 1931, at the age of 33. He used to tell Nonna --"I will be the same age as Jesus, when He died." Nonna was devastated when Giuseppe died -- she loved him very much and in the 60 years of her life following his death, she never re-married. Although the Atturas had only lived in that neighborhood for a little more than a year, when Giuseppe died, his funeral procession through the streets of the Arthur Avenue neighborhood was well attended. Nonna was left a virtual pauper, with her widow's mite of a pension, and 3 young children. Assunta and Aurelio took Nonna under their wings; with their help, and with Nonna's innate thrift, the family survived. Nonna eventually moved her family to 615 Pelham Parkway -- but for the rest of their lives, she and Assunta were never very far apart.
Sis and I enjoyed visiting Assunta and Aurelio -- their apartment was cozy, dark, and filled with well-stuffed cozy furniture. One room was set aside for Aurelio's clients, and the apartment was usually scented with hairspray, or permanent wave solution, as a woman, well-swathed in curlers, towels and plastic head coverings, sat and smiled at us from Aurelio's barber shop chair.
Although Assunta's kids -- Nickie, Anna Piccola and Domenic, who was called "Mimi"-- were grown up, they were still fun to be with. Domenic, a tall lanky youth who still lived with his mom, would occasionally play with us. A gentle guy, he eventually married a beautiful Nordic woman. Sis and I hated to see him move out! But even so, there were plenty of opportunities for play in that apartment, notably. tada. the BIG ASHTRAY!!! This ashtray , about 15 inches in diameter, was mounted on a pedestal about 3 feet high, As Nonna and Assunta gabbed in Italian and the kitchen slowly filled with the wonderful odors of their mutual culinary creations, Sis and I would commandeer the sofa, move the huge ashtray (usually by rotating it) over to the head of the sofa, and would then proceed to play "Bus Driver and Passenger". This game would go on forever, and usually kept us out of trouble. Sometimes, however, the ashtray (the "Bus Driver's" steering wheel) would be filled with ashes and cigarette butts -- oh no! what to do!!!?? One of us would run into the kitchen, look at Nonna, and whisper into her ear "Assunta's ash tray is dirty -- we can't play!!" Nonna would laugh and then tell Assunta in Italian. The adults would laugh good-naturedly, and Assunta would grab a wet dishrag and go into the living room to attend to our "Steering Wheel." Then we could play!!! What simple pleasures we had back then!!
It was usually late afternoon when we went home (this time, usually by bus -- we'd catch the bus at the bus depot near the Sear's on Fordham Road). Nonna, still fresh from the day's exertions, and two tired, grimy, happy little kids clutching bags and parcels. The fun didn't end there, however. As soon as we got cleaned up and changed into other clothes, we'd rush into the kitchen, to watch Nonna clean the chicken and give us her "Anatomy of a Chicken" lesson.
The chickens were never gutted at the Chicken Market. Nonna had to do that. And we'd watch, fascinated, rooted to the spot (behind Nonna as she stood at the big kitchen sink). "Splooosh!" Her hand would be sucked into the chicken's squishy body cavity. She'd pull out the intestines. "Thees-a are the eentestines -- piena di merda!!!!" We'd laugh. Then she'd pull out the gizzards ("Lo stomaco!!") and cut them open and clean them (she would cook them for me -- I was the only one who would eat them!). Sometimes she'd find unformed eggs -- ("Guarda le ouvi!!") -- they would be cooked in soup later (delicious!). Then she would pull out the heart (yum!) and of course, tell us what it was and what it did ("Il cuore, le sangue" etc). Then came the mystery parts -- "Thees-a are dee loongs!" Sis and I would look at her "Dee loongs???" we'd say. "Si lella.they breeed-a with-a dee loongs!" Ah, the lungs!!!! That was it. The neck and the chicken tail would be excised, the chicken would be washed, and the cooking would begin!! Nonna's chicken Cacciatore was the sustenance of the gods. I will never ever again find such a scrumptious meal as that. I was always delighted whenever she made it and I would eat much more than my fill.
I will always remember these trips to Arthur Avenue with Nonna as some of the most special, the most memorable and the most sacred times of my life. The last time I was there (2001), the Chicken Market (which was really a small hole in the wall -- gee, it looked SO big when I was 5 years old!) was closed, and is now, I believe, a Pizza Parlor (perhaps someone will erect a plaque there ???). I walked into a nearby store and got the biggest lemon ice they had. I practically inhaled it -- food for the soul as well as for a parched (I'm still a) kid on a hot summer day in the Bronx.
There were some unique days when Sis and I did not go to Arthur Avenue with Nonna. They were rare occasions, but nonetheless we managed to enjoy those forays too -- in a special way. In those days, we were trusted enough to be left alone at home (we never had a baby sitter), from the time were 5 and 6 years old. And we usually behaved. We never opened the door, always answered the phone ONLY if it rang in a special way, and most of the time, stayed out of trouble. But then there were the Beach Towels and Nonna's Hitchcock ChairsAs Nonna walked out the door of our apartment, she would sternly say "Don't-a touch the Beach Towels while I'm gone!!!!" She had good reason to be warning us. She knew we would do it. And we did. We'd look out the window as Nonna walked alone, down the little well-worn path in the park, towards Boston Post Road. We'd watch her, without fail, bend down and pick up a dime or two for her fare, and then continue on her way to the bus stop. One disastrous experience taught us to make sure that we saw Nonna get on the bus before we did anything incriminating (the evidence was very hard to hide in a moment's notice). When the lookout (either me or sis) would triumphantly state "The ghost (sic!) is clear!! She got on the bus!", a Hitchcock chair would be commandeered. We'd steer it to the closet, giggling profusely. One of us would stand on the chair and throw down beach towels and ropes. Everything was deposited and arranged in the living room ("The Sofa Room", as we called it). Hitchcock chairs would be arranged in two sets of two chairs in a row . One chair in each set was festooned with ropes, which would serve as reins. Sis and I festooned ourselves with artfully draped beach towels secured with the biggest safety pins we could find, and we'd each grab our "reins" and stand or kneel in a chair. That would signal the start of our escapades as."Roman Chariot Taxicab Drivers!!!" Sis and I commandeered our Ben-Hur Hitchcock Chair Chariots through the bustling teeming streets of Ancient Rome. Life was rough in those days, and we'd spur our steeds onward through the teeming masses and narrow cobblestone streets. We'd pick up "fares" and race each other. Once in a while, an over-enthusiastic tug on the rope reins would send the top of a Hitchcock chair flying overhead. Traffic would stop and time would stand still in Ancient Rome until we got all the little wooden pegs back into their little wooden holes. This was hard to do, since we were laughing so hard.
Then our play would pick up where it left off until one or both of us would say "Huh!!" Nonna is due back any minute!!!!" Horses were un-reined and "stabled", safety-pin clasps were un-done, beach towels folded and put back on the top shelf of the closet with the ropes, and Sis and I would try to look as innocent and normal as we possibly could. Sure enough, Nonna would appear shortly after our frantic efforts, and, standing in the entrance hall, dead chickens and other assorted packages in hand, she would sternly say "Did-a play with-a the chairs??" --"Oh NO, Nonna!" ---Did-a you play with-a the Beach-a Towels?" "Oh NO, Nonna!" our little reedy voices would chime in unison. Then our innocent looks would turn into horrified glances, as we followed Nonna's stare -- for there, in its blatant accusatory pose, was a Hitchcock chair, our valiant steed, with one of its pegs glaringly out of place. We would catch hell.. It was worth it, though, and of course, the next time Nonna went out by herself and left us kids at home, the streets of Ancient Rome would be filled with the shouts of Azzarrina and Shirinella, as the Roman Chariot Taxicab Drivers once again raced madly over the cobblestones.
If I had my life to live over again, I would change very very little. I would ask God for more time with Nonna, and more time to enjoy the simple pleasures of going with Nonna to Arthur Avenue. And I would have saved each and every one of those Evening in Paris bottles, AND the little gold kitty with the feather tail!
Thank you God, for my Nonna. May Nonna and Assunta and Aurelio -- all gone now -- rest in peace and enjoy their Heavenly rewards for the loving-kindness, measured to the brim and overflowing, that they showed us.
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A fine summer morning on Prospect Street in the heart of Arthur Avenue, the Bronx.
Copyright © 2019 Azar (Ace) Attura (“Summertime” by Edward Hopper)
Stepping out of her building's marble foyer, so cool in contrast with what the day will offer, the young lady stands on her stoop and breathes in the scent of boxwood hedges and the brick and stone of the courtyard which has just been hosed down by the building's super.
She gazes at the early-morning street and plans her day. The curtains in her apartment window billow out as her Nonna, sitting in bed, looks out the window and smiles as she hears the morning sounds of pushcarts, vendors, and kids playing on Arthur Avenue. A new day begins. And.....
….at Arthur Avenue, the hustle and bustle begin. Sidewalks are swept and hosed down, Ladies arrange their plump forearms on pillows as they lean out their windows to gossip and glance at shoppers. The old man who sells vegetables from his horse drawn pushcart makes sure his ancient white horse is wearing a straw hat with ear-holes cut into it, to keep his head cool. Shops are opened, cool air still permeates the streets as all is ready for another Summer’s day.
Kids run into candy stores and come out with big cups of lemon ice to beat the heat. Other kids stare at the wooden bins at the outdoor markets to see how fast the live snails can go. Nonnas, Moms, Dads, Old guys sipping Sambuca and drinking Espresso -- big glass jars of pignoli cookies grace the glass counters near the Cannolis and Wedding Almonds, huge punching bag-sized Provolone cheeses hang from ceilings of fragrant delicatessens. In the background, this song plays, unseen, unheard but in the mind:
I love that Glazunov song -- it might have nothing to do with Italy or anything Italian but it SO beautifully and nostalgically reminds me of those special days -- I heard this song this morning as I woke up -- and because of that, this story happened....
And yes - there really was that old man with his old white cart-horse; every summer that horse would sport a straw hat with ear-holes cut into it.
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