The Mamma Log
Posts in January, 2010
Double With the Bases Loaded
Posted on January, 17 2010
I’ve never known a colder winter than the winter a couple of years back when I watched my Grandfather succumb to cancer. The pending death of someone you care about more than anything else in the world can be nothing short of spine shattering. You spend everyday trying to find a way to be whole, as a large piece is slowly being worked away from your soul’s foundation. The tangible; the flesh , the voice, being transfered from existence to memory. The hardest part is opening yourself up to the experience in an effort to understand the world in a deeper way. It is hard, but it is necessary. Shutting down is done out of fear and as anyone who has ever experienced death knows, fear does not delay the inevitable, it just makes it harder when the day comes.
I dealt with the experience with acceptance and the will to try to take every moment I could, enjoying a world with my Grandfather still in it. This was despite the fact that the inevitable said that world would not be maintained for long. I spent as much time trying to see my grandfather as I could, and I was afforded opportunities to be there for him in a way that a very fortunate grandchild should be. One day, coming home from work, I saw that I had received a couple messages on my cell phone. When I arrived home from work, I saw that I received some messages on my home machine as well. My mother had called me to tell me that my grandfather was having a bit of a good day, and had been asking for me. She thought I should give him a call as soon as possible. I called him, and my Aunt put me on the phone with him immediately. He barely had the breath to speak, though he had the will to spare. I told him to take it easy and if he couldn’t talk, then not to worry about that. He fought off his limitations and spoke. What he said to me was “Tommy, Grandpa hit a double with the bases loaded”. These were the last words my grandfather ever spoke to me.
I grew to love baseball out of love for my grandfather who played the game at home and in the military during WW II. I can remember calling him frequently from games at Shea Stadium so we could share our NY Mets together. Even if we couldn’t have a cold beer and a hot dog together at Shea, I could tell him what the atmosphere was like in the park, and we could discuss how one of our own, an Italian American, Mike Piazza would be the one to help them win it again.
Embrace the Reset
Posted on January, 16 2010
It’s a new year and the weight of hope and expectation is up to it’s usual Gleason-esque proportions. The soul is fattened on the frustrations of yesteryear and the need for timely change. New year, new decade, new hope, new me.
When I decided to write Mamma, it was mostly because of the fact that I was seeing exhaustion and convenience stabbing tradition in the neck before my eyes. One of the primary examples of this was the Italian American cultural pearl, the Feast of Seven Fishes being pawned off by my own family for a tray of cold cuts or worse yet, take out from an Italian Restaurant. I made a promise to myself that I would not only comment on it in my wok, but do my best to stop these heinous acts of cultural bastardization. I would fight this war with an army or I would go it alone. Either way, action needed to be taken.
2009 comes on, I find my voice and I finish my film With Anchovies...Without Mamma. This was never a film that I felt had a message that was accessible to everyone. It’s message is buried beneath beats of the dark and the absurd. I do believe though that the message is woven tightly within the fiber of the story. If the viewer is open and willing, it certainly is there for them. So in essence, I accomplished a modicum of what I set out to accomplish. I stated my case, and I felt very good about it. Empowered even. So what was left for me to do in 09? Finish the year off with an ambitious Feast of the Seven Fishes dinner to wash away the sins of the cold cuts, and the take out. I decided I was going to put together a table of food that would embody all the gluttony of Satyricon minus the young boys and togas. I did this, and I did it tenfold. I stood over a stove, watching through the window in my kitchen as friends fed on shrimp, bowls of mussels, calamari, salted cod and whatever else was slung out there. They smiled, they laughed and they were part of a tradition that brought my family so many memorable holidays. I felt like a chubby happy old Italian lady whose only true pleasure was to watch people enjoy food. It was amazing. Then like all things, the night came to an end. Unfortunately for me, the end came down harder than expected. Shortly after the last guest had left, I was ridden with chills and a lurking fever that was crawling through my system with bad intentions and a refusal to go easy on me. I never get sick, so I have to feel like this virus was a little like the guy that gets fired from his corporate job and comes back with a AK47 and shoots up the office. I was laid out. Christmas was cruel. I ended up spending Christmas Day in the hospital asking “Why? Why can’t this just happen any other time.” Fa la la la la la la la LA.
