My grandfather, Tony Tata, on my mother's side of the family, is pictured left, with his brother Angelo. Here they were reunited during a visit after many years apart. Anthony Tata came to America, landing ashore at Ellis Island from Alvito, Italy when he was a young teenager, with about 14 cents in his pocket.
My grandparents grew their own grapes which fashioned a grapevine ceiling over their stone-laden patio. From these beautiful purple grapes through which the sunlight danced, my grandfather made wine in his wine cellar and my grandmother made delicious grape jelly. They also had a gated garden beyond the patio and grew their own plentiful vegetables; this garden was surrounded by a number of fruit trees: one plum, two apple, one pear, and one cherry.
They resided near Nickel Plate Beach in Huron, where I would (and still) walk the pier. My mom said to look for the rock upon which her father etched his name, most likely when the concrete was still a bit wet. Most of the etchings of the "Old Name" Huronites residing in that "Little Italy" neighborhood are gone by now, as are their people. May you forever rest in peace, Tony and Mary Tata, who not only meant the world to so many of us grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but shaped it through your love of life, love of food and drink, love of storytelling. I will add to that their love of hard work and hard, august-strong fun and relaxation!
This poem I am sharing (below) is one I wrote for
my grandfather. It mentions the wine he made and the salad and other things we
always ate on Sundays with the whole family together when I and us grandkids were growing up--a time of total enchantment! The poem won a Flora Bloch Ethnic Arts Award for its depiction of Italian-American life
through the Ethnic Studies Dept. of Bowling Green State University back in 1987.
I had written it in 1981, and it was first published then in
The Plough:
North Coast Review, w/ Bottom Dog Press and supported by the Ohio Arts Council. Some years later, I was asked by my grandmother to read the poem at his funeral which was one
of the biggest honors in my life, because there is nothing like family. To me that was bigger than the award.
Methuselah (to my grandfather)
We will go pick olives
off the branches, I told you.
We will go home to Italy,
down the steep, stoney hill,
through the twining grapevine
tunnels to your brother's
basement winery, stamping our feet
in barrels of fruit, staining them
purple until sunset,
then fill our glasses and drink!
You will not die!
You have always been
a large man, strong as your accent,
with fists like bricks and palms like cranes,
grasping and unloading ore
on the ship docks, by the riverside,
companion to the seagulls
and the wooden-legged man who
had no home but Main Street.
You are more fortunate.
You have a home and love, pure
as the olive oil mixed in your salad every night,
and a garden to fill
the yard with garlic and basil,
barrels to collect rain, and rose petals
to flavor your water.
We blessed it
once and blessed ourselves.
You have eight-hundred ninety-one years
left to tell stories and I will still hear
your voice coming from the kitchen
with the comfortable clanging of pans
at the sink, clear as if you stood
below the ladder while I pick plums
off the trees to bake pie.
But look at my leg, you said,
This purple stain has come
and will not wash away.
You laughed, then cried.
You must laugh again!
Get a new leg and it will feel
as natural as the beams of the ceiling
hanging cast iron kettles
to heat coffee on the stove,
and we will go see Rome
and the farm and the woman next door
who once held you when
both of you were just children.
We will go for a walk this Easter,
through the gardens, gathering
grapes, tomatoes, and endive, and in
the late afternoon, make salad with polenta,
tell stories and drink wine.
We will do this forever.
And when someday you get tired,
I will take you to the lake,
in your wheelchair, to the pier,
where your name still lies
carved in rock
beneath your first footsteps here.
My next blog will also contain discussion about
what I call foodlore/food lore which I teach as a sub-topic in my folklore
class. Food is fascinating from all around the world and cannot be separated
from culture or cultural studies.
