Memorial Day in my Grandmother’s Garden; Part 2

Chapter One

The arrival of our Welsh pony Susie has always been a reminder of the remarkable children who lived in the south end of town. Their grandparents helped on this farm during the war when Nonmo’s sons were overseas. The high tide is scheduled for twelve o’clock midnight, this is Susie’s first night here.

I don’t want her to be afraid of the sound. I’ll stay in the barn, it’s warm in there. A golden moon and dark sky cast a silver glaze on the crest of the waves crashing into the breakers. She isn’t afraid; her ancestral memory stirs her consciousness, lulling her into a deep sleep. She’s heard the sound before; Welsh ponies ran wild over the craggy mountains of Wales’s ocean countryside.

It is March 21, 1960. This is Susie’s second day here. Early in the morning we went to Short Beach. Nonmo came with us; he doesn’t want us to go alone. We walked over the beach grass, still hidden under a crust of ice and snow. A golden sun on the horizon changes the color of the ocean from last night’s sliver to a luminous blue.

Susie wants to run. She spun like a cyclone over the water, chasing the tide out to sea in a powerful performance galloping over the sandbar. She’s out as far as the lighthouse.

I asked, “Will she come back to us?” Nonmo held out a sugar cube, speaking in Italian. He called her, a flying mane of silky wisps, her sides heaving, running swiftly toward us in an aura of warm mist. Nonmo said magnifico. There is a wild essence inside of my birthday present. He didn’t want me to be afraid, that’s why he came with us.

Nonmo saw something like this more than once. He taught me how to cool her down. We walked and listened to the quiet of this bitter cold spring morning. A clap of thunder in the distant clouds promises summer is coming; a train going through the town, the distant whistle softly blows in harmony with the Song Sparrows. We walked Susie back to her new home.

In Lordship my grandparents share their ancestral memory, past centuries of lives fishing and farming along the Mediterranean Sea. They remembered to bring everything their hearts could hold to farm on the Atlantic coast of America. Nonma’s garden will wake up soon with vibrant color and fragrance in this serene setting with its old world charm of pastoral peace, nestled between modernization and the edge of the sea. It’s very inviting to our neighbors, welcoming them back here every spring to share in my grandparent’s ancestral memory peace and serenity. 

Chapter Two

Last summer, 1959, I stacked the papers neatly into my bike’s three baskets. The paper I delivered today will shatter the tranquility. Not since the great depression has there been news like this. I remember what my mother said, “all these families” letting me know difficult days are ahead, the front-page reports Economic Slowdown. Our neighbors face the possibility of job loss. No one came to shore in the spring of 1960. The children are not playing; no one helps me deliver the paper.

Lavern is in Sister Anthony’s third grade class with me during recess. We talked about horses and ponies, but she hasn’t been to school since last October. We rode Susie for the first time on March 21, 1960. Lavern’s brother is standing alone by the farm gate with more polish than you might expect from a seven-year-old boy. He addressed Nonmo as Sir in the strongest voice he could muster.

He asked, “Can my sister ride your pony on her birthday?” He knows what will make her feel better, determined to help his parents, he’s tired of the sadness and the way things are. He brought all the children back here, leading the charge, challenging feelings of despair, my father calls them champions.

By six a.m. every morning they’re working in the fields with my brothers, learning how to plant and harvest from my uncle’s picking vegetables fresh from the earth, bringing them home for their families. By six a.m. I’m in the dining hall with my aunts, scrubbing it sparkling clean.

Long wooden tables line the walls with red and white-checkered tablecloths. Here’s where my mother teaches us how to cook the food we grow so the children can bring supper home to their families. With flour and eggs, we roll the dough sooth for cappelletti, chopping vegetables with lots of tomatoes simmering on the stove until the sauce is sweet and savory.

Crisp ruby red apples are being dipped into a mixture of almonds, honey and sugar for a decadent marzipan dessert. We’re making candy apples. Velvety pink and yellow peaches mixed all together with almonds, sugar and honey for smothering toast with jelly. We’re stirring very hot pots full of plums and berries for a smooth and creamy pudding.

We threw everything into the pots, the sugar, honey and almonds. I’m thankful for my father and mother. Nonma and Nonmo, all my aunts and uncles patiently, lovingly, teaching us how to do everything. I call them Champions.

Chapter Three

The parents, encouraged by the strength of their children, search for new jobs and begin to recover. During recess, Lavern and I talked about horses and ponies. I have been saving the best for last.

There’s one more lesson to learn, only Nonmo can teach that with a lifetime of experience raising draft horses. He taught the children how to take care of the wild Welsh pony with juicy red apples and sweet carrots they fed her by hand. Susie wants sugar cubes while she’s being brushed and groomed. She is the nucleus of this farm, putting the joy back on their faces when everything seemed too hard.

She’s everyone’s birthday present. In her big brown eyes, I can see the children’s reflection. The trust has been built. She’ll give them rides long, long before anyone thought of a pony as a therapy animal. Susie gave her all. Everyone is feeling better, we’re looking forward to Memorial Day and Fourth of July picnics in the garden with great big ice cold glass pitchers of pink lemonade, hot dogs and plenty of Nonmo’s gift boxes of chiclets and penny candy.

We decorate our bikes with red and white and blue crepe paper, showing off our patriotism while everyone helps me deliver the papers. In the upstairs parlor, painted in a pretty plum color, my father’s medals have been on display since 1946. He never talks about the war. He just wants us to know the words for all three verses of the Star-Spangled Banner to sing when my grandfather raises the American Flag in the shade of the apple orchard. 

Epilogue

It is 1967, 22-years have gone by since World War II ended. The rosary beads are still in the branches of the pear tree. Through years of Memorial Day and Fourth of July celebrations, through years of storms and hurricanes rolling in from the sea, there for this generation of children who grew up on this farm leaving for Vietnam, my grandmother’s heart is broken.

In 1978, farming was becoming a thing of the past. The town bought the farmland for an elderly living complex. Nonma and Nonmo will move into the first completed apartment with a view of the garden and a lifetime of living on their farm. So many wonderful years every summer. Now my brothers brought me to Owego, N.Y. to enjoy the water ski tournaments on Day Hollow Road. We drove through the rural community and had breakfast in the Owego Diner, went shopping in Jamesway, and walked around Lake Street.

I have been in Tioga County for half of my life where I can hear the tractors running over the fields. Under the golden sunbeams, Song Sparrows sing in the winter, a train going through town with its distant whistle. I can remember Susie running along the ocean, chasing the tide out to sea, a golden sun on the horizon. I can hear the tide coming in under a golden moon and dark sky with a silver glaze on the crest of the waves, pounding against the breakers.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter where you are, you can still hear the same familiar sounds.