Michael J. Carriello

MAMA ROSA

When the birthday cake was placed on the dining room table in front of the old man, everyone in the room clapped their approval.  There were two candles on the cake – a nine and a seven.  The old man looked down at the cake and the two numbers, then swept his gaze around the room.  Actually there were two rooms -the dining room and the living room blended into each other. From his position at the head of the table, he could see into both rooms. Some of the family  were seated at the table, some were standing around the table, but most overflowed into the living room. His four daughters were closest, fretting over him as usual. Scattered around the table with their wives and children were his three sons.  He recognized each of them and smiled his pleasure. So far he was under control and playing his part very well.  Then he spotted a grandchild, holding a little child. Then another, another and another, until everyone in the room became a blur of sons and daughters and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. 

No one in the room knew what was going on in the old man’s mind. Each knew him based on their experiences with him and their understanding of the stories he told them. Is it possible that anyone can truly know another person? Even one of his sons, guessing that the old man was overcome by this familial show of love, gently shouted, “What do you say, Papa, just three more years.  Let’s go for an even hundred.”  

Everyone else followed this lead and, as if the whole scene was experienced before, cheered again. Even the babies clapped and cheered, though they didn’t know why. Perhaps they would never know why, for they were too young to know the old man any other way but as an old man. Perhaps, in time, they would learn to know him through his stories if they were passed down to them.

“A hundred years.”

“Yes, a hundred years. We’ll drink to that.”

Shaken back to the dining room, the cake and the family, the old man spoke. 

“No” he said. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ll reach 100. I’m too tired.”

“Oh, sure you will. Sure you will.” 

“We want you to.”  

“Make a speech, Papa. Come on, make a speech. Speak to us.”

The old man stood up. Everyone in the room became still. He raised his right hand, his index finger pointing up, and began to speak. He was a good speaker. His thoughts were expressed in clear sentences and paragraphs. He always tried to speak in English, his second language, for the benefit of the young people. But, invariably, he would shift into his native Italian. His pronunciation was precise and clear. The rhythm of his voice sounded like music, so that even though the young ones did not understand what he was saying they smiled in approval to the gentle, kindly sounds pouring from the depths of the old man’s heart. 

It was his usual speech. Everyone knew it by heart, having heard it so many times before, but never grew tired of hearing it. He spoke of family and how the family was the most valuable thing in life. How everyone must stay together and help each other. And don’t ever forget your Mother, who brought you into this world [with the mention of Mother, his wife, the tears always came to his eyes and he would choke for a moment]. Then he told a little story about how hard he tried to keep the family together, and how this was his and his wife’s purpose in life. And he reminded, without naming anyone, that some of them did stray from the family, but we are all back together today. And this is good.

Well, he would have rambled on and on, but someone always interrupted him with a toast or “It’s time for coffee”. Again having played his part, satisfied that he made his point, he sat down and let the party continue. That’s when the little side conversations began and a cacophony of voices filled the rooms.

Mostly were heard the words, “Boy, does he look good for his age.” “His mind is still sharp.” “That’s what counts the most.” “I’ll never make it to ninety seven. That’s for sure.” 

But he knew himself better than anyone else in the room knew him and he knew he was starting to fade faster. At ninety-two, he still had some fight to live, so he agreed to the pacemaker. This gave him a few more good years. But when he could not climb the stairs without great difficulty, he knew death was closing in on him. Then his ankles swelled and it pained him to walk just a few steps. Then he was always cold. He wore a wool hat, a sweater, and sat with a blanket around his legs. He began to wonder why it took so long to die. 

When anyone came to visit him they would ask, “How are you doing, Papa?”

His answer would always be preceded with an impatient “Oof Ah”, followed by,  “Why does it take so long to die?”

He lived with his youngest daughter, Anna, on the second floor of a two family house.  His oldest daughter, Mary and her husband, who were the owners of the house, occupied the first floor. Anna worked during the day, so Mary would check in on the old man from time to time until Anna came home from work. Then she took over the responsibility of caring for him.  She prepared dinner, saw to it that he took his medicines, prepared him for bed, and if nothing else was necessary she just kept him company. 

His other two daughters, Rita and Josie, would visit whenever they could, as would his three sons, Nick, Vito and Mike. Occasionally a grandson or daughter would visit also.  This was the routine of his life since the death of his wife ten years earlier.  

For a while he pretty much was able to take care of himself and he would become annoyed when too much fuss was made over him. He valued his independence and ability to control his life. Then as he became more and more feeble, he realized his deteriorating condition, and came to appreciate the excellent and loving care he was receiving and was grateful for this arrangement.  He felt content and blessed to play out whatever time was left to him.

He was really a good old man.  He took his medicines as prescribed by his doctor. Had a good appetite. Made very few demands on anyone.  Seldom complained. Let his daughters fuss over him if it pleased them. Enjoyed the company of visitors, especially when the young ones came to visit. 

He was a great storyteller and never tired of telling the stories of his experiences. Over and over he would tell the stories of how he was forced to drop out of school after the third grade to help support his widowed mother; how he pursued the woman who would become the partner of his life; how he survived the trenches of WWI; how he came to America to make his fortune for his family.  On and on, he would go, one story after another. It was as if he was living his life over again by telling these stories to his children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. Perhaps they will remember  and preserve his stories and by doing so he would never really die.

There was no denying that the physical end was closing in on him. He knew it, he accepted it, he was not afraid of it, but he would not give in to it without a fight. He drew lines that were not to be crossed. 

One of the lines had to do with salt. The story of salt went something like this. All his life, he had a taste for salt. Where this desire came from, how it started, no one knows. He never told the story of how he acquired such a strong taste for salt. Nor is there a story to explain his distaste for sweets. He never cared for cakes or cookies or any sweet treats.

To him, a treat worthy of being called a treat was a bowl of pretzels, or potato chips, or salted peanuts. A daily laugh in the family was the duel between him and his wife as she was preparing supper. She would ask him to test the macaroni to see if they were done. His stock answer was always, ”Not enough salt.” No matter how much salt she put in the boiling water, it was never enough for him. The best anyone could figure out was that she, knowing what he would say, always held back on the amount so that he would be pleased watching her add more to the pot.  

Well, all that salt was not doing him any good, so the doctor forbade him his salt. He understood that salt was harmful to his health, so he tried eating with no salt resulting in a most unpleasant meal.  Then he tried substituting salt. That didn’t work for him – it just wasn’t the same as the real thing. He cursed and swore and threw his fork and spoon on the table. He refused to eat, for eating without salt took the joy out of eating. There was more to food than just filling his belly. He would have his salt even if it killed him. 

And then there was the red wine line. Just like salt there was not a time in his life that he did not have wine. He could not remember when, as a child, he had his first taste of wine. And it was not just the drinking of wine at mealtime, it was the making of wine, for no wine could possibly taste as good as the wine he made with his own strength. He had his own crusher, his own press and his own barrel, and as long as he was able he made his own.  

He will have his wine. One glass, two the most, with every meal. Never, never was he drunk with wine.  To him, wine was the sustenance of life just as food was. Wine was for the spirit; a good meal [with salt] was for the body; the family around the table was for the soul.  Why, what more could it all be about. 

It wasn’t much later after his 97^th birthday that his body started to seriously break down.  More and more he took to his bed for longer periods of time. He was tired, just tired all the time. Even his stories were becoming more difficult for him to recall. “Why is it taking so long?” was his refrain to everyone. But his life was too strong to let him go.

Sometimes he would be lying in bed so still and quiet that it seemed that he was gone.  Then he would wake up with a start and try to get up, but he didn’t have the strength. Someone would help him to sit up and turn him so his legs were over the side of the bed.  He was in position to step down and walk. Just when it looked like the life was coming back to him, exhaustion set in and he would ask for help to lie back down. So it would go, back and forth between the will to live and the chemical breakdown of his body. 

The end came just past noon one day. Anna brought him some soup for lunch. He sat up in bed, took a few spoonfuls. Mentioned that the soup was good and expressed his thanks. Satisfied, he would just take a little nap.

A short while later, Anna went to his bed to check on him. He was lying on his back, only his face showing above the covers, eyes shut, and very, very still. 

Within a few hours all his sons and daughters arrived. One by one or sometimes two at a time they would go into the old man’s bedroom, lean down and kiss him goodbye. And then they would go in again just to look  and maybe say something to him. No one wanted to call the funeral director. They wanted to hold onto him for just a little while longer. And so they did. They talked with each other, drank some toasts. They felt warm with each other’s company and were content. 

One last visit to the old man, and then they called the funeral director. Some went to the funeral parlor to make the arrangements. Three of the sisters stayed behind to prepare a meal, so they all could sit down together and enjoy each other’s company with a glass of wine and a plate of macaroni in remembrance of their father. 

While they were at the table, they talked about him. Each one of them told a story about him or recalled a story he told. 

They responded to each other with comments like, “Yes, I remember that one.” “And what about the story of the mouse in his boot.” “The one I liked the best was the story of his dream that his horse died. And sure enough when he went to the stable, the horse was dead.” “Yes, he was a great one for dreams. What about his dream of the Madonna who appeared to him in the trenches and told him not to be afraid. He will survive.” “And don’t forget Mama. Remember how they used to shout and scream at each other when they were making bread.” “Oh yes, and years later when I learned what those Italian words meant in English, I couldn’t believe that they used such language.” 

On and on they went, talking, eating and drinking their wine. Finally, everyone wanted to know about his last hour. Anna was the only one with him so she told her story about the soup and the nap, and everyone was satisfied. 

Then Mary told a story: 

She said that some time the day before, she went upstairs to check on the old man. She went to his bed and asked him if he wanted anything. He said that he wanted to get out of bed. Mary called her husband, and between the two of them they got the old man out of bed. It was really very strange because he started to walk without her help. He took hold of his cane, and leaning on it,  made his way very slowly into the kitchen.

Mary asked him, “Papa, where are you going?”

He turned his face to her and smiled. Then with his cane in one hand and leaning on the backs of the chairs with his other hand, he began to take a turn around the kitchen table. 

Mary could not figure out what he was trying to do so she asked him again, “Papa, where are you going?” 

This time he answered her and said, “Mama Rosa.” 

To Mary it looked like the old man was just staggering around the table, but when he said “Mama Rosa” his eyes seemed to light up and a great smile was on his face. Mary had the feeling that he was not in the kitchen but somewhere far away. Each step he took, he looked around as if he was making sure he was in the right place, and his countenance kept getting brighter. Confused and a bit frightened, Mary quietly asked, “Papa, who is Mama Rosa?”

He happily answered, “Yes, yes, Mama Rosa. I have to go see Mama Rosa.” 

Then with a look beaming with joy, he went back to his bed, and completely satisfied with his journey, lay down and fell asleep.

The brothers and sisters were fascinated and eagerly listened for the end. But Mary fell silent. There was nothing more to the story.  

They looked at each other, then at Mary and asked, “Who is Mama Rosa?” “I don’t know.” “And where did he think he was?” “I don’t know.” “I never heard him tell a story about Mama Rosa.” “Does anyone remember a story about Mama Rosa?” “He told so many stories, but I never heard that one.” “I wonder who she was?”

Michael J. Cariello passed away in March 2023. He was the youngest of the Cariello brothers and sisters, children of immigrants Pasquale and Serafina. Drafted during the Korean War and sent to Germany as part of the occupation army. Took advantage of the GI Bill and went to college. Became a public school teacher and taught seventh grade History and English for thirty years. Michael retired to Vermont and had his first publication at age 89, telling the story of his Mother and Father from Italy to America.