Festival of St. Ippolito

There is an annual event that our Italian family attends every year. It centers around Mass, family, food and friends. It is always held on the second Sunday in August, always.  It is a festival that commemorates and celebrates the patron saint from the little town in Italy where my husband's family immigrated from.

St. Ippolito, Italy, is a small town or more like a village, in the southern west part of the country. From all the pictures I've seen and the stories I have heard,  it sounds like a wonderful place to visit.  From the wonderful smells coming from the ladies kitchens, to the piazzas where men gather to play bocce. Someday we will go to wander the same streets and see the same sites as my husband's ancestors did. I want to attend Mass in the little church where his grandparents were married. But for now, this yearly festival will have to serve as a way to reconnect with family and friends who are of the same heritage.

Our family's cooking for the festival actually starts several days in advance. The menu rarely changes from one year to the next. Each of my husband's siblings  are responsible for bringing dishes to pass. Each family contributes the same itmes as they have in the past. You see, this wonderful family does not like change. Which is fine, it really does make planning easier. My husband and I bring lasagna, meatballs and desserts. The others bring dishes to fill in the rest of the menu.

The Mass is usually said by the Bishop of the Lansing Diocese, and is always a reflection of the struggles and accomplishments of this communities forefathers that brought them to this great country of America.

After Mass is over there is a parade where men, young and old, carry the statue of St. Ippolito through the grounds of the church and families follow in solidarity to the reverence of their beloved saint. When St Ippolito is ceremoniously placed in the center of the lawn, all that are gathered on these grounds commence in a huge picnic. All of the different Italian families sit together under the shade of massive trees to share the meals they brought. Each family sits in the same area as the year before, because it is tradition.

There are games for the kids, raffles for the adults and souvenirs or trinkets for sale. The Italian ice stand is always a big hit. I know these are my boys favorite things to do. They are getting old enough now that they are helping to run games and sit at the merchandise table. 

As an adult, the festival is about catching up with old friends and reuniting with family that you haven't seen since the last year's festival.

My favorite thing to do is to walk around and observe how each family intertacts and to listen to the older generation speak in the beautiful language that is Italian. It warms my heart to see and hear so many people communicate with such fluidity, in words that I cannot understand, in a cadence that seems to be a melody. To learn to speak Italian is on my bucket list.

I love that the St. Ippolito Festival is held on the grounds of a beautiful old country Catholic Church in the middle of nowhere, complete with a quiet little cemetery across the street. The grounds are serene, surrounded by trees that have been there since the church was built. When driving up the road and seeing the steeple when cresting the hill always fills me with joy. There is no feeling like that of anticipation and excitement.

Each year I slip away for a few moments to the cemetery to look at the beautiful headstones and to what I like to call Mary's garden. It's just a simple little space that is devoted to the Queen Mother of our savior, Jesus Christ.

I do love old churches. I think it is because of the architecture and atmosphere and knowing that generations of families have gathered there before me. But I think what draws me most of all is the beautiful stained glass windows.  The images are so amazing when the sun shines through the colored glass, telling stories of Christ's life. Whether full of joy or sorrow, the story leads us on the path of His footsteps.  To me, this is the most wonderful journey of all.

I know that everyone has their own traditions and reunions, but I love that my husband's family celebrate their culture on this day. That their relationship with Christ comes first and foremost in a day and age when religion seems to be fading away. I am grateful to be associated with such a deep and meaningful community that puts the love of God and family above all else. 

This time together with such kind and loving people really does show that God and family truly are the best things in life. 

In the blink of an eye

It's finally happened...the shift from summer vacation to the last few weeks before school starts. Back to school flyers from various stores have arrived in the mailbox and commercials announcing sales for notebooks, pens and pencils have taken over the television.

Today was my list day. Lists for uniforms that needed to be ordered, and supplies were made. To make sure nothing is left out, everything is color coded of the haves and needs for each of my sons. This is my system that helps me to maintain my sanity in these last few weeks of summer.

I am not so sure that I am ready for school to start this year. When it does, I have to face the reality that the boys are getting older. That I am another year closer to them moving on with their lives, that will render me somehow useless to them. 

I know that they say time flies, and childhood will be over in the blink of an eye. But does it really? It seems forever ago that I held those tiny babies in my arms, that a lifetime has passed since I changed diapers and warmed bottles. Oh, how I loved  baby feet and the belly laughs at a game of peek-a-boo. The sweet time right before bed when Goodnight Moon was read and the Baby Jesus lullaby in Italian was sung, I think these rituals were my favorite. 

Our days were great, filled with learning to walk and talk, and countless hours of story books, the wonder of seeing their shadow and realizing for the first time that it followed them everywhere was priceless. But the nights were filled with snuggles, the sweet smell of baby lotion and a closeness with my children that I don't think can ever be matched again.
These memories are less vivid in the mind as they used to be, but are still there nonetheless. Although they may seem distant, the snippets of a child's life will remain in the heart as strong as if they happened yesterday, for this is where  our true memories lie. The brain may remember the way someone looked, but the heart knows how we loved this person and how it felt to be loved by them. Because it is with our whole heart that we love these little people that God has entrusted us with. An unconditional love that is so deeply felt, it can make your chest hurt with just a thought.

As they grew, my boys seemed to get more and more independent.  By the time first grade came around, I was not allowed to walk them to line up with their class in the morning after the first week of school. No kisses just a quick hug. The phrase I love you could not be uttered, it was embarrassing in front of their friends. We now have little signs that express my love that only they know, so that my boys will be spared public humiliation at the hands of mom.

With each new grade comes new  experiences that will help to shape them into the adults they will become. Struggles with emotions, friendships and homework has taught them that I will always have their backs, but they need to stand up for themselves and take responsibility for their actions. Sometimes these are hard lessons to learn. I still occasionally have trouble standing up for myself in certain situations.

Through their school years they have grown academically,  physically, and spiritaully. I am amazed by these changes that can be seen on a daily basis. I am proud to call these boys my sons.

Now as 4th and 5th grade approach, going to school on their own is on the horizon, another sign that they are slowly walking  away from me. What my sons don't know is that every time they leave the house, a piece of my heart goes with them. 

As my children grow and leave me by the wayside, we will never be truly apart, for they will always have my heart.

My Families

As with all families, there are stories, recipes and traditions that are passed down from one generation to the next. Traditions, as I understand it, are doing the same thing, at the same period in time, with the same people.

My husband's family is Italian, 100 percent...there is still family in the old country that we are in contact with. Which is truly wonderful for me, because, I consider myself a mutt, with so many nationalities, each watered down by the next generation, that we have lost the sense of pride that comes with a pure pedigree. I have learned that when one's bloodline is pure, there is a deep sense of duty to family. This concept is new to me because my own melting pot of ancestors are from different corners of the world.

My family is scattered throughout the state and the country as a whole. We spread our wings, carrying small bits of our roots and planting them in new places. Knowing we can make it on our own, yet being reassured by all our family that our parents house is always home. Although there is a feeling of obligation to remain in our hometown, it seems there no ties strong enough to bind us. This feeling of wanderlust is so deeply imbedded in our veins that once we are gone, rarely do we return home.

I, myself, was on the verge of heading out, moving to a new place and setting down my bags in a different town, in a different state. I fell in love with Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I had visited on a spring break trip my freshman year of college. I think it was the fresh sea air that attracted me to this wonderous place. It didn't help that I had always loved the drawl of a southern accent. The hospitality and way of life would be a welcomed change. I checked out colleges and looked for apartments. I came home with a set plan. I would finish out my first year of college and pack my meager belongings, transfer schools and by on my way. Then it happened, I met a man. I no longer wanted to leave, and at that point I knew he was my future husband, and only after four dates.

We married eight years later and have settled in the house where he grew up. On a piece of land that has been in the family for nearly a century. We live on the only acre of land left of his grandparents initial purchase when they arrived from Italy. So, in a way, I am in a culture that is different from my own. My yearning to leave has be settled, having been welcomed by people and families who differ from my own. For me, this is enough.

Yet, in this wonderful Italian culture of my husband's family, members have left, just to return a few years later, being enveloped back into the fold. The prodigal sons, if you will. Each of the brothers took their turn, stepping into the unknown, returning with stories that have faded into distant memories. Maybe both  our families get this urge from our grandparents.  My grandfather was a bonified hobo. He traveled the country by railway. Going wherever those two parallel bars of metal would take him. My husband's grandparents,  on both sides, left their own native lands to come to America.

Family isn't just a word, it is a way of life in the Italian culture. Each baptism,  first communion,  confirmation,  wedding, birth of a child and even birthdays are all grand events. Everyone is invited, from grandparents, to aunts and uncles, and countless cousins, all bearing gifts. At these gatherings stories are retold, even though each person knows the ending, you cannot help yourself but to listen again, caught up in the cadence of the storyteller, waiting with baited breath for laughter to break out.

Traditions in our home seem to be centered around the dinner table. Each Sunday throughout fall and winter my husband spends Sunday afternoon after Mass cooking a big pot of homemade sauce and meatballs with our two sons. Family gathers, as we have an open door policy on this day, for this meal. We have family and friends, sometimes in shifts, sharing our table. Again, stories are told, some are funny and some are sad. But we feel safe in the presence of our loved ones to tell these tales again and again, even though tears may flow from howling laughter or deep sorrow.

In my family it seems we only gather for Christmas,  weddings and funerals with the occasional bridal or baby shower thrown in the mix. Again there are stories told, mostly new ones, because it is hard to look back knowing the cousins who were your best friends when you were young have lost touch. Not intentionally, of course,  but because as life moves on, we don't hold those relationships as dearly as we should. Because we are scattered to the winds, leading our lives the best way we know how, somehow we forget that the phone lines reach out past our own front doors. But, when we are all together again there is a real sense of homecoming. We catch each other up on the stories we call our own. It is good to be with them again. Then as the day fades into dusk, we again go our separate ways, only to stay in touch on the latest social media. But, if one of us ever needs anything, our family pulls together to try to help each other. Because that is what we do, that is how we were raised.

With each family I'm lucky enough to be my own person. To voice my thoughts and opinions, whether they are good or bad. For this I am truly blessed. My own family is the heart that makes me whole and the soul that enables me to be far away from so many loved ones, yet lets my family reconnect as if no time has passed since we saw each other. My Italian family that has taken me in, accepted me and allowed me to break through the protective shell they surround themselves with, in order to protect everything that is sacred to all they hold dear. I thank God for them everyday, the family that gave me wings and the one who helped me to grow roots.

My Baseball Boys

I love the summer. Not because of the sun, summer break from school, sleeping in, warm breezes or late night bonfires. Although these are all parts that make up this glorious season, they in no way compare to the smiles, slaps on the back, chatter of voices and the occasional tear of that of boys that love their sport. 

I am the mom of baseball players.

I can always tell when it's a game day. The morning is marked with animated talk of pitching and catching, the batting line up, and field conditions. It seems the forecast is checked on the hour, making sure the meteorological patterns are perfect.

The day is spent "resting up, so you don't strain your arm." That includes everything from watching baseball on tv, to reading a book, to playing on the ipod. 

When dad...or...coach, gets home from work is when the pregame activity begins. There is everything from playing catch to swinging the bat. Making sure that last minute adjustments to form are made. 

Then the race is on to make sure all parts of each uniform are present and accounted for.

Then panic sets in.....

"Where's you glove?"  "I'm sorry, I don't know where you other cleat is...I don't where them."  "Your hat should be in the truck where you left it!!"  "Come on boys, get dressed! We have seven minutes before we leave!"  "Do you have your water bottles?"  

Pouting, screaming and tantrum throwing ensues. Leaving at the last minute possible, then realize that the truck needs gas...ugh!!

We are on our way...finally!  There is a calm that overtakes us in the cocoon of the vehicle. Talk of wins versus losses, if we have played this opponent before, and once again of the weather, hoping that the dark clouds ahead will move on quickly. 

When we arrive at the field, the excitement is palpable for the game to begin. The boys are running to the outfield, dad...or...coach, is sizing up the competition and I, mom, take my seat amongst the spectators. 

PLAY BALL!! Cries the umpire. 

It is all worth it with the first crack of the bat, because, I am the mom of baseball players.