For me, as I am sure for most second generation Italian-American children who grew up in the 40's and 50's, there was a definite distinction drawn between "us and them." We were Italian. Everybody else - the Irish, German, Polish, Jewish, they were the "Med-e-gones." There was no animosity involved in that direction, no prejudice, no hard feelings, just, well, we were sure ours was the better way. For instance, we had a bread man, a milkman, a coal and ice man, a fish man, a fruit and vegetable man, a watermelon man, an egg and cheese man, and we even had a man who sharpened our knives and scissors and came to our homes, or at least to our neighborhoods.We would wait for their call, their yell, their individual sound. We knew them all, and they knew us. Americans went to the store for most of their food. What a waste!

Truly, I pitied their loss. They never knew the pleasure of waking up every morning to find a hot crisp loaf of Italian bread waiting behind the screen door. And instead of being able to climb up on the back of the peddlers truck a couple times a week just to hitch a ride, most of my "med-e-gone" friends had to be satisfied going to the A&P. When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends or classmates only ate turkey on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Or, rather that they only ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatos and cranberry sauce. Now, we Italians - we also had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatos and cranberry sauce, but only after we finished the antipasto, soup, lasagna, meatballs, salad and whatever else Mama thought might be appropriate for that particular holiday. The turkey was usually accompanied by a roast of some kind (just in case somebody walked in who didn't like turkey), and was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, cakes and of course, homemade cookies. No holiday was ever complete without some home baking, none of that store bought stuff for us! This is where you learned to eat a seven course meal between noon and 7PM, how to handle hot chestnuts and put tangerine wedges in red wine. I truly believe Italians live a romance with food.

Speaking of food, Sunday was truly the big day of the week! That was the day you'd wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. As you lay in bed, you could hear the hiss as tomatoes were dropped in a pan. Sunday we always had macaroni and sauce, the "med-e-gones" called is "pasta and gravy." Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass. Of course, you couldn't eat before Mass because you had to fast before receiving communion. But the good part was we knew when we got home, we'd find hot meatballs frying, and nothing tastes better than newly fried meatballs and crisp bread dipped into a pot of sauce. There was another difference between "us" and "them". We had gardens. Not just flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes and more tomatoes. We ate them, cooked them and jarred them. Of course, we also grew peppers, basil, lettuce and squash. Everybody had a grapevine and a fig tree, and in the fall, everybody made homemade wine, lots of it. Of course, those gardens thrived so because we also had something else it seemed our American friends didn't have. We had a grandfather!

It's not that they didn't have grandfathers, it's just that they didn't live in the same house or on the same block. They visited their grandfathers. We ate with ours and God forbid we didn't see him at least once a day. I can still remember my grandfather telling me about how he came to America as a "young man on a boat." How the family lived in rented apartments and took in boarders in order to help make ends meet, how he decided that he didn't want his children, five sons and two daughters, to grow up in that environment. All of this, of course, in his own version of Italian-English, which I soon learned to understand quite well. So, when he saved enough (and I could never figure out how), he bought a house. That house served as the family headquarters for the next 40 years. Of course, he had to add his own touch of himself to that house by building a porch on, and then deciding to "add another on to that" and another on to that one until he added about four porches on to the original. Then of course he and my grandmother had to "paint the kitchen" and use enamel, high gloss paint. They painted everything in sight including all the fixtures, screws and all. If anything needed to be taken apart, it was next to impossible to unscrew it because of all the paint, and forget about trying to open the windows! I remember how he hated to leave that house, and would rather sit on t he back porch and watch his garden grow, and when he did leave for some special occasion, he had to return as quickly as possible. After all, "nobody's watching the house."

I also remember the holidays when all the relatives would gather at my grandparent's house and there would be tables full of food and homemade wine and music. Women in the kitchen and men in the living room, and kids, kids everywhere. I must have half a million cousins, first and second and some who aren't even related, but what did it matter? Any my grandfather, with his gallon jug of wine beside his chair, sitting there smoking his cigar in the middle of it all, grinning his mischievous smile, his eyes twinkling, surveying his domain, proud of his family and how well his children had done. One was a barber, one had his father's trade, one was a policeman and of course there was always the rogue. And the girls, they had all married and had fine husbands and healthy children that everyone knew and respected. He achieved his goal in coming to America and to Brooklyn and now his children and their children were achieving the same goals that were available to them in this great country, because they were Americans.

When my grandfather died years ago, things began to change. Slowly at first, but then uncles and aunts eventually began to cut down on their visits. Family gatherings were fewer and something seemed to be missing, although when we did get together, usually at my mother's house now, I always had the feeling that they were there. It was understandable, of course.

Everyone had their own families now, and their own grandchildren. Today they visit once or twice a year. Today we meet at weddings and wakes. Lots of other things have changed too. The old house my grandfather bought is now covered with aluminum siding, and the garden is gone. The last of the homemade wine had long since been drunk and nobody covers the fig tree in the fall anymore. For a while, we would make the rounds on the holidays visiting families. Now, we occasionally visit the cemetery. A lot of them are there, grandparents, aunts and uncles, a few cousins and even my own mother and father.

The holidays have changed too. The quantity of food we once consumed without any ill effect is not good for us anymore. Too much starch, too many calories, too much cholesterol and nobody bothers to bake anymore...too busy and it is easier to buy now. Too much is no good for you. We meet at the same house now, at least my family does, but it's not the same anymore.

The differences between "us" and "them" aren't so easily defined anymore and I guess that's good. My grandparents were Italian-Italians, my parents were Italian-Americans, and I am American-Italian, and my children are American-Americans. Oh, and I'm American all right, and proud of it, just as my grandfather would want me to be. We are all Americans now - Irish, Poles, Germans and Jews. United States citizens all - but somehow I still feel Italian. Call it culture, call it tradition, call it roots. I'm not sure what it is, all I do know is that my children have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of heritage. They never knew my grandparents.