Losing the training wheels...

9. Christmases on Cortland were a time of eating, visiting family and a bounty of presents. Christmas morning we would wake up to find the living room crammed with toys: dolls, dishes, miniature tables and chairs, games, and candy in our stockings. Sue and I loved all the girlie stuff and had Revlon dolls one year, and Shirley Temple dolls another. Judy got a Betsy Wetsy (or maybe it was Tiny Tears) that she usually dragged around by one leg. There was always the temptation to wash our dolls' hair, despite our mother's warnings and inevitably someone would also try to give Shirley a haircut, becoming completely distraught that it didn't grow back.

Just after my sixth birthday, Santa brought me a 16-inch two-wheeler. And even though it came with training wheels, I was thrilled to be riding a big kid bike. Sue got a tricycle and the two of us would softly pedal around the apartment, Dad taking pictures as we came down the hall. We couldn't wait for the snow to melt so we could ride outside along the sidewalk with the rest of the neighborhood kids. Of course, we wouldn't dare go in the street.

By springtime, the training wheels had come off and my father would run along side of me holding the seat as I quickly learned to keep my balance while pedaling as fast as I dared. The problem was, bike had no brakes and I usually stopped by dragging my feet along the sidewalk or purposefully riding onto the grass of the parkway or someone's lawn to slow down. I loved riding the bike and would spend hours going up and down the block. On one afternoon as I rode past our neighbor’s building, I felt something wet on my head. I looked up to see a robin hop from one branch in a tree to another, and immediately knew what little present had been deposited in my hair. Bursting into tears, I ran home, up the stairs and into the house. Through my sobs my mother managed to figure out what was wrong and found my situation extremely funny. She could hardly contain her laughter as she stuck my head under the faucet in the sink to wash my hair, probably with dishwashing liquid. For some reason, that little incident and the bike remain connected in my mind. It was a good little bike to learn on but when August rolled around, I had already almost grown out of it.

At some point around this time, our paternal grandparents became more involved in our lives - or at least a number of occasions stand out as quite memorable. Nonni Amabile and Nonno Cenzo were lovers of the arts. As immigrants to this country, they always looked for ways to preserve their heritage and to share a love for Italian culture with others who had made America their home. One great love was the opera. During the 30s, they helped to found an operetta club in Roseland, their first neighborhood on Chicago's south side. They worked on a number of productions and this avocation eventually led to my grandmother's career as one of the first female radio announcers in Chicago.

One night they took me to an opera downtown. I don't remember much about it except that I was only six and may have fallen asleep but otherwise was well-behaved. Because of my grandmother's connections, we went backstage after the performance. I remember being held in my grandfather's arms as I met one of the actresses who was still in costume. Her dress was very feathery, very chiffon-y and very purple - I was in complete awe.

My grandmother was also a bit of a celebrity in Chicago at the time. She was one of the few women in radio and had her own program. It was a daytime show that covered news features of local interest, particularly for Italian women who would listen as they ironed or cooked - and who hadn't quite come on board to soap operas on television. Nonni really knew her audience and with the interviews and stories she told, she truly connected with them.

One day my grandmother decided she wanted to have me on her program. She talked to my mother - who obviously couldn't say no - and took her time preparing me for for my five minutes on the air. The plan was for everyone in our family to listen from home while I went down to the station with her. I watched and waited nervously as the program began. It was all in Italian, of course and my "part" was very well rehearsed. I was to recite a little prayer in Italian after she introduced me and gave me my cue. The prayer was about a little angel with golden hair and eyes full of love - it all rhymed and I managed to pronounce the words fairly well, even though I had no idea as to their exact meanings. When I finished, all the people in the studio applauded, even while we were still on the air.

Back home, my parents and sisters sat in the kitchen and listened to my voice coming from the red radio with black knobs that sat on top of the refrigerator. It's pretty safe to say my first day on the radio was also my last, but I did a fairly decent job for a six year old - and at least my family got a kick out of it.