Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat Christmas Contest – Pina Martinelli

December 31, 2006

Christmas, 1965 - For my late father, with love and affection

Pina Martinelli

Christmas in my home was always weird, or at least that is how I perceived it to be when I was a kid. This isn't to say I didn't have good Christmases, get great presents, eat lovingly prepared meals, or have a good time with my parents and older siblings, because I did. I enjoyed the Christmas and New Year holidays on many occasions, but it was still a weird time in our household. A slight shadow wafted throughout our home during the holiday season that took maturity and my own life experiences to eventually understand. But then, it was foreign territory for me, a realm of darkness that unnerved me during such a joyous season.

Although my mother tried hard to make Christmas a festive occasion, Dad was never all that much fun to be around during the holiday season. Throughout most of my childhood I really didn't understand why he was this way, but in hindsight I now realize I was simply too young to understand his truth. My father, a professional artist, could be great fun to be with when he was not in a morose and darkly brooding mood, pondering his fate in life and all that had befallen his family. Sometimes his moods were so dark and ominously oppressive one could not help but fall into his abyss and join him at the bottom of this murky pit. And yet, he could be so wonderfully engaging and fun it took your breath away, like a bright shining star high in the sky. Some of my happiest memories are of regular dinner hours with the family when Dad, in a particularly silly and playful mood, drew caricatures of us while we cleared the dinner table or sat sharing our day. His drawings of my mother, my older sister, brother and I were always so hysterical we laughed very hard, often marveling at his ability to capture our essences and personas in these quick studies. But dad's caricatures of himself were always the best. He portrayed himself to be a kind of wickedly impish, beret-wearing Maestro, a larger than life version of who he was some of the time - which was, of course, a man larger than life most of the time. And yet, no sooner than the tinkling bells of Christmas rounded the bend, Dad became The Scrooge of Scrooges. This was my Holiday father.

My mother did her best to compensate for Dad's less than delightful moods during the holidays throughout the whole of my life, until she died from cancer at age 52. She spent hours writing holiday cards, shopped - with Dad - for our presents, Italian delicacies for our traditional cold and hot antipasto appetizer plates, and for our dinners. She all but killed herself to prepare the house in time for Christmas and to make it special for us. When Dad was not otherwise complaining about the holidays and reluctantly partaking in its many tasks, he was adrift in another place and time, somewhere far off, distant and mysterious, a land known only to him. A pall surrounded him that was difficult for me to deal with as a child, although I now know I wasn't the only one that felt this way about him. We all felt a bit disillusioned by his behavior at this time of year.

Dad possessed absolutely no interest in maintaining the magic of Christmas for his children. In my lifetime I don't ever recall him dressing up like Santa Claus, just as I don't recall finding an empty glass of milk or a plate filled with cookie crumbs for me to find the next morning from Santa's visit the night before. Perhaps he did these things when my older siblings were young, but during my formative years he never did. Time and too many of life's tragedies had changed him, apparently. The father I knew did not maintain any of life's more magical illusions and innocence for his children, which especially included Christmas and Santa Claus. And yet, ironically, he was magical about other things - of nature, insects, birds, animals, sea creatures and the stars, or Greek and Roman mythology, or ancient ruins, and most definitely, art. But during the holiday season he would only half-heartedly participate, determined not engage in the process in some way, shape or form.

As a child I wanted and yearned for Holiday Magic, but it wasn't there in the way I needed it to be. The simplest of chores, like wrapping presents in gorgeous holiday paper, was met with Dad grousing about the cost of each roll or how much of a waste of paper it was. Somewhere in his commentary he would remark that this was a useless waste of trees, especially since all of the wrapping paper would be thrown out immediately after we opened all of our gifts. After years of listening to his refrain, I think my mother simply gave up and caved in to dad's wishes, and chose to wrap gifts very cheaply. I can't tell you how many times I unwrapped gifts wrapped in Newspaper or aluminum foil or just how much this disappointed me. While my parents struggled somewhat financially, we were not so impoverished as to not afford a few rolls of wrapping paper. This was a family mystery I have never been able to understand. Once I matured, these memories would serve to fuel my desire to "right" our Christmas wrongs and I would become one of Santa's happy elves, especially for my niece and nephew's experience of the holiday. As a child, the occasional gift I received gloriously adorned in luxuriant paper was met with glee because it was such a rarity. Other chores, like buying the holiday tree, also seemed to fall flat, except for one occasion during the Christmas of 1965 when I was 10 years old.   

Like most children I wanted to have a tree that was as tall as the sky or higher, one so large and lush it would touch the tips of the stars. Because we lived in a Brownstone in New York City that had huge, 15 foot high ceilings (at least), we could have had a tree that ALMOST touched the sky, but we never did. Dad always found a tree that was maybe 5' 7" tall and looked spindly and sparse, as if it were on its last legs. I dreamed of having the large, lush trees I saw in holiday movies, only to disappointedly face a sad sack of a tree that looked as if it had seen better days. As a teenager I teased my father about his strange choices in trees, often commenting that he was the only person I knew who got a tree with 1 central stalk, three limbs, four branches and all but two pine needles on them. He always laughed at this joke, but he had his reasons. Dad understandably worried about fire and didn't want a tree that would be so large as to create a massive flame. He was right in many ways, but my father simply worried too much. His anxious nature permeated our lives to such an extent he never could completely relax and have a good time. Being with him often forced us to curtail our joy so as not to rock the proverbial boat he rowed in our lives. Like his mother before him, he instilled in us - especially me - the belief that there was always some yet unknown danger lurking in the wings. It would take years for me to unravel the damage this mindset incurred within my spirit. Now I can safely say I enjoy myself thoroughly. It's never too late to have fun.

While my mother prepared a veritable feast in the kitchen, my older brother and I were in charge of trimming the tree in the adacent dining room/den, a large room located in the rear of our home. Our older sister had left home years before and was not involved in these preparative activities, but she would come over later and admire our hard work. Despite our sad sack of a tree, we tried to dress it up as if it had some place to go or as if it were expecting guests. My older brother and I spent hours threading Cracker Jack candied popcorn through thick thread (a tradition whose origins I can no longer recall), arguing about who was doing a better job, like most siblings do. This garland would be hung along with our other garlands, including two that were fashioned out of ancient colored glass beads that I loved. The garlands were put on after my brother weaved the lights within the tree's branches under dad's watchful and very cautious eye. Once this was done, we hung the ornaments carefully and methodically. Even though the tree was dressed up, it still looked somewhat sad, as if something were missing. 

Just before Christmas 1965, dad had to be hospitalized for testicular cancer that required surgery. To this day I can recall the anxiety that filled our home during the days that preceded his surgery. Though my mother tried hard to maintain a measure of stability for all of us, she was deeply concerned about his condition and was obviously preoccupied. She relaxed once she learned that his surgery had gone well and that he would make a full recovery. Dad was in the hospital for about ten days, a few of which crossed over into Christmas and the few days that followed.

During this time my mother, brother and I decided - albeit a bit rebelliously given dad's hospital stay - to buy the biggest tree we could find for that Christmas Holiday. It was huge. The tree stood well over 9 foot tall and its branches stretched over 6' in width once they relaxed in the warmth of our home. It was so beautiful and fragrant I can still recall the smell as we unwrapped the roping that encircled it.  We decorated it as we always did and it looked beautiful; its glass bulbs shimmering under the tree's multicolored lights. Although we opened our gifts in dad's hospital room that Christmas, we delighted in the magical nature of this majestic tree when we returned home. It spoke of life and we basked in its light. Even Dad commented on how beautiful it was when he came home from the hospital, teasing us that we had changed the tradition of our spindly trees. We all felt a bit guilty that we did things this way, but knew it made its mark. In the years that followed, our trees improved somewhat, and dad seemed to be engaged in the holiday spirit more so than before. I was always grateful to him for making more of an effort to enjoy the holidays.

~~~~~

It would take some years before I would understand the full breadth of my father's reaction to the holiday season and be able to make sense of it. It would take my own lessons in loss for me to be able to relate to his feelings in some way; to understand the darkness that comes in this season of light and laughter, the quiet that comes in between the noise, the reflections on the past that come in momentary solitude. In time, and in the twenty six years since his death,  I would truly know who my father was deep within his heart and spirit.

My father's childhood was tragic, even though it had a promising start. Dad was the first of three sons born to Italian immigrants who came to this country in the late 1800's. For my father's parents, his birth was met with great pride. He was the first to be born here and with that came a great deal of responsibility for this newly minted Italian American. His birth promised the continuation of the family name, along with its heritage and traditions. Although Italian was my father's first language, he, his younger twin brothers and my grandparents all spoke English fluently, except for the occasions when they lapsed into Italian to speak of things we were not to know. We understood them, anyway.

Dad's family was poor and all of his relatives struggled to make a living and establish themselves as productive members of American society once they arrived on our soil. Most of my father's relatives from the "old country" were artists and musicians, except  my great-grandfather who served in the Italian Army. He was a strict and demanding man who told my real grandfather that he could not become a sculptor, all but ordering him to give up his creativity in favor of a more financially secure job. My grandfather was heartbroken and then set off for America to find his path, his broken heart and spirit in his hands. In America, he would meet my grandmother, who immigrated to this country as a young girl, and for whom I am named. In time, their lives would begin and their roots would be established on American ground.

When my father was about 5 years old, the promise of life in this country was markedly changed by the suicide of his father, the man I call my real grandfather. Poor, sick with TB and exhausted by the demands of supporting my grandmother and his three young sons, my grandfather shot himself in the head one morning. It was said that my father found him, and in an instant the bleak, harsh realities of life came into view and dad's life inexorably changed. My grandmother, unable to cope with her husband's suicide and raising three young sons on her own, sent her two youngest sons, the twins, to live with two of her brothers until she was able to support them. Dad stayed with her and became the man of the household, until Joseph, my real grandfather's younger brother, married her to continue the family name. Joseph, or Giuseppi, was the grandfather I knew and loved. It was Joseph, who raised my father and his two brothers and supported them throughout their lives, treating them as if they were his own sons. It was Joseph, who encouraged my father to become the artist and sculptor he became, a profession my father continued in honor of his father who died too young.

As my own life has unfolded, shifted and changed, I look back on my father's life and his reactions and can finally say I understand. I will never know the time of year that my real grandfather ended his life, but I often wonder if it occurred around Christmas time. It would explain a lot to me if this were the case. Dad spoke about his father periodically, and especially when he recounted his own career track as an artist in New York. I realize now - finally - that it was not my father's legacy he wanted carried on, but my grandfather's unfulfilled dream. If the three of us became artists as he wished, then his own father's artistic spirit would remain alive in future generations.

Only once or twice do I recall Dad crying for his father during my childhood. We had gone to my grandfather's grave in New Jersey and I watched my father weep when he found his father's headstone in a corner facing away from the church. I remember asking my mother why my grandfather's headstone faced the other way and she explained that this was done with suicides. They were considered a disgrace to the sanctity of the church. I felt sorry for my father then, and felt his deep hurt, but didn't know how to soothe his ache.

Though I can never erase or repair the past, right the wrongs of my father's life, or soothe his hurt and pain now so long after his death, I understand the darkness that filled his heart at times. I know it all too well, and yet, I appreciate the efforts he made to give my siblings and I the best life he could give us - for our European travels, for the laughter and the noise, for the foods and the wine, the raucous bocce games, for his love and his encouragement, and yes, even for our spindly Christmas trees. In the distance of the past, they are positively magical.

                                                              ~~~~~~~~

Thank you, Pop. Because of you I learned to make life magical in its way, one that is uniquely my own, but which keeps your spirit alive. They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree and it's true. Just as you created mythical creatures out of steel and fire to carry out your father's dream of being a sculptor, I, too, carry out your dreams, in my way, my style. Sometimes if you look closely enough, I am the wickedly impish female maestra orchestrating my life with a gleam in my eye, laughing with my arms outstretched to the sky, and always honoring you.  

Pina Martinelli

Pina1101@aol.com