Dear Menopause

Dear Menopause –

I am writing because have a few things to get off my chest, not including my droopy breasts. First, can I have my brain back? I find myself tending to the wrong dental appointments, working on Banana-gram brain teasers, perplexed while staring at a word already created – “suffix”. When I speak, words tumble out of my mouth as if I were dyslexic. When I write, word choice and sentence structure elude me. I never know what time it is, and despite asking that age-old question, my lack of knowledge is not as poetic as Chicago’s rendition might lead you to think.

Second, can you please turn down the outdoor thermostat? Enough of these days where the heat index registers 100+ degrees. I am getting hot flashes when I greet the UPS man at the door, and he mistakenly thinks I am coming on to him. Also, for the sake of my once taut stomach, I would prefer not to be wearing clothes that bare or cling, such is the case with summer wardrobes. I should have stayed in Oregon, at least ‘til menopause had passed.

Ok, third, and this one is important. Can you at least write down your schedule on my calendar? I tell my kids, and even my husband, “If its not on the calendar, it doesn’t happen…” They hear me squawk, whenever an event appears out of thin air but shows no signs of having been written down. You are no different. If you can’t put it on the calendar with any consistency, you have no reason to show up erratically, and unannounced.

Fourth, previously I asked about turning down the thermostat, but is there any way you can turn it back up? I get chills in the evening and, when reading a book, with a nice glass of wine, need to cover up my feet with an orange, green and white afghan crocheted for me by a friend.

Finally, can you get together with the Pope and put my husband first in line for beautification? I know Mother Teresa and Pope JPII are already in the Vatican’s piepline. But I am convinced that my husband’s cross to bear (without including my family) is equal to theirs. Yes, there is already a St. Mark, and he’s got a whole square named after him in Venice. But I am thinking something more along the lines of St. Mark of Stonemark Lane. Has a certain ring to it, right? Just please, no pigeons. He hears enough clucking from me.

Sincerely,

Me

An All-American Marriage

An All-American Marriage

A Fourth of July Mediation

7/4/2011

On July 4, 1961, Ettore Anselmo Januzzi married Vincenza Jean Giuliani. They were both children of Italian immigrants, one set of parents from Abruzzi, “near Pescara,” Jean would say, the other set from Calabria, “you know the Calabrese,” Ettore used to taut.

They were married on that day because the shoe store that Ettore’s family ran would be closed that particular federal holiday. Ettore’s brother would be married on a New Year’s Day, another holiday that the store was closed.

Their marriage would come to represent the best America had to offer. The union of two immigrant families, whose migration saved them from the impoverished Italy. The families were entreprenuers who created their own opportunities in the shoe repair and bakery business.

When Jean was born, her mother's friends insisted the baby needed an American name, thus Vincenza became Jean. As children, Ettore and Jean were encouraged to speak the English language, out of respect for their new country. They lost their mother tongue, and only occasionally, as when Jean was conversing with a cab driver in Italy, could either of them slip back into that place of prior ease.

Prior to marriage, Ettore had served during the Korean War. Jean had been a school teacher, then a religion teacher. Then, she was free to choose to stay home with her children. Anyone who knew Jean recognized she would have had a stellar career, but being at home was her desire, and her children and their friends would benefit from her famed ravioli and meatballs, her nutroll and the home she created with care.

They were free to choose the number of children they wanted to birth. No Chinese government stepped in to tell them they had too many daughters (four, gasp!). No Catholic authority figuring telling them to have more (gasp again).

Ettore and Jean choose public school education for their children because that too was the foundation of America. They trusted the government and the good people of the town where they lived would funnel their talents and energy into high achieving schools, that level which is still achieved today.

When it came time to move the family to larger home, Ettore paid cash for the home he would reside in for thirty-five years. None of their children ever wore Jordache jeans, and even though the kids were a from a shoe store family, they often went barefoot anyhow.

Through fifty years, they had access to health care, through which they sought out the treatment of breast cancer, kidney cancer, heart disease, arthritis, appendectomy and now, sadly, Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s disease.

Jean sang in the choir, at church funerals, baked the Eucharistic bread and gave out communion. Together, they worked church fish frys and the county polls every Election Day for twenty years. Ettore would still be working his shift today, if he didn’t feel bad about Jean not being able to do so. With her dementia, she just might throw the election the wrong way. And Ettore still holds a position on the county housing authority, using his time to assist those in need. He may, at this stage, have become a figurehead, but his presence and perseverance is a model to others.

They gardened and canned, and froze and sauced every vegetable and fruit they could get their hands own. They had no expectations other than the one that has recently been tossed out of our society, and that is to work hard. While their lives revolved around their children, with five, it would be difficult for it to be otherwise, the children were never indulged or led to believe that they were deserving of all their blood, sweat and tears, only some.

Though Ettore and Jean, in their hearts and blood, were Italian-Americans, they never insisted upon the hyphenation. They knew who they were.

The weekend of their latest wedding anniversary, they attended a baseball game, were given a rousing Happy Anniversary by a tenor Ettore happened to have worked with a while ago, and later, in church, were called “heroes” by the deacon in his sermon. To which they humbly dropped down their heads in tears and gratitude.

On July 4, 2011, on a starlit cool summer evening within view of the shores of Lake Erie, only blocks from the families’ original bakery and shoe store, surrounded by children, grandchildren and fireworks set to no music at all, Ettore and Jean Januzzi celebrated fifty years of marriage, an American marriage.