By Eva Vecchi Aldrich

Submitted August 2010    

My Mom was a beautiful woman, inside and out. She was a clear eyed observer with a quick wit and a ready response. Not only was she a good hard worker she was fast; impressively fast. I was always proud of her disciplined vanity. She always looked good and dressed in style. Daily around the house she wore her no longer Sunday best clothes, good shoes and stocking. No house dresses and slipper for her, and the apron came off when she answered the door.

The aunts would visit often usually while Mom was preparing dinner. They were too proud to ask for recipes or instructions, so they’d come and watch and learn.

Mom told wonderful stories. We’d ask again and again for “The Wooden Lady” and “Vecchamatta” which she always told us in Italian. I loved the real life stories she told later about all the health and baby care information she’d learned in classes in Rome before and after Renato was born. It put our public health offerings to shame.

The story about how she pestered her father to buy her a hat before she started school. Her mother explained that only the rich girls wore hats; everyone else wore head scarves. But Mama won and proudly wore her hat every day.

The story about being 6 years old and playing mud pies with a girl friend in front of the house. Townspeople kept rushing by excitedly talking about that crazy Vecchi boy. The girls followed everyone to the edge of town. He was going to ride his horse over the foot bridge between the mountains. The people were making bets and then she looked up and there was this handsome boy of 16 on a big black horse wearing a jaunty wide brimmed hat with one side buttoned to the band. He looked like a movie star. He gave the horse his heels and went flying across the bridge. “That was the first time I saw your father, “ she said.

The story about not dating all those too young boys who came after her in spite of her insulting put-down, “Your breath still smells of mothers’ milk.” She found her “older man” in Secondo. He was 35 when he went back to Italy to bring her and their 2 year old son Renato to Canandaigua, NY. They sailed on the S.S. America in September of 1921. My proud 22 year old mother had a second class ticket – not steerage and did not go to Ellis Island.

The house in Canandaigua was however a disappointment full of unmarried brothers and relatives, dirt and bed bugs. Mom always acted as if bugs were bombs to be defused. She was young and energetic and the house shined up – fast.

Mom was loving but tough. By her rules cats and dogs slept outside or down cellar. They and their fleas were never allowed upstairs in the bedrooms.

Too much bellyaching earned us a story about someone who embarrassed herself by behaving “like a baby.” It was clear we were way beyond babyhood. She never gave orders or yelled she appealed to our better selves. But she was also good at guilting us with stories of like situations being handled right by someone else. The she loved animals she’d feed wild mushrooms she’d gathered to the cats before feeding them to us. She would faithfully feed, water and talk to the chickens she raised yet wring their necks without a qualm at slaughter time.

I have so very many memories of Mom.

I hated my eyeglasses from kindergarten on. Every night after supper I’d hide them. Mom would hand them to me daily at the door as I left for school. We did this for a couple years before I gave up.
She gave me a valuable business lesson. I was unhappily working in the Phoenix Street store taking care of a customer. Mom passed by, then came back, came in and waited for my customer to leave. “Eva,” she said,  “it’s a wonder she bought anything. You looked like you wanted to kill her. Smile, be sweet, they’ll buy more, you’ll have more.”

Mom often ironed late into the evening. The dining room table would be covered with neat piles which we and Mom would take upstairs at bedtime. One Saturday morning I went downstairs and found the dining room table completely covered with my washed, starched and ironed doll clothes, dresses, petticoats, bonnets everything. It was such a thrill – better than Christmas morning to me. I loved playing with dolls and so appreciated the unexpected and she did it more than once.

Mom’s way to instruct, discipline or chastise was to tell a story or to quote a proverb or epigram. She seemed to have 100’s and used them often and fittingly. They were always rendered in Italian – this gave them greater weight and they rhymed. I’ll translate:

If you complained about high heels or girdles being uncomfortable:
“If you want to look beautiful you have to endure the pain.”

If you told a lie:
“Lies have short legs.

If you couldn’t go to the movies because you didn’t bag the bread at the bakery:
“Laziness is the father of all vices.”

If you fought with your sister:
“Between brothers knives.” Same for sisters.

If you refused a sister’s help:
“In union there is strength.”

If you left for school a little late:
“Lengthen your stride.”

If you dawdled doing dishes:
“Do it. Don’t make love to them.”

And her most frequent:
“Sprigite” or “hurry up.”
If you wanted to get to church or movies early, she’d say, “I don’t want (or have) to dress the priest.”

My all time favorite quote follows. If Mom was on her knees cleaning the broiler complaining about engineers who half invent things, she’d say:
“The necessary man is not yet born.”

    Mom loved radio and listened faithfully to the Arthur Godfrey show. He was the Oprah of her day always offering information Mom was eager to have.
    She often said if I was born in this country I’d be a reporter or a news woman on radio. She followed politics from the whistle stops and rallies Papa took her to.  To the kiss she got from Rockefeller to the campaigning she did for her Renato.
    And when she was a widow and old she was still good at put-downs stating:  “You don’t need a wife. You have a nice house and enough money; hire a housekeeper.”
    I’d like to close with the lyrics of the song Mom sang lustily as a young woman and wistfully, as an old one:

Baccia me, baccia me con amore
Stringia me, striniame con ardore
Non lascia me, la mia vida e com’ un fiore.
Piorise presto e presto muore.