Rita Watson: Of falling December stars and everlasting love/ Italian kisses
We grew up believing that meteorite showers were gifts from the heavens. For each star that fell into the arms of Mother Earth, we wished for love and kisses from our Prince Charming. The December Geminids would have glistened from the wrap-around porch at Gram and Grandpa’s, which sat at the water’s edge. From there we could see miles of ocean and sky while waiting for the magical stars to arrive.
Nights of falling stars were a ritual: Ravioli dinner, greens, and gobs of gelati.
Although the house was filled with rooms, winding staircases, and even a widow’s walk, Grandma lived in her kitchen which overlooked the grape arbor and the vegetable gardens. She was just under 5 feet tall and as wide. Her jolly body and print dresses were always covered by a large white baker’s apron that matched her hair — almost always dusted with flour as she brushed wisps from her face.
On nights of falling stars we camped on the porch, fell asleep, and our grandparents would wake us when the star shower began. On those nights we would talk about our wishes and dreams. The first time we told them about a Prince Charming for each of us, being a practical man Grandpa spoke up. He put down his cigar, looked at us intently and said, “When you marry, he should be a kind man with a good job. And, if he is Italian — ah Bravo. Bravo.”
Then Gram added that he should want at least four children and take us to church each Sunday even if he did not go inside.
When she was rolling out dough to make her ravioli one day, we asked her if her falling star wishes all came true. She put her rolling pin aside, wiped the flour from her hands onto her apron, sat with us and smiled.
“Sometimes you need to pretend that everything is all right with your husband. When Papa comes home bellowing, I slip up the back stairs and go to my sewing room. Then I imagine that when I come downstairs, he will be my Prince Charming. By then he is on the porch with his cigar. Instead of complaining about the smell, I kiss him and say, ‘I’m happy you’re home.’ He softens and becomes my prince,” she said. “Sometimes, I don’t even go to the sewing room, I just kiss him and act as if I didn’t hear his roar.”
Then Gram added, “When you know your husband is having a bad day, you are going to expect an old grump to walk in. Instead see him as your prince. Give him a big hug and a kiss and see how love wins out.”
Rita Watson is an All About You relationship columnist. This story is adapted from her upcoming “Italian Kisses: Gram’s Wisdom”