helped me see where I was in my life. In a way, he even helped me to see that Jack was the right man for me.”
Theodore doesn’t say anything. What can he say? I just admitted that Pete Rutledge was, in a very real way, responsible for my ultimate happiness because he made me look honestly at myself and decide where I belonged. I chose Jack MacChesney, and maybe I’ll always wonder what might have been. But who doesn’t?
I cry all the way through the Columbus Day Parade. When the float made of red paper roses carrying Miss Italy drifts by, I see youth and beauty and possibility and feel at odds with myself. When the cornet band of old Italian men with handlebar mustaches marches by playing “Oh Marie,” I think of my mother and her Louis Prima records, and how she never got the man she wanted the most. I wonder if there is some old village curse on the women in my line. I hope Etta avoids it. Somehow I think she will, as she has the MacChesney feistiness. I don’t think an evil-eye curse would get my daughter down.
When I was growing up, my mother and I were the only Eye-talians in Big Stone Gap. I thought we were the only ones in the world, because we were so removed from life beyond the Blue Ridge Mountains. But I was wrong. There were lots of us out there, and today I’m surrounded by them. I feel at home among the strong features, the prominent noses, the thick hair, the posture, the pride, all the characteristics I think of when I think of my father in Schilpario, or my mother. Sometimes her face flashes before me. I see her by the sink, or in the garden, or kneeling before me as she pins up a hem. I remember her smile and how she made me feel safe. I see her in these young women, in the strength of their dark eyes.
I want to run into the middle of the parade and tell everyone, “I am one of you! I belong here!” My dream since childhood, to belong, to be part of a bigger family, a family that looked like me and felt the things I did. And here they are, thousands of them, on the sidewalks cheering and marching down the street. Finally, I fit in the world, and yet I’m still alone. I look around, and I’m the only person crying.
When the plane takes that first dip out of the clouds and into the clear, I see the Blue Ridge Mountains roll out before me in full autumn. The trees have turned bright yellow topaz; there won’t be much orange or red tint to the leaves this year because of the Indian summer. I am happy to see these mountains again, to be home, where my husband and daughter wait for me. Southwest Virginia is an uncomplicated place for a complex person, and I miss it whenever I go.
I bought Etta lots of little things, not to make up for the punishment but to let her know that she was in my thoughts the whole time. I have a goal this fall: I want to get on good footing with my daughter. I want to understand her. I want her to understand me and why I parent the way I do. I hope she learned that when she does wrong, there are consequences. Now we need to work on her compassion. I know it’s in there, I just have to help her find it.
“Yoo-hoo. Girl! Over here!” Iva Lou waves to me from beyond the checkpoint. I don’t hide how thrilled I am that she came to pick me up. “How was it?” she asks as she gives me a big hug.
“Theodore is so happy. He’s in his groove.”
“I want to hear all about it.” She lifts an eyebrow, and I know her next question is about Pete Rutledge. “So?” she says, dragging out the “o” until I answer.
“He’s getting married.”
“I knew you’d see him!”
“I saw him.”
“Are you sad?”
“No.”
“How did he look?”
“Better than ever,” I tell her.
“Of course he does. That’s how they keep us hooked. The rats.”
As we wait for my luggage, I notice that Iva Lou is fidgeting nervously. And she seems to be chatting loud and fast as she gives me the Gap update since I’ve been away—the manic chitchat is not her style.
“Are you
Theodore doesn’t say anything. What can he say? I just admitted that Pete Rutledge was, in a very real way, responsible for my ultimate happiness because he made me look honestly at myself and decide where I belonged. I chose Jack MacChesney, and maybe I’ll always wonder what might have been. But who doesn’t?
I cry all the way through the Columbus Day Parade. When the float made of red paper roses carrying Miss Italy drifts by, I see youth and beauty and possibility and feel at odds with myself. When the cornet band of old Italian men with handlebar mustaches marches by playing “Oh Marie,” I think of my mother and her Louis Prima records, and how she never got the man she wanted the most. I wonder if there is some old village curse on the women in my line. I hope Etta avoids it. Somehow I think she will, as she has the MacChesney feistiness. I don’t think an evil-eye curse would get my daughter down.
When I was growing up, my mother and I were the only Eye-talians in Big Stone Gap. I thought we were the only ones in the world, because we were so removed from life beyond the Blue Ridge Mountains. But I was wrong. There were lots of us out there, and today I’m surrounded by them. I feel at home among the strong features, the prominent noses, the thick hair, the posture, the pride, all the characteristics I think of when I think of my father in Schilpario, or my mother. Sometimes her face flashes before me. I see her by the sink, or in the garden, or kneeling before me as she pins up a hem. I remember her smile and how she made me feel safe. I see her in these young women, in the strength of their dark eyes.
I want to run into the middle of the parade and tell everyone, “I am one of you! I belong here!” My dream since childhood, to belong, to be part of a bigger family, a family that looked like me and felt the things I did. And here they are, thousands of them, on the sidewalks cheering and marching down the street. Finally, I fit in the world, and yet I’m still alone. I look around, and I’m the only person crying.
When the plane takes that first dip out of the clouds and into the clear, I see the Blue Ridge Mountains roll out before me in full autumn. The trees have turned bright yellow topaz; there won’t be much orange or red tint to the leaves this year because of the Indian summer. I am happy to see these mountains again, to be home, where my husband and daughter wait for me. Southwest Virginia is an uncomplicated place for a complex person, and I miss it whenever I go.
I bought Etta lots of little things, not to make up for the punishment but to let her know that she was in my thoughts the whole time. I have a goal this fall: I want to get on good footing with my daughter. I want to understand her. I want her to understand me and why I parent the way I do. I hope she learned that when she does wrong, there are consequences. Now we need to work on her compassion. I know it’s in there, I just have to help her find it.
“Yoo-hoo. Girl! Over here!” Iva Lou waves to me from beyond the checkpoint. I don’t hide how thrilled I am that she came to pick me up. “How was it?” she asks as she gives me a big hug.
“Theodore is so happy. He’s in his groove.”
“I want to hear all about it.” She lifts an eyebrow, and I know her next question is about Pete Rutledge. “So?” she says, dragging out the “o” until I answer.
“He’s getting married.”
“I knew you’d see him!”
“I saw him.”
“Are you sad?”
“No.”
“How did he look?”
“Better than ever,” I tell her.
“Of course he does. That’s how they keep us hooked. The rats.”
As we wait for my luggage, I notice that Iva Lou is fidgeting nervously. And she seems to be chatting loud and fast as she gives me the Gap update since I’ve been away—the manic chitchat is not her style.
“Are you
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