Read Don't Sing at the Table for Free Online Page B

have provided back home.
    The examples of bartering among the immigrants are legendary, and it was a system where everyone benefited from the exchange. Lucy would make your curtains, and in exchange, you might build her fence. Nothing was thrown away, as there was always someone who might use what you didn’t need any longer. This exchange brought a civility and network of support that my grandmother would honor all her life.
    Lucy was a fine cook and baker. She made northern Italian delicacies—gnocchi, a potato-based pasta, and hand-rolled pasta—in her kitchen. There was a savory roast and vegetables with roasted potatoes, followed by a sponge cake, every Sunday after church. Lucy worked hard to provide for her family, but she didn’t let on to her three children how difficult their circumstances were in the years after Carlo died. My mother remembers the Christmas after her father died, when the Salvation Army brought a basket by, with a turkey, food staples, and candy for the kids. Lucy thanked them kindly, and then instructed them to take the basket to a family who truly needed it. I can only imagine the worry she faced every night when she went to sleep, alone in a country without any family, without a husband, with three small children to raise and a business to run.
    One of Lucy’s solutions to saving money was to do as much labor herself as possible, including the chores around the house. While her home was warm and inviting, it wasn’t fancy. She did not invest money or time in renovating, or buying the myriad of appliances that would make her life easier. When the children grew up, they did the maintenance, and my aunt Irma would paint the walls. I liked how Lucy lived, and in particular, I loved her bathroom.
    The bathroom was painted a cheery yellow with a skylight positioned over the pedestal sink. There was an artful sloped roof with an alcove at the far end, a deep white enamel tub on claw feet centered in it, with a silver hose and nozzle the size of a large shower head anchored on a stainless steel holder. I never saw another tub like that one until I went to Italy. I imagine Lucy never changed the tub into a mod shower because it reminded her of home—of Schilpario.
    Beyond the bathroom, there were two rooms at the back of the building—Lucy’s bedroom on the far side, and opposite it, a workroom that could have easily been a fourth bedroom. Luckily Lucy had twin girls and one son, so three bedrooms was plenty. The workroom had windows along one wall. In the center of the room was a white enamel wringer washing machine, which Lucy operated herself. The deep drum of the washer would fill with water from a wide hose attached to the wall. Lucy would add detergent to the water first. The clothes would swirl around, and then, after a lengthy rinse, Lucy would put each individual item of clothing through the wringer, which looked like two metal rolling pins with a hand crank on the side.
    Once the garment was put through the wringer, she’d snap it and place it on a hanger or over a rack, a series of wooden dowels along the wall. The laundry process had a Zen quality to it. Even though the work took muscle and concentration, she reveled in it. I often think of her, and how she applied the same effort to her sewing as she did to mundane tasks. All of her work, regardless of its nature, seemed to bring her a sense of satisfaction. She didn’t fight against duty or chores or hard work. There wasn’t any resentment around her obligations, I never heard any complaints. She moved in harmony with her chores, as if having a purpose and being useful was its own brand of art.
    Because of the wringer washer, Lucy’s home was always filled with the fresh scents of clean camphor, bleach, and a touch of peppermint. There was no clothes dryer, so everything that was washed was hung and then pressed. Lucy left the windows open in the workroom, as the air helped dry the clothing