Hurricane Irene: Nonno's Preparations

My father-in-law would do anything for me, but not too much for his house. It's similar to the way I am with money. Maybe he buried something from years ago and simply cannot/will not do any home improvements. I've been emailing him pictures of the flooding in the basement all year every time it rains. He never cared. At all. And today with the onset of the hurricane, he again avoided any obligation and/or instinct to try to do something to avoid flooding.   

Hurricane Irene: Bunkered Down

Irene might have her way with the two houses of the Compound. There is a real possibility that the roof might at least partially tear off of Zia's house next door, and the windows of our bedroom here at my in-law's house, already cracked, might not hold up. So tonight my husband and I, and our kids, will sleep crammed into the middle bedroom in a bunk bed and crib, and if something does happen to Zia's roof, we'll have five more housemates starting tomorrow.

A Plant Grows in Queens

The true grit of this tomato plant growing at the base of a drainpipe inside the Compound stirs my heart.

Locked Out

About a month after we moved in, my father-in-law began locking the door to his bedroom. Can't blame him. His grandchildren barge in at all hours often at his son's suggestion and he hates to sleep in pajamas. The side-effect is that my mother-in-law gets locked out of her own bedroom, a lot.  

Little Korean Neighbor

Three days ago my kids befriended a cute little Korean boy from down the block. They have been playing with him every possible second since then. He circles the street on his bike waiting for an invitation to come inside the gate of the Compound. When we got home from a soccer clinic today, his bike was lying outside the gate but we found him inside the house playing with hot wheels. 

Nonno's Soccer Practice

On the first nice evening of the year, glorious things happened in the little side yard on the corner of the Compound. Nonno's moves are not to be missed.  

First Time at the House

The first time I walked up the stoop in front of this house, a big yellow lab was frantically scratching the paint off of the inside of the door. A beautiful brunette child with a familiar smile opened the front door. The dog was jumping, desperate to get to us. The little girl, my husband's youngest sister, was 12 years old at the time. Her unabashed adoration for her big brother was a refreshing change from the drama and complications of my life at Harvard. 


We walked inside and the kisses started. Kisses, kisses, kisses and hugs. And noise. Voices. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, smiling, chatting, and laughing. Warm tantalizing aromas wafted from the kitchen at the back of the house. There was soccer on the TV, the commentators spewing out words like a professional auctioneer. 


We turned to the couch and my husband gingerly presented me to his mother's aged parents. After taking in the profound frailty of Nonno and then the quick spunk of Nonna I was escorted along again. I sat down at the table in the kitchen for the very first time. 


My husband's three younger siblings, a few teammates including some cousins, and their father were all wearing muddy soccer clothes, shinguards and soccer socks, having just arrived from their various soccer practices.


The little sister that greeted us at the front door, started mashing strawberries into her glass of orange juice, staring at me, talking straight at me while everyone else was talking in alternate trajectories. She was inviting me to sleep in her room. 


I was given a water in a cute little glass that was shaped like a boot. I raised the glass to my lips and a bubble from the toe of the boot slipped loose, splashing water up into my nose and eyes. Everyone burst out laughing. 


His little sister continued talking to me for the rest of the night. Terrified of hurting her feelings, I tried and tried and tried to stay awake until she was done talking but I did eventually pass out. 

Through the Door

Hours before my sister-in-law's wedding we were next door at Zia's house. My toddler son wandered into Zia's bedroom, shut the door, and locked it. Calmly, we tried to help him unlock the door and free himself. The house, teeming with two dozen color coordinated bridesmaids and groomsmen, quickly grew claustrophobic for the first and only time. 


After exhausting everyone's ideas about how to get the door open or off it's hinges, our son started to get agitated on the other side of the door and he began to cry. That spurred my husband into action. He backed up the length of the little hallway and charged at the door, driving his knee clean through. The hole was big enough to pull the little guy out. The crowd below cheered. 


The unfortunate result however was that after the damaged door was removed, it's replacement took some time getting into place. With extra people living in her little house constantly, Zia's pittance of privacy was obliterated. I saw her naked shortly thereafter.

Manicomio

The first time I felt comfortable enough to answer the phone at my in-laws house, the uncle on the other end of the line said, "Ciao, é questo il manicomio?" which I later found out means, "Hey, is this the insane asylum?"  

Lights Out

I adore my father-in-law. He can do no wrong in my eyes, but he is not what anyone would call "handy" around the house. If a light bulb goes out, it stays out. When all the lights are finally dark in the house and no one can see anymore, someone who doesn't live there but can't take it anymore changes all the bulbs.  


My father-in-law had a guy he paid to do work around the house once in a while. Whatever work this guy did he did with one hand, cigarette in the other, even when he was up on a ladder.  

Last summer before we moved into their house, the fifty-year-old oil furnace in the basement exploded, leaving a dark smelly sooty paste on every surface of the house. Forced to move out of their house, they moved into Zia's house next door. With my sister-in-law and her family already living there, they set up camp in the family room on the pull out. 


My younger brother-in-law made an admittedly strange decision to spend one night there with the whole crew.  He slept on the love seat in the family room next to the pull out. He said his father wasn't afraid to sleep in his regular pajamas, which are tight and white, and you know what?  Sometimes, I fart all night long too.

The Compound

My husband and I and our three kids live with my Italian immigrant in-laws in Flushing, Queens. The house has three bedrooms all on the second floor. My in-laws have their bedroom at the back of the house. My husband and I have his sisters' old room at the front of the house, and our three kids are in the middle room that he used to share with his brother. The house is bursting its seams and I am happier now than I was when we were living in our custom built four bedroom house a few miles east. 


Right next door to my in-law's house is Zia's house. Zia, which means Aunt in Italian, is my mother-in-law's elder sister. She defines old school. Tragically widowed shortly after her wedding day, Zia has no children of her own and not once in all the years since did it occur to her to remarry. And one interesting tidbit that you'll just have to take my word for, is that Zia has dreams that foretell the sex of babies. Really.  


The elder of my husband's two sisters and her family live next door with Zia. They have been there for a couple of years saving money to buy a house of their own. Their stay, like ours, has been prolonged because of the current economy. 


Right after we moved in, my father-in-law did something very out of character. He made a home improvement. He found someone to come and replace the old chain link fence that went partially around his property with a professionally built shiny black aluminum fence. He insisted that the new fence be totally child-proof so his five young grandchildren would be safe running and playing between the two houses. Nonno gets the credit for creating the Compound on 189th Street.