Play Jimmy Roselli: Excerpt

My mother was the youngest of five siblings. Aunt Rose, her only sister, was the oldest. We spent a great deal of time with Aunt Rose and Uncle Fred and their daughters Louise and Francis. It seemed as if we were at their apartment in Corona, Queens every Sunday after dinner. First church, then macaroni and meatballs, then the cemetery, then the visit. Sundays had a ritualistic feel capped by the feeling of dread about school the next day as the day wore on.

I paid attention to the conversations since there was nothing else to do. The conversations were usually of things that happened in the past. Of more current concern were such issues as to who could look at a woman’s body. “Only my husband could see me in a nightgown” was a common quip. One subject for debate was whether it was okay for a doctor to look at a woman. This seemed to be a great concern. They usually settled on such bits of wisdom such as “when a doctor looks at you, he is not a man.” That made them feel better, I guess.

That family liked me since I was so polite and so I was included in the conversations. They often played music which, of course, meant Italian-American singers. That family loved Dean Martin. “Look at his picture,” Aunt Rose would say holding up the album cover, “he is sooo handsome.” The album of choice was anything that had Italian favorites like “On an Evening in Roma,” “Return to Sorrento,” or his big hit “That’s Amore.” The latter is only song I could remember that contained the words “Pasta Fazool.” As great as fellow paisan Frank Sinatra was, he didn’t sing Italian songs, or American songs with Italian words or references. But when Dino sang, he was one of us…