Happy National Puzzle Day! or, My Love Affair with Double-Crostics

Today, January 29, is my birthday, and it is also National Puzzle Day, and therefore a propitious time to write about my love for the double-crostic puzzle, specifically New York Times double-crostic puzzles, now called (to my mind incorrectly) the "Acrostic." I prefer to refer to these puzzles by a name previously used by the Times, the Kingsley Double-Crostic, in that they were invented by Elizabeth Kingsley (more on Ms. Kingsley later) who christened them double-crostics. I learned while researching this post that they have not been called Kingsley Double-Crostics for more than 50 years, since April 1972, when I was 15. I don't care.

My love of the the double-crostic even received a shout-out in our most recent holiday letter:

[Maria's] favorite left-brain activity is tackling those dastardly Sunday New York Times acrostic puzzles, which her father, who completed hundreds, maybe thousands, over his lifetime, taught her to do more than 50 years ago. (That she and Dan completed one of these puzzles only weeks after they started dating was an early sign they were meant for each other!).

(I used the hated "acrostic" in our letter only because that is what the Times currently calls it and didn't want to confuse people.) 

I actually saved that first double-crostic Dan and I worked together. While I can't tell you exactly what day we did it, I can tell you that our first date was on May 4, 1984, and this puzzle is from the May 20, 1984 New York Times Magazine. Whether the romantic nature of doing that puzzle together had anything to do with it, let the record reflect that Dan proposed to me before the month was out. 

 Anyway, before I go any further, what exactly is a double-crostic??? It's a puzzle with two parts. The upper part looks like a crossword puzzle, with a space for each letter numbered consecutively. The bottom half of the puzzle contains clues where each letter in the clue's answer is numbered, requiring the puzzler to transfer that letter to the crossword puzzle part in the space with the corresponding number. The crossword puzzle part, when filled in, will be a quote, and (this is the actual acrostic part) the first letter of each clue will spell out the author and the title of the work from which the quote is taken.

For example, in the puzzle above that Dan and I completed all these many years ago, Clue T is Decreasing, diminishing (3 words), and the answer turns out to be on the wane. The "O" in on has the number 132 beneath it, so "O" goes in numbered space 132 in the puzzle; the "N" goes in space 36 and so on. And the quote came from a 1945 essay by "J[ames] Thurber, Lady on the Bookcase"). This puzzle is definitely in my handwriting, and I can still see us, sitting side by side by the pool at my apartment complex, both thinking and talking, working on it, me writing. 

As mentioned, my father, a lifelong devotee of Times crossword puzzles as well as double-crostics, taught me how to do both. My memory is that back in the day there were two puzzles on the weekly Sunday puzzle page, the regular crossword, and then either the double-crostic, Puns and Anagrams ("a variety cryptic crossword that relies heavily on wordplay, hidden words, and anagrams" created for many years by Mel Taub who just died this past September at the age of 97) or the Diagramless crossword. Dad also taught me to do Puns and Anagrams, but I can't remember whether he did the Diagramless as well. In any event, I recently learned that he also taught our son Quentin how to do double-crostics when, after reading a draft of our holiday letter, Quentin took issue where I had written that his grandfather did those puzzles "always in ink." Quentin remonstrated, saying that Papa had specifically told him that while he did standard crossword puzzles in ink (to discourage possible wrong guesses), he recommended doing double-crostics in pencil, as there would inevitably be changes and errors. This speaks to how difficult double-crostics can be, if my father would deign to use a pencil. 

But who taught my father? I know that he told me that Ben Strumpf, the father of the family who rented the second floor of 19th North 10th Avenue after my grandfather died, when my father was still a boy, introduced him to The New York Times in general, so maybe he also got Dad hooked on its crossword puzzles and double-crostics? Or someone else, but who? Possibly one of his older brothers like Lou or Charlie? Or did he just discover the puzzle on his own? Ben Strumpf's only child, Emmanuel, "Manny," who Dad was very close to and who remained in touch with me after my father died, passed away a couple of years ago, so that question will likely remain forever unanswered. Regardless, whenever I am working on a double-crostic I find myself simultaneously feeling very close to my father and also really missing him. I recently found a large envelope in my father's handwriting reading “NY Times crostics, 11-22-98 to 8-26-2012.” In it are a slew of puzzles, each with the date of completion and a number -- apparently Dad kept track of how many puzzles he did. The last number appears to be 896, although I don’t know what year he started keeping track.

Double-crostics are challenging -- "dastardly" as I wrote in our holiday letter -- and their time-consuming complexity is partly why I love them so much. Sometimes you just flat-out know the answer to a clue ( "____ Stephens, 1960s housewife with a twitchy nose": SAMANTHA). Sometimes you think you might have the clue solved so you check to see if the letters go in logical places before filling it in: if H will be in the middle of a three-letter word, it's probably THE and you're likely home free; but say it would be the first letter of a word where the second letter is "P." A word starting with HP? Houston, we have a problem (although now and then a quirky letter combination will turn out to be right). You might check to see whether you accidentally put the "P" in the wrong space, which does happen with surprising regularity when you are transcribing 170-something letters per puzzle. It's this back-and-forth that I enjoy.  A clue where the answer is likely a plural? Maybe I'll try filling in the "S" only and see if that helps me guess a word of the quote once I transfer it to the crossword section.  Or let's say I've got enough of the quote that I think a particular word is likely a verb and the last letter is "D" - probably a past tense verb and the letter before "D" must be "E." Bit by bit the quote is taking shape. Bit by bit the author and name of the work is being filled in. 

Then, finally, there's that wonderful lightbulb moment where several partly filled-in words suddenly coalesce into a phrase. __ __N  __RA__ __I__CO is SAN FRANCISCO! And that phrase might then help you figure out the theme of the quote. The quote in question was indeed about San Francisco, and knowing that helped in eventually solving the puzzle. In another puzzle the lightbulb went off for Dan: THE M__ __ __ A__KING OF __I__ __AEL __AC__SO__ is THE MOONWALKING OF MICHAEL JACKSON! Then you take the new letters you just filled into the quote in the crossword section and put them down in the clue section. You know where to put each letter because each square in the quote has a letter and a number in tiny print in the top corners. The "M" square in MICHAEL JACKSON has A and 17. So an "M" goes below in Clue A  above the number 17 which happens to be the first letter of the word. It's a five-letter word, starting with M, and the clue is "Relative of salsa." I had been thinking tango, but no, it must be MAMBO! So now I take the letters I just filled in to make MAMBO and put them up in the quote. Like I said, back and forth, bit by bit. So satisfying. Well, if you're like me it is. It occurs to me that this explanation may be somewhat or even completely incomprehensible. What can I say? I already told you double-crostics are complex. They sometimes even contain words, both in the quote or in the clues, that neither of us has ever heard of -- INUPIAQ, AMPHIGORY, LOGOPHILE, PHUDNIK -- which must be filled in painstakingly, letter by letter.

Here is the most recent double-crostic I completed, along with Dan, from the January 25, 2026 NYT Magazine:

This puzzle (which contained the above-mentioned PHUDNIK in the quote) had an additional fun twist courtesy of the puzzlemakers: a number of the clues pertain to the theme of the quote. SCHLOCK? TV host born with the surname Leibowitz? LATKE? This puzzle must have something to do with Jews or Judaism! So could N __ __ __ IK possibly be the Yiddish word NUDNIK? Oh yes it could! And the quote turned out to be from a book by the late Leo Rosten, expert in all things Yiddish, The Joys of Yinglish. 

Dan and I usually work on these puzzles together for a while and when he, the early bird, goes to bed, I, the night owl, finish them up -- unless I can't, as it often takes us a few days to complete a puzzle, adamant closed-book double-crostic aficionados that we are. Although almost every puzzle contains clues that could be solved with a quick Google search: "Capital of Kazakhstan"? ASTANA; “Stepmother’s cat in Disney's Cinderella”? LUCIFER, we are purists and refuse to do so. We do, however, soften this rigid stance with a house rule: if one of us is pretty sure we know the correct answer to a clue, we allow ourselves to use the Internet to confirm it before filling it in. 

I can't imagine who is still reading this extremely geeky post (nothing like listening to someone rag on about their passion while the reader's eyes glaze over), but I can't wrap it up without talking about Elizabeth Seelman Kingsley (1871-1957), who singlehandedly invented the double-crostic. Kingsley attended a Wellesley College reunion in the early 1930s where she was dismayed to learn that students were embracing "20th century scribblers" like James Joyce and Gertrude Stein. According to her New York Times obituary, she went home to Brooklyn and conjured up a puzzle that, in her words "stimulated the imagination and heightened the appreciation by reviewing classical English and American poetry and prose masters." In a mere six months she churned out a staggering 99 double-crostics and upon the suggestion of a friend submitted some to The Saturday Review, who promptly contracted with her for a series of these puzzles, the first appearing in 1934. Nine years later, in 1943, Kingsley’s creations also started appearing in the New York Times. While other writers have taken over creating these puzzles, starting with Kingsley's trusty assistant Doris Nash Wortman in 1953, they continue to appear in the Times to the present day, once every two weeks, in the Times' magazine section. The current creators, David Balton and Jane Stewart, are a married couple who surprised each other with a gift of a homemade double-crostic on their first wedding anniversary. (Now why didn’t Dan and I think of that?!) You can read more about David and Jane and and a whole lot more about New York Times double-crostics at the NYT Acrostics website. And of course you can now do these puzzles online but I don't see myself converting from the print version any time soon.  

A 2020 Times article described the double-crostic puzzle as “a bit unsung. . . compared with its more mainstream relative, the crossword, but its fans are passionate.” Count me among those passionate fans! 

  

Two Short Poems

Nature

Does not care

What is going on in the world

Implacable she

Unfolds the buds

I love the stones that lie between

my daughter's house

and mine

Oh Be Mine, Valentine!

The February 1993 issue of Bon Appetit magazine (to which I lovingly subscribed for many years) featured a recipe for Valentine Lollipops. I was instantly smitten. In addition to white and bittersweet chocolate, the recipe included four other “ingredients:” plastic lollipop molds, lollipop sticks, cellophane bags, and ribbon. A note at the end of the recipe said the special items were available from a shop in California, Jane's Cakes and Chocolates. In those pre-internet days, I called Jane’s on the telephone the very next day, from my desk at work, and ordered them – except, maybe, for the ribbon. I think I bought that here in Durham.

At the time our children were 4 and 5 1/2, the perfect ages, I thought, for participating in chocolate lolly-making. And they were easy to make, really just melt the chocolate and spoon it into the molds, and they looked so darn cute once you slipped them into those little bags and tied them with ribbon. I can't remember how many we made that first year or who we gave them to, but making Valentine’s lollipops became an annual ritual. I ordered additional molds so we could make batches of 16 pops at a clip. And at some point we started making enough so that on Valentine's Day evening my daughter and I could drive around Durham delivering them to friends -- what fun that was! We did this for many years, but the children grew up and the molds and whatever sticks, bags, and ribbon were left over were stored in the basement, where they sat for years, unused.

 As Valentine's Day approached this year, with our grandsons JB, Vinny, and Danny 4 1/2, 4 1/2, and 2 1/2, I had a yearning for the old tradition and thought it would be fun to resurrect it. I told JB about it recently and asked if he was interested in making some and unsurprisingly got a resounding yes! I refreshed my supply of sticks and bags and bought some white and dark chocolate. (Jane's had closed its California location in 2021 after 41 years and moved to Tennessee, reopening as Jane's Cakes and Baking Supply, but it didn't appear that the new store does mail order, so I resorted to Amazon.) But most wonderfully, before I had a chance to share my plans with my daughter, she told me that she had such happy memories of making the chocolate lollipops together and wondered if I might start doing it with her boys this year. Great minds think alike, I told her. I already have everything ready to roll!

 My plan was to make them this past weekend with all three boys since Vinny was coming to visit, but unfortunately he had a cold and the special overnight was postponed. Still, today, two days before Valentine’s Day 2024, with JB and Danny and daughter Dino, husband Dan looking on, those cute plastic molds I got back in 1993 were once again eagerly filled with melted chocolate by little hands. There was no fussing with toothpicks to make perfect black and white swirls, especially since we had a two-year-old in the mix, but that did not matter. They were engaged and happy, but not as happy as I was to see this sweet tradition revived. And Vinny will come over soon, and a few days after the 14^th should be fine to make these tokens of affection, because, well, it’s never too late for a little love now, is it?

An Afternoon in Chapel Hill

After a long weekend of warm, sunny October days, with the leaves finally revealing their autumn colors, Monday promised to be equally balmy and beautiful, before cooler weather sets in for Halloween, All Saints and All Souls Day, November. 

A good day, then, to meet a new friend for coffee in Carrboro and then run errands in Chapel Hill, including going to UNC's Davis Library to check out a book that is not available in Durham County. I deliberately parked downtown so I would need to walk through campus to get to the library. The point I pick to enter campus is a veritable allée of ginkgo trees, their yellow leaves illuminated by the dazzling sunshine.

I passed by a bright-red sculpture I had not seen before, designed to memorialize protests that preceded the removal of "Silent Sam," a bronze statue of a Confederate soldier that stood on campus for more than a century before it was toppled by protesters and then removed in 2108.  (Protests against the presence of the monument began as early as the 1960s, but really picked up steam and determination during the Black Lives Matter movement.) I just read that a tree has been planted in the spot where Sam stood vigil to The Lost Cause all those many years; next time I'm on campus I need to stop by there. "Forward Together, Not One Step Back!"

Walking across campus is an exercise in nostalgia. UNC, the nation's first public university, is where I went to law school, where my husband got his bachelors, masters, and law degrees, where our two children both went to college, and where I worked at the law school's career office from 2005 to 2022. I pass by The Old Well, the iconic symbol of the university modeled on the Temple of Love at Versailles. It's no longer a well of course, but a fountain, where a sip is supposed to bring luck in the form of good grades (many line up on the first day of classes for this purpose). I don't need those grades any more, but took a drink anyway. You never know when you might need some extra luck.

The law school has been located just off main campus since the late 1960's but before that it was in Manning Hall, right in the heart of the quad. And it was up those stairs and through those doors, on the morning of June 11, 1951, when Harvey Beech and J. Kenneth Lee walked into Manning Hall to register for summer school at the University of North Carolina School of Law, becoming the university's first Black students. Photographer Alex Rivera captured this moment in time with a vibrant and powerful picture -- I hope this link works so you can see it for yourself. 

Beech went on to become the first Black graduate not just of the law school but of the university itself. In 2004, near the end of his life, he was too ill to attend an awards ceremony, and asked a friend to deliver these words: “Use love to move up and on. Use love, not hate, to make a better world. . ..”

I arrive at Davis Library and take the elevator up to the 8th floor, accompanied by seven young women, some of whom are Black. Thank you, Harvey Beech, and Kenneth Lee, for opening those doors.

To a lifelong reader and English major what is more familiar, more wonderful than finding oneself in the peace and quiet of the stacks of a university library? What treasures await therein!

And then there's the moment when you spy the book you are looking for, in this case Tina De Rosa's Paper Fish, a 1980 novel set in Chicago’s Little Italy during the 1940s and 50s. It was republished by The Feminist Press in 1996, the edition which is sitting on the top shelf and which I check out.

I always love seeing this sign at the library exit. Makes me think of the young adult novel, a favorite of mine as a child, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, where the heroine, Claudia, plots to run away from home and hide out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, along with her little brother.

The way back through campus to my car was equally lovely.

As I approached my parking spot I walked by what was once the location of Spanky's restaurant, a hangout beloved by many UNC students and townspeople too. Great food, great atmosphere. Before it closed in 2018, after more than 40 years on Franklin Street, founder Mickey Ewell said that “people drove all the way from Washington [D.C.], Charlotte and all different parts of the country to have a last meal” there. I vividly remember sitting in my favorite spot when I could get it, the front window, perfect for people-watching, with my friend and roommate Sandy as we each drank a cold beer and dipped salty potato chips in mustard. No really, yummy! And when I worked at the law school and someone wanted to meet me for lunch, Spanky’s was always high on my list. But alas, even the southern restaurant that replaced Spanky’s is now gone and a chicken finger chain with disposable everything is slated to open next week.

I'm back at my car, the words of a favorite poem, Gerard Manley Hopkins’ Spring and Fall: To a Young Child, floating through my head on this beautiful, nostalgic autumn day.

Márgarét, áre you gríeving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leáves like the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Ah! ás the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you wíll weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What heart heard of, ghost guessed:

It ís the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

Marinara: A Labor (Day) of Love

It's Labor Day weekend, and I'm making some marinara sauce to which I will add cubed eggplant (salted, pressed, and drained) to make Zoodles alla Norma – a simplified low-carb spiralized zucchini version of Pasta alla Norma. (Simplified: no separate frying of the eggplant and no ricotta salata. . .hmmm, sounds like I need to make the real deal one of these days!) Naturally, I start by sautéing some finely chopped onion in olive oil, to which minced garlic will be added shortly before the tomatoes – pomodori pelati – and tomato paste. (An aside: why do so many recipes instruct you to add onions and garlic to the pan at the same time? Garlic is so vulnerable to being overcooked, turning bitter, and even burning; it should only be added when the onions are just about ready for the tomatoes or other ingredients. My mother taught me this and I reinforced it endlessly with my own two children.)

Anyway, when I finally did add the garlic, when the onions were nicely translucent, and smelled the familiar fragrance of onions and garlic gently cooking in olive oil, I suddenly had a rush of emotion thinking about all the women in my family who had stood over a pot or a pan smelling that same unmistakable aroma. I kept thinking about this as I added basil and pepper and a pinch of sugar and later, the eggplant, and let it simmer. As I mentally ticked off the names of the women in the Mangano and Landino families, I realized I had forgotten the first names of two of my great-grandmothers. Thanks to my brother Joe's laborious genealogical efforts (laborious because it was all done pre-Internet), I quickly looked them up in my copies of the extremely limited edition spiral-bound books he put together.

So I salute each of them, on Labor Day weekend, these women in my family, their hard work unpaid and often unacknowledged, who stood over the stove making sauce, starting with that trio of olive oil, onions, and garlic: my mother Eleanor, her sister Maria, my grandmothers Jennie (née Giovannina) and Maria, my maternal great-grandmothers Maria and Sylvestra, paternal Francesca and Annunziata, my father's five sisters, born Rosina, Francesca, Teresina, Maria, and Carmella, but known to one and all as Rosie, Frances, Tessie, Mary, and Connie.

I wish my grandmother Maria had not died before I was born, or that I had been encouraged to cook with Grandma Jennie – my parents were trying so hard to become more Americanized back when I was a child. I have but a single memory of being with her in the kitchen at Chester Street, maybe I was ten or so, while she cut an onion telling me “Taglia, taglia, fine, fine!” Cut it, cut it, small, small!

Although marinara or Norma sauce can easily be made without a written recipe – and indeed, only one of my grandmothers was literate, and I assume none of my great-grandmothers were – I was working from a recipe from David Ruggerio’s lovely (lots of stories and reminisces) Little Italy Cookbook.  

And dinner, enjoyed like so many dinners by Dan and me, was delicious. Mangiamo, everyone! Let's eat!

 

The 75th Anniversary of my Father's College Graduation

 The Graduate

Today, June 1, 2023, is the 75th anniversary of my father's 1948 graduation from Columbia University. The significance of this event in his own life and the life of his larger family cannot be overstated. His parents immigrated from Calabria in 1899 and 1905. His father was barely literate – I am told he could haltingly make out the headlines of the Italian newspaper Il Progresso; however, on legal documents he signed his name with an “X.” I presume if you can only write one thing, it would be your name. His mother was illiterate, never having attended school at all. Dad had nine older siblings. Three of his sisters did not go to high school; in fact, I believe his oldest sister only went through 6th grade. The other six graduated from high school. All this was a great educational leap forward compared to their parents, their ancestors, but college and then medical school to fulfill a dream of becoming a doctor? How to make this happen to a poor boy born in a tenement, whose father died on the job when he was eight, and whose mother could not read or write? How to figure out what to do? Dad said he and his best friend Howie Cohen (whose parents were also immigrants, European Jews) discussed where to apply to college, of course assuming they would remain in New York. He said they had heard Colombia was good, maybe the best, and they decided to also apply to NYU.  Dad ended up at Columbia, Howie – who subsequently went to law school and became a federal judge – at NYU.

Dad wrote about the year 1945, the year he graduated from high school and started college. He had this to say about getting admitted to Columbia and his first day of classes:

During all this [the last days of World War II in Europe], I had applied to Columbia College and was scheduled for a College Entrance examination on May 4 – a Friday. During the examination at Columbia there was an interruption and announcement that German forces had surrendered in Denmark – a roar erupted – we all stood and applauded it for at least 5 minutes. Then we were told to proceed with the examination. . . . . .

On May 14^th . . . I had my interview at Columbia. My interviewer was Bernard Ireland – Bursar of the University. The interview went well – he was pleased with my record. I thought I’d have a summer off but he insisted that I start Summer session on July 2, 1945, since the Japanese War was still raging and my 18^th birthday was only 6 months away. High School graduation was June 25^th – so I had exactly 1 week to make the transition.

May and June 1945 passed rapidly. My concern over the Pacific War was growing. My college career would be interrupted – my mother was sick at heart to see her youngest might have to go off and fight in the war.

Monday, July 2, 1945 – A hot summer day. My first day of pre-med. I arose about 5:50 AM and prepared myself for the trip – by subway to B’way and 11th St for my first class. 8 AM - Humanities class – a must for all freshmen and sophomores – part of the core curriculum. . . .

 And so it began.

The Diploma

The precious document looks slightly warped under the glass. Is it actual sheepskin? It is in Latin, and my two years of high school study did not equip me to translate it. Fortunately, a translation is available online:

We, The Trustees of Columbia University
In The City Of New York, Formerly King's College,
Present Our Greetings To Each And Every One
To Whom This Document May Come. We Inform You That
[Graduate's Name]
Has Duly And Lawfully Completed All
Requirements Appropriate To The Degree Of
Bachelor Of Arts
And Has Accordingly Been Advanced To That
Degree With All Rights, Privileges And Honors
Customarily Pertaining Thereto.
In Fuller Testimony Of This Action, We Have Ensured That The Signatures Of The President
Of The University And Of The Dean Of Columbia College
As Well As Our Common Seal Be Affixed To This Diploma.
Done At New York On The [Day & Month]
In [The Year].

The diploma attests that a Bachelor of Arts was conferred on Joseph Anthony Mangano on the first day of June 1948:

“DIE PRIMO” – the first day

“MENSIS IVNII” – of the month of June (Latin “Junii” – with an “I” for the J, and a “V” for the U)

“ANNOQVE DOMINI MILLESIMO NONGENTESIMO QVADRAGESIMO OCTAVO” – AD 1948

The diploma is signed by the dean of the college, Harry Carman, and acting president Frank Fackenthal. Fackenthal was preceded by the longest-serving Columbia president, Nicholas Murray Butler, who was in office from 1902 to 1945. Butler, who was born in 1862, resigned in October 1945 (at the behest of the trustees as he was 83 and nearly blind), which means when my father began his studies at Columbia in the summer of 1945 its president was someone who was born during the Civil War! And on June 7, 1948, six days after Dad graduated, Dwight D. Eisenhower became Columbia’s president. Ike served as president until January 19, 1953, when he resigned the day before his inauguration as president of the United States.

The Photographs

My father’s oldest brother, my Uncle Dinny, who was 20 years older than dad and a lifelong bachelor, assumed a paternal role when their father died. My understanding is that Uncle Dinny attended the graduation but I don't believe my grandmother did. I'll have to ask my siblings and cousins to see if anyone remembers. But the two photographs taken that day make one thing clear: the entire family – my grandmother Maria Mangano, Dad’s nine brothers and sisters and their spouses and children – gathered at 19 N 10th Ave. in Mount Vernon, in the kitchen, to eat, drink, and celebrate dad’s achievement. 

The first picture is of my father, his mother, and his brothers and sisters. Grandma Maria is seated in the front row in the center, between four of her daughters, my aunts Tessie, Rosie, Frances, and Mary. In the back row on the far left is my father, only 20 years old, a hint of a smile on his face, and next to him, my aunt Connie and my uncles Lou, Dinny, Frankie, and Charlie.

The other picture shows most of the extended family around the table. My cousin Angelo and Uncle Louie are holding Columbia pennants aloft. My dad stands in the back in between his nephews Benny and Anthony, again smiling modestly but with unmistakable pride. Seated in the front at the left of the table are my Uncle Charlie and his wife Kay, eight months pregnant with my cousin Charlie. In 1974, Charlie would graduate from medical school at the University of Rochester and become the next physician in the family! I’m not sure who took the picture, maybe my Uncle David Fusco, or someone from the Strumpf family, who lived upstairs?

Dad would start medical school in the fall of 1950 at New York Medical College, like Columbia, in New York City, and receive his MD degree in 1954. He fulfilled his dream, practicing medicine for 57 years, and encouraging his children and then his grandchildren in their own educational pursuits. I, his daughter, remain in awe of what he accomplished in his life, and on that first day of June in 1948.

 

My Grandfather James Landino, 125 years today

On this day 125 years ago, February 19, 1898, my maternal grandfather James Landino was born about 30 miles northeast of Naples, in the village of Faicchio. He Americanized his given name, Vincenzo, to James after arriving at Ellis Island in 1915 and was thereafter known as Jim. Despite only having a couple of years of schooling, Jim always managed to find jobs that did not require much formal education but allowed him to dress up and take full advantage of his gregarious personality: barber, liquor salesman, real estate agent. My brother Joe and I were his first two grandchildren, and he doted on us. He had a serious stroke when I was four, and died the following year, in March 1962, when I had just turned five. What passes for my memories of Grandpa Jim are an amalgamation of true memory, things my parents, especially my mother, told me, and photographs. I have, however, always had a very strong sense of how much he loved me and how that love remains a part of me to this day.

Classic James Landino, nattily dressed, visiting who else but his daughter Eleanor and her family. I love the confident pose! (Taken at 19th N. 10th Avenue in Mt. Vernon, the house my father grew up in from the age of six, and where I lived until I was three).


Another picture obviously from that same day. My brother Joe, me (is that a diaper peeking out from under my heavily starched party dress?), my Aunt Maria, and Grandpa.


Christmas 1957, back in the day when you didn’t know a camera strap was in a picture until after it was developed. I’m about 11 months old, and as usual, mom has me decked out in a fancy seasonal dress. I love the way my grandfather is looking at me.


Well, this made me cry. It’s the letter my grandfather wrote to my parents the day he learned I had been born (in Germany, when my dad was doing his two year stint in the Army, and the news arrived in New York via telegram). Carissimi figli --Dearest children, it reads, you cannot imagine our joy in receiving your telegram, that now you have a baby girl and all has gone well. He says he’s so happy he doesn’t know what to write, but sends a kiss to my brother, another to me, and one to my mother and her "husband Joe,” formally signing it “Your father James Landino.” Grandpa, I still have that kiss!