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!

Birthday Girl

The clock has just ticked midnight to my birthday, 66, unimaginable. Some birthdays I remember well, others are simply forgotten, like sedimentary rock, layer upon layer tightly pressed together, hard to identify one from the other, but somehow, all together, remembered or forgotten, they make me who I am.

But one birthday I do remember is my 7th birthday, in 1964. I have to admit I likely remember it mostly courtesy of a photograph taken that day, undoubtedly by my father, that sits on my bureau. I'm not sure why out of the many hundreds if not thousands of photographs taken of me or my family and friends over the years this one made the grade but somehow it did.

I'm sitting on the couch in the den at 495 North Columbus Avenue in Mount Vernon, my three-year-old sister Eleanor beside me and my mother next to her. My older brother Joe, Joey back then, also seven, is not in the picture. (No, we’re not twins, just baby-boomer-Catholic-spaced less than a year apart. Joe won't turn eight until February.) I'm opening a birthday card, and my sister is holding a gift-wrapped present I will momentarily open as well. It's all just so fabulously 1960s and every detail is memorably vivid to me, from the pumpkin color of the drapes to the apron my mother is wearing, to El and my haircuts with our fringe of bangs, the handiwork of mom. My mother was 31, and although she grayed early in life, here she still has her beautiful dark brown, almost black hair.

I'm wearing pearls and a little bracelet – pretty sure I got the bracelet for my 6th birthday – and my favorite fancy dress with its black velvet top and three-quarter length sleeves, a black-and-white plaid taffeta skirt and, the crowning touch, a red rose at the waist. (I still love wearing those colors and would buy that dress in a heartbeat today!) I am focused on my task, the task of opening the card, and also the task of growing up. I had been in kindergarten only the year before and put ahead to second grade "("skipping," we called it), where I quickly learned that kindergarten behavior would not cut it. On one of my first days in second grade, I raised my hand, and when called on, informed the class that I had been to the dentist the day before. My teacher, Mrs. Hartman, nodded and said quickly, “That's nice, Maria” and returned to the lesson. Shamed, I realized that in second grade you do not just babyishly share random information at any time. As I look at this photograph, it is clear by January I have made the transition to second grade behavior!

So what was in the box? That I remember with clarity! My first watch, with its yellow leather band and an accompanying ceramic figurine of Snow White. I had been looking longingly at the three Disney watches in the girls department at John Wanamaker's department store, each with its own cute little figurine of a Disney character: in addition to Snow White, there was the Cinderella model with its pink leather watchband, and Alice in Wonderland with a blue one. My new watch was the perfect gift, exactly what I'd hoped for! My mother or father showed me how to wind the watch, carefully, a task I religiously performed every night. Many years have passed since that day, and although the watch itself is long gone, I still have my little Snow White figurine, and, of course, memories.

 

 

Its Own Excuse for Being

On a late-morning walk today, I encountered this brilliant purple morning-glory, which I usually imagine as a vine twining around a porch post, but instead was in splendid isolation in a neighbor's side-garden. And right away a phrase from Ralph Waldo Emerson's poem The Rhodora popped into my head: "beauty is its own excuse for Being" (capitalization Mr. E's). 

We read The Rhodora early in the year in Mrs. Marion Beardsley's 8th grade Language Arts class at Riverside Junior High School, my first year in Springfield, Vermont. I was kind of in a daze of joy in those early days after moving to Vermont anyway -- you could see mountains from the classroom window! -- so I suspect I was especially primed for Emerson's, pardon the pun, flowery verse. 

I had never forgotten that line in the poem, I believe its most famous, but it had been a long time since I had read it in it entirety, which I went back home and did, being reminded of its full title when I did so: The Rhodora: On Being Asked, Whence is the Flower?

    In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
    I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
    Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
    To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
    The purple petals fallen in the pool
    Made the black water with their beauty gay;
    Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
    And court the flower that cheapens his array.
    Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
    This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
    Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
    Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
    Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
    I never thought to ask; I never knew;
    But in my simple ignorance suppose
    The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.

Not only did the poem, and my nerdy love for it, come back to me with shocking familiarity, I find it hard to believe that many middle school English classes would tackle such an old-fashioned work today. (I myself even had to look up the exact definition of whence: "from what place, source, or cause"). But then I think, this happened in 1969, and Mrs. Beardsley might have been, I don't know, in her 50s?, which meant she was likely born in the teens of the last century, so imagining what her own education was like, assigning a group of 12- and 13-year-olds a highbrow classic of the Transcendentalists must not have seemed strange at all.  

Mrs. Beardsley's class had a profound influence on me. We read Romeo and Juliet, my first Shakespeare; Mrs. Beardsley herself encouraged me to pursue writing my own poems, and thanks to this encouragement I began to think of myself as someone who might have a talent for writing.  Without doubt from that day to this the written word has occupied an important place in my life.

Beauty is its own excuse for Being. Over the years, although I only thought of the phrase from time to time, I never forgot Emerson's words and at some deep level they became my mantra. Beauty indeed is its own excuse for being; it needs no explanation, reason, or practical function. Such a belief has fueled my passionate interest in and love for art, poetry, literature, nature, and yes, flowers. 

Out of curiosity, I Googled Mrs. Beardsley, without much success, except for one serendipitous hit: from 1960 to 1961 she was president of the Springfield Garden Club. 

Mabel DeCarteret Hunt Slater and her Children: Deconstructing a Portrait

Below is a slightly revised version of an email I sent to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts about a painting in their collection. In these bleak political times, it felt good to immerse myself in this purely pleasurable research project -- I love the way there are so many stories silently embedded within this portrait. (I might have made a good art historian!)

During a visit to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond last week, I was drawn to Edmund C. Tarbell’s Mrs. Horatio Nelson Slater and Children, dated 1901.[i] There are times when I can’t resist Googling  the subjects of a painting, especially when, as here, it is a woman identified only by her husband’s name.

It didn’t take me long to conclude that the woman depicted in Tarbell’s painting is Mabel DeCarteret Hunt Slater[ii], the second wife of Horatio Nelson “Ray” Slater [iii] and thirty years his junior, along with their four children. (An image of the Tarbell painting was even added by someone to Mabel Slater’s Find a Grave entry.) Horatio Slater died in 1899, two years before this portrait was made. As indicated by his obituary[iv], Horatio Slater was a member of a wealthy New England textile manufacturing family;[v] his grandfather Samuel Slater built Slater Mill, the first cotton mill in America, in Pawtucket, Rhode Island [vi] in 1793. 

Ray and Mabel married in Bar Harbor, Maine, on September 17, 1891, when she was 26 and he was 56.[vii] A fascinating side story is that Mabel’s sister Enid married Samuel Slater, Ray’s son from his first marriage, at the same time Mabel married Ray – a father and son marrying sisters![viii] At the time of their nuptials, Enid was 29 and Samuel 30. They had no children and divorced about ten years later. Samuel died in Paris in 1932 and left his fortune to his housekeeper.[ix]

But back to the painting. Ray and Mabel’s four children – Esther Hunt “Hope” Slater, Ray’s namesake Horatio Nelson Slater, Mabel Ray Slater Murphy, and William Morris Hunt Slater – were born in 1892, 1893, 1895, and 1898 respectively and therefore would have been about nine, eight, six, and three at the time this portrait was painted. Little William, sitting on his mother's lap with his curls and white flounced dress, could be mistaken for a girl by 21^st century folks. Daughter Hope Slater has quite a story in her own right.[x] She married and divorced twice and resumed her maiden name. Her first husband, Benjamin “Sumner” Welles was connected to the Roosevelt family, rooming with Eleanor Roosevelt’s brother Hall at Groton, and serving as a page in FDR and Eleanor Roosevelt’s wedding in 1905. Welles was a closeted homosexual or bisexual who served in the Roosevelt administration as Under Secretary of State, resigning in 1943 after a scandal where he allegedly solicited sex from two Pullman porters.[xi]

The depiction of Mabel Slater in the painting reflects her station in life at the time. She is dressed entirely in black, with no jewelry or adornment, as befits her recently-widowed status. While the four children all look directly at the viewer, Mabel Slater has her eyes cast downward and an almost vacant expression on her face. Although her uncle, the famous American architect Richard Morris Hunt, is mentioned in the museum label [the item description next to the painting], also noteworthy is that she was the daughter of the prominent American painter William Morris Hunt, after whom her younger son William was obviously named.

Mabel Slater was a pretty remarkable person in her own right,[xii] who battled for ten years after her husband’s death to ultimately obtain possession of the Slater textile mills. Sadly, she was institutionalized the last twelve years of her life at the Craig House Sanitorium in Beacon, New York, the first privately-owned psychiatric hospital in America. There is a story there, too. Mabel Slater became the subject of a custody battle between her three surviving children (William, the youngest, died in 1916 at 17), who had her committed, and her siblings, who unsuccessfully took legal action to get her released.[xiii] ”I can’t hold out much longer. Take me away before I die,” she wrote her brother Paul Hunt in the early 1930s. A group of New England clubwomen even petitioned then-Governor of New York Franklin Roosevelt to free her, but he declined to intervene. Mabel Hunt Slater ultimately died at Craig House, passing away in 1942 at the age of 78. The Sanitarium, which closed in 1999, catered to the rich and famous (Zelda Fitzgerald and Marilyn Monroe spent time there, as well as JFK’s sister Rosemary after her botched lobotomy), and, to close on a note of irony, is currently being renovated as an upscale hotel.[xiv] Craig House back in the day:

Here is a portrait of Mabel Slater by John Singer Sargent http://www.artnet.com/artists/john-singer-sargent/portrait-of-mrs-mabel-hunt-slater-IORAFMHDEFcrdB5edN3X9w2 and a photograph of her that she gave to Isabella Stewart Gardner - https://www.gardnermuseum.org/experience/collection/34058.  There is also a rather somber passport photo of Slater in middle age posted on Find a Grave: 

It might be worth adding a little of this rich history to the museum label. And if you don’t, I certainly enjoyed exploring the history of the people in this painting and I hope whoever reads this does too!

 _______________________________

[i] https://vmfa.museum/piction/6027262-55297650/

[ii] https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/99212730/mabel-de_carteret-slater

[iii] https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/33231021/horatio-nelson-slater

[iv] From the "Springfield Republican," (Springfield, Massachusetts), 13 Aug 1899:

Horatio Nelson Slater Dead.

Millionaire Manufacturer of Boston and Webster Dies at Magnolia.

The death of Horatio Nelson Slater, the Webster millionaire mill owner, at Magnolia, was announced in a message received at Webster yesterday afternoon.

It plunged the entire town in mourning, as Mr. Slater was closely identified with the town's existence.

He was born in Providence in March, 1834 and was the son of the late John F. Slater. His grandfather was Samuel Slater, the first cotton manufacturer in this country and the founder of the town of Webster. Mr. Slater received his university education at Brown and in later years read law at Harvard. He came into possession of his fortune through the death of his uncle Samuel Slater, who willed him his entire wealth, thereby making him sole proprieter [sic] of four large mills, three located at Webster and one in
Wilkinsonville.... His wealth has been estimaed [sic] at over $10,000,000. His winter home was at Back Bay, Boston.

Mr. Slater was twice married, his first wife being Miss Elizabeth Vinton of Providence, by whom he had two children, Samuel of Boston and Mrs. Charles C. Washburn of Worcester, wife of the Worcester wire manufacturer.

Mrs. Slater died in 1880 and in 1891 he married Miss Mable Hunt, daughter of William Morris Hunt, the artist. Four children were born, all of whom survive.

The body will be taken to Webster for burial in the family lot at East Webster.

[v] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slater_family

[vi] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slater_Mill_Historic_Site

[vii] https://www.nytimes.com/1891/09/18/archives/united-in-marriage-horatio-n-slater-weds-miss-mabel-hunt-at-bar.html

[viii] https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/167294361/enid-dumeresq-slater

[ix] https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/163573610/samuel-slater

 https://backbayhouses.org/293-beacon/

[x] https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/167293023/esther-hunt-slater

[xi] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sumner_Welles

https://elisa-rolle.livejournal.com/2395917.html

[xii] https://www.newspapers.com/clip/14699456/mabel-hunt-slater-obit/ 

[xiii] https://www.newspapers.com/clip/14699456/mabel-hunt-slater-obit/

 https://www.newspapers.com/clip/55348500/mrs-slater-kept-by-her-son-at-craig/ 

[xiv] https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/zelda-fitzgerald-s-abandoned-sanatorium

https://www.timesunion.com/hudsonvalley/realestate/article/From-sanitarium-to-spa-Beacon-Craig-House-Tioranda-16499824.php

 

A Fig Tree on Knox Street

 

Since our daughter, son-in-law, and grandson Joseph, known as JB, live around the corner from Dan and me, it should come as no surprise that this short distance is walked frequently by all of us. About halfway between our two houses, at the edge of Luke and Laura's yard, right on the street, is a beautiful fig tree. The tree is not only beautiful, it is huge, towering perhaps 12 feet high, and in season produces abundant fruit, so abundant that the owners have kindly given us permission to pick and enjoy. 

Late last summer when the figs were ripe and the pandemic fully upon us, every time one of us walked by with then one-and-almost-a-half year old JB we picked one for him to eat. A perfectly ripe fig is a sweet treat and JB was definitely a fan. As fall approached and the figs were fewer and finally gone, as were the leaves, our daughter explained to JB that next spring there would be new leaves and new figs. I suspect he didn't really understand, but as we adults tend to do, we kept explaining. All through the winter whenever we walked by the tree with JB, we would stop and examine the bare branches and assure him that in the spring the leaves and the figs would return. 

As spring approached and JB neared his second birthday, we would examine the branches even more closely, looking for buds, and then one day, yes, can you see it JB?, the tiniest suggestion of a bud, brown, at the tip of the branches. After that nearly every day we would check for any growth of the buds, however slight. Since the tree's branches nearly touch the ground, JB, who by now almost always walked to our house and didn't need the stroller, could see for himself. But it was slow going. Even for grown-ups, there seemed to be a long wait between the first hint of a bud and evidence of green leaves. 

We were nearly a year into the pandemic at this point and still staying close to home, so not only did we have many opportunities to conduct our inspections, we had learned how rich and fascinating our seemingly ordinary suburban neighborhood could be. I loved how our son and his wife, who live in Annapolis with our other grandson, Vincent (only two months younger than JB) expressed this sentiment in their holiday card: Vinny's world -- our home and a few blocks in every direction -- is a boundless universe of possibilities for learning and growing, with people to greet, ducks to watch, flowers to sniff, and holly berries to add to his collection. And the fig tree on Knox Street, here in Durham, was part of this "boundless universe of possibilities" not only for JB, but for us, for me. 

Finally, after many weeks at last we could see a bit of green -- "Those are the leaves JB!" -- and then ever so slowly, a slight unfurling.  As JB looked closely at the ends of the branches we would ritually say "And those leaves will get. . ." so he could exclaim, "Bigger and bigger!" It was genuinely exciting for all of us. 

Things were now speeding up; every day we could see more green unfurling at the end of the branches, although they were not yet in full leaf. And then, of all things, Dan and I planned a rare out-of-town trip to visit our son, his wife, and little Vinny in Annapolis. We couldn't wait to see them but the timing! Although we would only be away a few days, I feared that when we returned the leaves would have opened, and I would miss seeing what I had been anticipating since last fall: watching the fig tree come into leaf. And indeed, by the time we returned the bare tree with its green-tipped branches had undergone a dramatic transformation, and was now full of fresh green leaves.  I felt a twinge as I realized another year must go by before I could witness that final transformation. . . .

As predicted by JB, the leaves indeed grew "bigger and bigger," greener and lusher, and we started to look for actual figs. "Look at that little green ball JB! That is going to grow into a fig!" And although still hard and green and unripe as I write this in mid-July, the figs are getting bigger.  It won't be too much longer before JB can pluck a warm, ripe fig from the tree all by himself this year and then experience, for a second time, the last figs, the falling leaves, and the beginning of the long wait till spring.

The pandemic, for those of us fortunate enough to remain healthy, has taught us many things, including how how our homes and neighborhoods and towns are in fact a "boundless universe of possibilities." And going through a pandemic with young children reinforces that lesson profoundly. Before the pandemic I saw the fig tree in a much more superficial way. Now, I can't wait to take a walk tomorrow, hopefully with JB in tow, to see how the tree is doing and whether the figs have grown. I look forward to next year and watching this complex and wonderful process repeat itself. For all of that I am grateful.