Growing Wishes
by Frances Vitali
Grandpa Bernardo always has something growing-his sunflowers, his grapevines, his children, and me, his grandchild Franny.
Now that he’s not running the family business any more, Grandpa Bernardo has a wish. He is growing the wish the way you grow a grapevine. Slowly.
This is what he wishes. He wishes for a bicycle. Somehow in all the years since he came to America from Italy, he has never learned to ride one.
He has asked for a bicycle every single year but no one has listened. Last year, he went to the department store and asked the salesperson.
“Are you sure?” asked the salesperson. That is what he said. He wouldn’t sell grandpa a bicycle because he thought he was too old. Why would someone stop grandpa from getting his bicycle?
If grandpa got a bike and I got a bike we could ride together. I am already his walking buddy. I could be his riding buddy.
Today, Grandpa is celebrating his 99th birthday. He blows out candles on his rum cake. My Dad tells Grandpa to look outside for his present. Grandpa clasps his hands saying fa bene, fa bene as he walks down the steps to see his present.
This is what he sees. Three wheels. A big tricycle!
“Ah,” says Grandpa.
“Oh,” I say.
Grandpa winks at me as he sits on his new ride.
But what about me? I wonder. How are we going to ride together?
The next day Grandpa Bernardo and I walk down Porter Street to Oregon Avenue. We take the trolley to the department store.
But I can’t go in with Grandpa. They tell me to use another door. And when the people coming out that door look at me and
Grandpa together, their faces turn mean as if they don’t like what they see.
[illus. note: sign reads Colored Only.]
Grandpa Bernardo says he doesn’t want a bicycle from here anyway. We leave.
The next day, Grandpa Bernardo and Dad go to the pawn shop and pick out a bicycle for me.
Grandpa and I practice riding in the alleyway behind his house on Sartain Street, then on the sidewalk in front of my house on 12th Street.
Soon we are good enough riders to try out our wheels in the street.
CRASH goes Grandpa when he turns a corner too fast! BOOM I go when a dog runs out in front of me! I put a band aid on Grandpa’s elbow.
I put one on my knee.
“Can’t keep good bikers down”, I say to Grandpa. Grandpa clasps his hands, winks at me and says, fa bene, fa bene.
We grow enough courage to ride down Porter Street and up 9th to the Italian Market, where blocks of stores side by
side smell of good things to eat.
We taste olives from the big barrels. We taste the stinky cheeses.
The day after that we drive to the bakery shop where grandpa buys a loaf of hard, crusty bread, putting it in his blue basket, to take back to dunk into his morning coffee. Grandpa feeds the rest of the bread to the birds in his backyard by his grapevines and sunflowers.
One morning Grandpa is too sick to ride. The next morning too, and the next. He has to go to hospital, that’s how sick he is.
Maybe I’ll go riding by myself. I’ll ride to the Italian Market to pick up a loaf of crusty Italian bread for grandpa to have with
his coffee, and to scatter crumbs for the birds. Can he have coffee in the hospital? Where will he scatter his crumbs for the birds, I wonder?
I go, and I am thinking as fast as I pedal.
I ride past the Farmer’s Market, past the olive barrels, past the stinky cheese stand. I ride farther than Grandpa and
I have ever gone before at a single time. He’ll be proud of me.
I get the bread. It has never smelled so golden good before.
On my way home I go through the park where Grandpa used to play bocce ball with his friends.
An older boy rushes out in front of my bike. I coast to a stop before I run him over. His face looks mean.
He shouts loud and ugly words. He spits at me. I speed away as those ugly words chase after me.
Oh this is a day that I miss grandpa. I clutch the bread and I remember why he’s not there with me.
We go see Grandpa Bernardo. We take his bread with us to the hospital. “Good thing you got some,”
Dad says. “Your grandpa’s fussy about hospital food.”
I tell Grandpa Bernardo that I rode past the Italian Market to the park and he looks surprised. I tell him that I won’t ride again until he comes home. The truth is, I don’t feel much like riding without grandpa.
Soon the hospital people say it is time for grandpa to come home.
I help grandma make meatballs for grandpa’s welcome home dinner. While eating his lentil soup, broccoli rabe with garlic,
spaghetti, meatballs and brachioles, grandpa clasps his hands together. Fa bene,he says. Fa bene.
On Saturday morning Grandpa is up waiting for me. He has both our bicycles waiting outside the basement door.
We ride to the market. Instead of returning home, Grandpa leads the way to the park.
We park our bikes by a bench. We feed bread to the birds in the park.
That same boy walks up to our bench. He looks at grandpa. He looks at me. Grandpa says, Buon Giorno.
The boy says nothing. He just looks. Not a mean look this time but a look full of questions.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“Just feeding birds,” I say, “with my grandpa. Why?”
The boy’s eyes grow round like grapes. “Your grandpa?” he says as if he doesn’t know which to believe, his ears or his eyes.
I look at Grandpa. He looks at me. Our smiles grow big. Fa bene, we say. Fa bene.
We ride back home, leaving that boy behind. This time I lead.
Author’s Note
Grandpa Bernardo and Grandma Assunta came to Philadelphia from Ascoli Piceno and Marches, Italy, respectively.
Grandpa Bernardo opened up a butcher shop and grocery store in 1925 at Sartain and Porter Streets in South Philadelphia.
Franny’s father, one of five siblings, worked in the grocery store with his Dad. It was Franny’s father who surprised Grandpa
Bernardo with a blue tricycle when he was 99 years old. Bernardo Vitali was able to ride his bicycle for four years before
his death in 1994, at age 104. Grandma Assunta lived to be 106 years old. Franny’s Dad and Mom were married in 1949
in Maryland because it was against the law for them to marry in the state of Pennsylvania. They celebrated their 56th
wedding anniversary in 2006.
GLOSSARY
Bocce Ball – Brought over by Italian immigrants, is considered one of the oldest games played in Egypt and spread throughout Europe.
Broccoli rabe – A variety of broccoli originally grown in the Mediterranean and became popular in US when Italian farmers brought
it with them from Italy. Also used in Chinese cooking.
Brachioles – thin piece of pounded veal meat stuffed with Italian herbs of rosemary, thyme, sage and basil and rolled and tied with string.
Usually cooked along with meatballs and served with spaghetti and meatballs.
Fa bene – Grandpa Bernardo’s favorite expression meaning, “that is good!”
Italian Market – Situated in Little Italy of South Philadelphia on 9th Street comprises 10 blocks of stores, outdoor vendors, restaurants
and cafes mostly specializing in Italian foods, products and menus.
Sartain and Porter Streets – In South Philadelphia, known as Little Italy because a majority of Italian immigrants settled there. Where Franny’s Grandfather owned his butcher shop and Franny’s Dad grew up with his four siblings.