It is Sunday, 5 April, 2009.
Our toaster oven caught fire this morning. Now our house smells like burnt plastic. My father ate his bread untoasted.
He says I talk too much.
I can’t really blame him.
I can’t help but think that Cousin Fiorenzo is right: E meglio che tu stai zitto. (It’s better if you shut up.) He has a way with words. Penso di si.
Actually, it comes to me from all over the family. Nonno Eugenio’s broken English tells us things like, “You better don’t do.” and “You gotta learn ‘em up. Don’t waste the shell.” His wife Emilia gives us, “He’s haffa crack,” and “Freakee!!” (Which probably means **** you!)
My other Great-Grandparents gave us such witticisms as “Ma, tu sei pazzo,” (But you’re crazy) and “Porco Diavoli” (Pig Devil.) C’era una ragazza del mio paese… She didn’t listen to her mother. She went swimming… E poi mori.
Yeah.
