Written by Karen Zach
My early years growing up in the Americana world was so different from others in our central Indiana town. I’m ½ Italian and as Mom loved to say, “Your other ½ is Heinz 57 variety!” I laugh at that still as I’ve done genealogy for 50 years and she was perfectly correct – ½ Italian and the other half a major potpourri of a variety of nationalities including a tiny speck of Italian (okay, then technically I’m more than ½ but not much). What’s even funnier is that the speck is an Italian King and it’s on my mom’s Smith side, not my maiden name and dad’s side, Bazzani! Ahhh, if I could get mom and dad here now to tell ‘em that one!
The maternal grandparents lived in my hometown of Waveland, Indiana and we three Bazzani kids were very close to them as well as our old-maid aunt who was actually a great deal of fun and spent a large chunk of money on us going to ice skating shows, professional baseball games (my, how she loved those Cubbies) and such. Thinking we were rather spoiled and loved it!
Snuggling into the folds of my grandma’s 4’9”, 300+ pound body was heaven and at age nine and a half, I lost my best buddy, but my grandpa’ worked hard at teaching me his gardening knowledge and discussing books with me beyond most ten-year-olds minds. With the boys, he played baseball.
Every weekend, though, it was off to “Little Italy” in Clinton, Indiana and Hoosierdom were left behind. I dearly loved all four of my grandparents with an unbounded devotion, yet they were all so different, much more so than the norm of the four grandparent world of an American girl in the 1950s, and definitely unique from any of my friends.
My Italian grandma’ “Nona” (Carolina) was very smart. She was slated to go several miles away to the equivalent of our high school when a boy riding a horse didn’t see her on the other side of a style and he and his Nellie jumped the fence right into my grandmother’s head. For weeks she lay between life and death and finally made a turn toward the better, making it out of the situation alive! However, she did not get anymore education. She did however, continue to self-teach herself including 10-12 languages when she came to America (she was constantly at the police station translating for someone – it was a common notation – “Go get Carolina, we can’t talk to this guy!”). A constant reader, she loved to learn. Definitely, most definitely I take after her. Also made sure (this will be another story someday) that her daughter got a good education culminating into a 4-year degree in Nursing. Upon my father’s return from WWII, he went to Rose-Hulman to study to be a doctor but only finished maybe three semesters when my twin brothers were born and he spent the rest of his life laying carpet (one of the best-ever), working on the volunteer fire department where he did use his medical knowledge and was a Rural Mail Carrier. He was an absolutely brilliant man and also was constantly learning.
Now, not speaking but a few words (mainly cuss ones as my Nono did a lot of that) in Italian and Nono speaking a few in English, mainly words relating to his mine work which did me little good, it was hard to communicate so we never got super close. However, there was a universal language called love that we shared. I’d sit on his lap for a long time, just rocking away while he relaxed then it’d be time for him to play cards and he’d dump me off saying, “Basta, basta!” translating into “That’s definitely enough already!”
The fav of my two grandpas would be Pap, Carl Smith, probably because we spoke the same language and because he was so easy to talk to. Actually, he was somewhat quiet yet when we discussed wrestling (which I really didn’t care for but pretended interest so we would have great discussions) or a book we’d both read. Oh, it was wonderful.
I followed him around quite a bit out to the garden or to sit on the porch and visit with his many daily visitors (at least a couple of women and five or six men daily).
Pap suffered from colon cancer for many years. They did some type of a small operation, cutting the nerves around his colon and stomach so he didn’t feel pain. They said he lived about eight years longer than most.
Always in a good mood, he begged me to fix him a homemade banana cream pie almost daily. No clue how many I made but it was certainly a big bunch. I got the recipe in the 1967 Better Homes & Gardens cookbook and the first time I made it for him he raved. I’ll put it below in case you’d like to make it too but I’ll finish the tale first.
Although I made dozens and dozens the very last one I made I had a baby and hubs only had a few hours to drive from Lafayette to Waveland, visit Pap and back again before he had to go to work. Knew I didn’t dare show up without the pie, so I whipped up the pie crust then whipped up some instant pudding and pie filling and cut in some bananas, then whip cream on top (not homemade meringue as usual). I took it – he ate it and I’m thinking – okay, got by with that.
When we were leaving, he noted very quietly, “Next time, either bring good pie or no pie -not that fake stuff!” There never was a next time.
Please write down your memories of your grandparents as that is what helped make you, you!
Banana Cream Pie Recipe
In a saucepan, combine ¾ C. Sugar, ¼ tsp Salt. Heat. Gradually stir in 2 Cups milk. Cook and stir over medium heat till mixture boils and thickens. Cook two minutes longer, stirring often, then remove. Stir small amount of the hot mixture into 3 slightly beaten egg yolks. Return to stove and stir over medium heat for two minutes, stirring constantly. Remove. Add 2 T. butter and 1 tsp vanilla (real butter, pure vanilla). Cool to room temperature. Pour into baked pie shell. Make meringue and top it – brown meringue. YUM!
