Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli

My Italian heritage is one of the things of which I am most proud. My dad and his 3 three brothers chose their brides, settled down and raised their kids in a very small town in Upstate NY. 

(The 4 lucky ladies that chose to marry into this family. Mary P. Gijanto, Mary D. Gijanto, Mary C. Gijanto...are you noticing a trend here,...and Isabelle H. Gijanto...leave it to crazy Aunt Izzy to mix things up.)

In no time at all there were loads of Gijanto kids underfoot. Family functions were plentiful, we were always getting together at this house or that house for meals and celebrations of every sort. Weddings, Christenings, Holidays, Holy Days of Obligation, Birthdays, Mario Puzo movies, you name it we celebrated it. Whatever the occasion, the format was the same. The ladies in the kitchen drinking wine, cooking and bitching about their husbands, the men in the living room drinking beer, watching sports or playing cards, and the kids running around stirring the pot.

My cousin Ann and I were the last to come through the pipeline; she was 15 months older than me and as youngsters we were inseparable. Sleepovers at her house were especially fun because she never had a bedtime, her parents didn’t care how much candy we mainlined and no television shows were off limits.  As we entered elementary school she blossomed into a beautiful, popular and confident girl.

Me not so much. To say I was an ugly duckling was a huge understatement. I was more like the ugly duckling that got annihilated by a big rig on the Jersey Turnpike.

And she was better than I was at all the really important things; she could throw a ball much further than I, she rocked an impressive pony tail and oh how the Nuns at Saint Mary’s loved her.  I both idolized her and wanted to choke her. As my angst grew so did the frequency of our squabbles. Every time we had a cross word, I’d run and tell my mother who was a big help,  “if you can’t get along with your cousin don’t play with her, but I don’t want to hear about it, now be a lamb and go slice me a fresh lime for my gin and tonic.”  Thanks mom, you’re swell.

Things came to a head in 1979. School portraits had just been sent home and mine was a beaut, up on the wall in all her glory. Mom either had zero fashion sense or a wicked sense of humor because she sent me to be photographed that year sporting a beige ruffled tuxedo-style blouse, a maroon velvet blazer and a plaid skirt...and don't even get me started on my giant plastic glasses. I wasn’t particularly pleased with the picture but she made me feel better about it by saying “so you’re not particularly photogenic, that’s OK you’re good at other things like spelling and being nice to old people.” Again, thanks mom, you’re swell.

Ann and I were at my house one afternoon when her gaze fixed upon the picture. She looked at it puzzled for a few minutes, head cocked to one side as though she were deep in thought, then she said it. The words that shaped my confidence level from then on.

“You look just like Benjamin Franklin!!” she practically shouted.

Well sir, that was it! I don’t care how important of a man Ben Franklin was, no 3rd grade girl wants to be told she looks like him.  

I figured that even though my mom didn’t want to get in the middle of our squabbles, she would come in any minute and stick up for me and my fragile ego. That’s when I heard it. A high squeaking-choking-wheezing sound I’d never heard before and have never heard since. I popped around the corner to see what it was and there she was, good old mom, doubled over, clutching her sides, laughing her fool head off.

Apparently I did look just like Ben Franklin.