Buon Natale

So, this piece is based on a story prompted by Cousin Leslie a few years ago. And Leslie is the professional writer in the family. But just like former Dallas Cowboy quarterback Tony Romo also sees himself as a commentator and golfer; I’m a recently retired DDS-type who sees himself as a writer and future scratch golfer.

My Blandino side of the family may not have produced generations of writers, but they were magnificent storytellers. Listening to my aunts and uncles trade life stories from back in their day always made me one of the happiest kids on the planet. And who wouldn’t want to share your own story? Even as a little kid, I could see the joy.

So, a little bit about my growing up and being surrounded by a loving family of immigrant and first-generation Sicilian-Americans who spoke an Italian dialect called Greek and arrived in Los Angeles by way of New Orleans. By the time I came along, the Blandino family had bought and sold a ranch in the San Fernando valley, as well as a produce business based in the downtown market. Back around the early 1900s, a trip out to rural Glendora and back to the city was two full horse-driven days.

There were five sisters and four brothers. My mom was the youngest sibling. My namesake Uncle Giacomo owned a pool hall and died in an extortion attempt by way of a shootout with two Black Hand thugs he killed on the spot in the early 1920s. Just so you know, I would’ve given each of the crooks an extra twenty and called it a day.

As the family grew, Sundays became the time for family to family round robin visits, it seemed like everyone lived within about a 10-minute drive. If I was good, and of course I was, my aunts and uncles would even spot me a little cash during the visits. My dad came from a small family; and aside from NFL Sundays while rooting for the 49ers or anyone else playing the Rams, Dad loved days of rest visiting people who loved him like a brother.

Without further delay, here’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

So, over the past weekend, I savored a brief escape from charts, bills, the property manager, and my troubled and troublesome right nostril (the air hole has launched a bloody protest ever since providing a pathway for a medically purposed rubber hose.) I took advantage of the chance to sit back and reflect on some days I’d re-live in a heartbeat. And what’s family for, anyway?

My cousin Leslie is a professional award-winning writer, and she lives in Santa Barbara. And now you know why I was smart enough to get into dental school but not nearly as smart as Leslie.

Leslie is writing a piece on Siciliana Christmas traditions as practiced in Los Angeles; especially those practiced by our Blandino famiglia. Deal. I get to work with my very cool cousin and relive the old days of food, fun, hanging out with the grownups, and feeling the love…and maybe learn something in the process.

And yeah, even though my last name’s Von Bulow, about 90% of my relatives (known and unknown) are Sicilian. Back in 2008, I visited the Sicilian Blandino hometown, Piana degli Albanesi, only to find out no Blandinos were listed. I met the local Albanesi Catholic priest Papa Steo (who asked for a business card and even referred a patient, “I got people in Pasadena”). Papa explained Blandinos were like “Smith” in neighboring Altofonte’ a few miles away over what might mistakenly be called a mountain. Ever since the geography lesson, I’ve struggled with the visual of my Blandino Great Uncles sneaking over the landscape and stalking Albanesi young women (my future Great Aunts). So, let’s move on to Christmas.

I’m not so sure what the Christmas traditions in Sicily were like near the turn of the century, but if the 2007 film “Golden Door” is any indication, I don’t think there were that many shiny blue Schwinn Corvettes standing next to the Christmas tree. I’ve often wondered about how things were for the Blandinos in Sicily, and my pride in their courage, mental toughness, and determination as they left everything behind and set sail for America is about as authentic as true love.

Our Monterey Park Christmas days were epic. Everything about Christmas was about as American as baseball on the Fourth of July, until we made it over to Aunt Clara’s house shortly following noon Mass at St. Stephen’s.

In its Blandino Christmas prime, three aunts, three uncles, and Great Aunt Kay and Great Uncle Tony (known by all as “Uncle”) attended, in addition to wave upon wave of cousins. And in the Blandino tradition, I was supposed to kiss every aunt and female cousin (when I was in single digits, this proved to be the challenge of Christmas).

The women hung out in the kitchen and the guys talked sports and politics out in the spacious patio. I’d love to think none of my uncles would have ever voted for Trump, but I know for sure my dad is probably still tempted to come back and give him a piece of his vastly superior mind. My dad would allow me to debate conservative Uncle Bill, but always with respect.

Dinner was freakin amazing! Sure, we had turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and gravy. But we also had either homemade lasagna or ravioli with meatballs and sausage, not to mention several eggplant dishes and an artichoke heart casserole. I had my first sips of beer and wine, and it seemed like forever before I made the jump from the card table to the big-time. On one memorable Christmas, a lasagna dish spilled to the floor; my brother Jay and Cousin Herb saw it as an opportunity; it was the first time I ever heard of the 10-second lasagna rule…enforced with no debate.

After devouring all the big table had to offer, we’d have some fruit to cleanse our palates; talk about sports and politics and take a little recovery time before dessert was served.

We then indulged ourselves with a choice of pies and ice cream…plus Italian cookies, cannoli, and Struffoli honey balls. I never did understand the big deal with the Struffoli, but my mom and aunts were major fans.

In our Sicilian family tradition, some wings of the family never attended, some were temporarily excommunicated, and others always showed up just in time for dinner.

After dinner, I’d join my dad, my brother Jay, and my uncles out in the patio around the coolest outdoor fire I’ve ever seen. My uncles Tony and Johnny would stage the same arguments (ala the film Avalon) year after year after year about who got here when and where. But sitting back and being part of the circle, I felt the warmth of the fire, my family, and a sense of safety that I’ve never experienced since. I loved those moments and I love re-living them.

As in Avalon, my uncles’ back and forth reminded us about where we came from and who we are. And I haven’t forgotten for even a second.

Leslie, thanks for the memories.