People Don't Visit Anymore, But They Should

Can we bring back the home visit?

“Peter, go to DeLuise’s Bakery and get some pastry. You nevah know who might stop by.” --- Oh, Anna.

When I was a kid, people visited each other often. Everyone had a supply of pastry, at least a Napoleon or two and some sfogliatelle, for the potential.

But that’s the way it was. “Put the coffee on. We’ll be over.”

Yes, the home visit was a staple of the day. It was because our grandparents and their friends were making their way in a new world and, amid the turmoil of uncertainty and need for acceptance, they wanted comfort and solace through conversation, mutual understanding, coffee, and sweets.

Look at these friends of Grandma’s, those of the quirky names, who peppered my youth; Fullomane, Frangeesk, Jeezumi, and Goombamike; fascinating characters who visited often enough to leave a lifetime of palpable memories.

Domenica and Vincenzo. Thrilled to have visitors

Fullomane (Philomena) was a large, buxom lady, serious and melancholy, clothed forever in the black of perpetual mourning. Her hair was stamped to the back of her head in a bun pierced by an ornamental needle. A round plump face was defined by a chin that hosted a mole which was fertile ground for the three or four curled strands of hair that protruded from it. Above her chin was a wide mouth turned south at its corners, its upper lip shadowed by a brush of hair.

She and Grandma spoke in edgy tones while washing clothes or cooking, sometimes weeping when they discussed the problems of those early years in America. When they sat for lunch, Fullomane’s bosom, pushed north by an ample midsection, exploded. She could place a napkin on her natural table, and never lose a morsel of food. Despite marital problems, Frangeesk (Francesco) and Fullomane arrived at Grandma's house on Saturday evenings to sing and dance, Frangeesk playing the accordion while Fullomane danced the Tarantella, a dance originating in southern Italy, presumed flirtatious, but more likely a pagan ritual to cure insanity. It chased the demons of the tarantula’s bite. Was Fullomane’s role flirtatious or insane?

Her husband Frangeesk was a character. The vile, recycled wine smell encircling him was abominable. It ponged of sweat trapped by garlic. His appearance matched the disorder of the smell. He wore a wrinkled, dark blue, three-piece pinstriped suit with high black weathered boots laced to the top. His shirt, once white, was now a sweaty yellow. His cold beady eyes in the center of a wrinkled face and fronted by a nose that looked like a sparrow’s beak complemented the cackling laugh that spilled from his sawed-off, crooked yellow teeth. A messy mustache that harbored flecks of stuff defined his twisted mouth. His garbled dialect was coated with a smell that backed me away. Most of the time, I succeeded in avoiding Frangeesk, but he tickled my curiosity one day.

He walked to our house from his home on Federal Hill, a walk that started with a trip to his wine cellar followed by a stop at a local bar. He sat in our kitchen. His entertainment began when he asked me to come closer. Though cautious, I was curious and inched with gummed soles toward him. As I approached, he opened the jacket of his three-piece suit, revealing his buttoned vest. In the right side vest pocket, he carried a watch and an attractive pearl-handled knife attached to a chain, which was attached to a vest button. He was holding something with his curled hand. It moved. The beak of a frightened animal, a sparrow, opening, gasping.

Frangeesk summoned me again with his crooked finger and dirty nail,

“Vieni, vieni, non metta paura. No be ‘fraid.” Ugh! The smell.

As I shuffled closer, he released the bird. Startled, I jumped back, not realizing that the bird’s foot was tied to a string tied to a button on his vest. The bird flew straight up only to hit the end of the tethered string, “boink,” and snap back, “twang,” flapping his wings, going nowhere, still trying, but now with his neck broken. Then he fell limp. As Frangeesk cackled with laughter, spewing spit and smell, Grandmother and Fullomane sported a sickish smile. I did not like him, but he taught me a lesson; stay away from smelly, wrinkled old demonic men.

Most of the friends were nice.

There were Jeezumi (Gesumia) and Goombamike (Cumbare Michele), a beautiful twosome; comfortable, small, and quiet; wrinkled, and hunched over like forest gnomes. They were gentlefolk, not given to the volatility of Fullomane and Frangeesk. Rather, they murmured with never-ending, muffled, secret, and close conversations. Huddled together, they seemed to weigh the world on their rounded shoulders, but they were nice to me. And they smiled.

Tiny and stooped Jeezumi wore a black housedress and black shoes. Her stockings spiraled up her short legs. When she sat, her crossed legs and tiny feet barely touched the floor. She held her hands intertwined in prayer on her lap, the right thumb always atop the left, her small arms exposing tortuous veins that flowed to those hands like rivers. She had a kind oval face with rimless glasses resting quietly on her nose. Goombamike had a gentle smooth face with a lamb chop pad of gray hair atop his head. A small unlit Stogie was tucked at the corner of his mouth, some spittle leaking to his chin. He wore suspenders that pulled his striped pants well above his waist, and on his feet were black wrinkled boots like Frangeesk’s, my grandfather’s, and all the other Italian men. The shoes, the faces, and the clothes had the same grain… shriveled with age, lined with wear. They were such an adorable couple, and I liked them.

Frangeesk, Fullomane, Jeezumi, and Goombamike; their visits were routine. The doors and the hearts of our three-story home were open to these friends. It was an extraordinary time when people visited to chat and share problems, sorrow, joy, coffee, and sweets. They looked for the comfort and understanding of friends in a strange new land. These friends contributed to my education; one that made my sense of sharing, belonging, and comfort so natural, and genuine.

Why has that dwindled to near extinction?

In that world of immigrants in a strange land, people needed comfort from those who understood them and shared the same culture and values without prejudice. They needed each other. They needed to talk. They spoke the same language. Visiting was part of survival.

Women were at home much of the time. Men worked predictable hours. Neighborhoods were safe, housing familiar people in the same homes for a lifetime. Those dynamics have changed. People move for opportunities elsewhere. There seems to be less need for a connection to the community, and less time to make that connection.

Consumerism has driven people from their neighbors. Personal lifestyles take precedence over community connections. Families look after their affairs with less concern for their neighbors.

Life is hectic. Work hours are no longer predictable. Who is at home, and when, is a moving target. Visit? They are lucky to visit each other. Packed schedules, commutes, sports deadlines, etc. leave little time.

And fear. Stories of neighborhood crime are pervasive. “We’d better own a gun” has replaced “We’d better have some pastry.”

While there’s nothing wrong with taking care of yourself, it has blunted our sense of community. We rely less on each other. We seem not to share resources or difficulties. It seems that we should.

I am optimistic. Something seems to be changing. We are realizing, I hope, that we need community. The work-life balance equation is becoming popular. My children are trying to live it, and thus I am encouraged. Will it rekindle the home visit as it once was? I doubt it. But there may be a variant.

I say figure out what that variant is and give it a try. I say bring back Grandma’s friends. They’re harmless. They’re fun. They’re the subjects of tales. They’re kind. They keep us happy, sane, welcomed, and entertained. And in sweets.

Do you think the home visit should return?

If so, you’d better get some pastry.

Ah, the sfogliatelle