Mexico City March 19, 2013
Today is the feast of Saint Joseph. I was reminded of that by Sister Mirian who told me that all the nuns where I volunteer here in Mexico City would be away for the day. Sister Mirian is a Josefina, so it makes sense that this day would be separate from others. They are, after all, named after the patron saint of their order.
March 19th. The day has no special significance for me. A devotion to Saint Joseph was never part of my tradition. (Mary…yes. The month of May…yes. My mother had a profound devotion to Mary and she made sure she was recognized on the days accorded to her. At 23 Grace Avenue we even crowned her statue one special day in May.)
But this day was special for Mrs. Epolito, our 100% Italian landlady when I was an undergrad at SUNY Fredonia.
It was 1970, and six of us were living in her upstairs apartment at 25 Day Street in Fredonia, New York. The six of us—all Juniors in college--had been thrown together in a four bedroom apartment. Maybe the other guys had known each other before, but I knew no one when I moved in. And for whatever good fortune came my way, I was one of two had his own room. I had a mattress on the floor and a stereo I’d purchased from money earned from my part time job at Aldrich Dairy. There must have been a closet and a chest of drawers, but I don’t remember.
What I do remember, though,
is that that room was a sanctuary. And what I do know is that the six of us
bonded closely, that I was happy living there and that Mrs. Epolitio—Mrs. Ep to
us—charged each of us a mere $100.00 a semester for the privilege of living
there. Our only additional expenses were telephone charges.
Life was good.
Mrs. Epolito liked us, and we liked her. She
was an old woman. Even now, with advancing age, I still think she was in her
80’s in our Senior year—1971.
We were slobs, the six of
us. One of us, at the end of patience, would tackle the kitchen, wash the
floor, and rid the fridge of moldy food. One of us, sooner or later, would
clean off the dining room table. But then the cycle would begin again and
before long we'd be living in squalor again.
Never once do I remember
Mrs. Epolito scolding us, coming up the stairs for a surprise visit. She was a
good natured, happy woman. I like to
think that she, and her children, felt it was a good thing that six young men were
living upstairs. Perhaps all of them
felt safer. I don’t know. It was a
different time. We misbehaved, but not
in a malicious sort of way.
It was a time of great
tumult. The war was raging in Vietnam, and the students at Fredonia raged
against it with equal fury. Whatever happened at the University of Buffalo—and stuff
happened all the time—was felt the next day 50 miles away in Fredonia. One of the roommates was a veteran, four
years older than we. How he put up with us is still a wonder. We weren't a
patriotic lot. We loathed President Nixon and loathed what was happening to the
United States. One of us had put a
plastic American flag at the entrance to the front door of the apartment. Somehow Mrs. Epolito found out about it and
gave us a call.
I answered the phone. “I’m going to call President Roosevelt,” she
told us. We picked up the flag, duly
sorry for offending her.
President Roosevelt? We
thought it was funny, as 20 year olds would.
We knew nothing of senility. We knew nothing of the aging process.
The first year we were
there—March of 1970—she called up the stairs and asked one of us to come downstairs. Maybe it was me. She’d baked a huge casserole dish of ziti for us—in honor St. Joseph’s
Day. It was the first time I knew of
this tradition. We liked it. We liked pasta. We liked food and we were grateful for Mrs.
Ep’s generosity on that St. Joseph’s Day.
Months moved forward. By now we were Seniors…and friends. We smoked pot in the attic, had friends in
for dinner, went drinking as a group on Saturday night. We’d sit together—other friends
included—drinking local beer, playing pin ball.
Once, in late winter, we’d been out too late. One of us was extraordinarily drunk, vomiting
into the toilet.
It had to be past midnight
and the phone rang. In her creaky voice,
but still with a smile, I can still hear her saying…”Someone’s praying at the
toilet.” She could have chosen another
response, but she didn’t.
That March there was
another plate of ziti, another recognition of St. Joseph. I doubt any of the ziti had to be thrown away
from the fridge.
It was a good time in our
lives, and only later did I realize how the time in that house matured me,
pushed me into adulthood. I was far
enough from Plattsburgh that I couldn’t go home at the drop of a hat. I was forced to deal with my own issues.
One of them was
weight. Somehow, I’d ballooned to 240
pounds! I was horrified the Christmas
Day that I stepped on the scales. When I
went back to college I somehow was able to stay on a diet. I did’t tell anyone at home that I was losing
weight, but by the time I saw my family in May for graduation I’d lost 55
pounds. And that’s weight I have, for
the most part, kept off until this day.
It was hard leaving
college. It was hard leaving my friends. Several of them stayed on to complete
their Masters, and kept their rooms in the apartment we’d rented. I moved back
to Plattsburgh, started my career. The following April I returned to 25 Day
Street. Three of the guys were still living there. Sometime during those ten
months, Mrs. Epolito had sold the house to one of the roommates. I slept on the
couch that week and never bothered to contact Mrs. Ep. Years later I inquired
about her from Dennis, the roommate who'd bought the house. She'd died. Of
course. By that point--the late 1980's--she'd have been well in her 90's.
I often regretted not
contacting her, but that is what young people do. They often just walk away,
not realizing they'll never see someone again.
B ut I think of Mrs. Epolito
every now and then, and I still remember the large plates of pasta she'd bring
up on March 19th. The Feast
of St. Joseph was an integral part of her culture and she shared it with us.
And I think of her today,
more than forty years later, and a country away. The Josefinas invited me to
their fiesta in honor of Saint
Joseph. Same saint, different tradition. Instead of pasta, we ate chicken with homemade
mole poblano,
rice, frijoles
and potatoes with chorizo. It was a
joyous day for them and I know it had been a joyous day for Mrs. Epolito.
Thank you Mrs. Ep. Thank
you for your patience. Thank you for your tolerance.
And thank you for the
pasta.
Today is the feast of Saint Joseph. I was reminded of that by Sister Mirian who told me that all the nuns where I volunteer here in Mexico City would be away for the day. Sister Mirian is a Josefina, so it makes sense that this day would be separate from others. They are, after all, named after the patron saint of their order.
March 19th. The day has no special significance for me. A devotion to Saint Joseph was never part of my tradition. (Mary…yes. The month of May…yes. My mother had a profound devotion to Mary and she made sure she was recognized on the days accorded to her. At 23 Grace Avenue we even crowned her statue one special day in May.)
But this day was special for Mrs. Epolito, our 100% Italian landlady when I was an undergrad at SUNY Fredonia.
It was 1970, and six of us were living in her upstairs apartment at 25 Day Street in Fredonia, New York. The six of us—all Juniors in college--had been thrown together in a four bedroom apartment. Maybe the other guys had known each other before, but I knew no one when I moved in. And for whatever good fortune came my way, I was one of two had his own room. I had a mattress on the floor and a stereo I’d purchased from money earned from my part time job at Aldrich Dairy. There must have been a closet and a chest of drawers, but I don’t remember.
