Tales From A Hungry Life

July 24, 2013

That’s Our Story

by Maria Schulz

A few months back, I read an article in The New York Times that said people are more resilient and feel more connected to each other when they know their family stories, and can talk about how they weathered good times and bad times together.


It never occurred to me that some people just don’t share their stories. Sure, you don’t go up to people on the bus and say, “my grandfather came to this country with nothing but a nickel and a prayer,” because people outside of your family aren’t interested. Unless, of course, you’re Mario Puzo and you know how to take that immigrant story and turn it into The Godfather.

Now that's a great story

Now that’s a great story

But how can you live, breathe, go to work, eat meals together, go to bed and do it all over again tomorrow if you DON’T share the stories that matter to you with your family?

From when I was just old enough to understand what people were saying to me, I remember hearing my mother, father, grandparents, brothers, cousins and friends telling stories that they thought were funny, sad or outrageous. I remember the smiles and the way two people who lived through the story could look at one another and sometimes, laugh so hard that they couldn’t continue.

My grandmother used to love telling us about growing up in a cold-water tenement in Hell’s Kitchen. Her father died young, and her mother had six small children to raise. She took every job she could, including one as the building’s janitor and toilet scrubber just so she could earn enough money to keep her family together.

Hell's Kitchen (not the one with Gordon Ramsey)

Hell’s Kitchen (not the one with Gordon Ramsey)

When a social worker came to her house and told her she could help her by placing her children in foster homes, my great grandmother threw her out of the buliding.

My grandmother also talked about how little her family had, but somehow, she made it sound funny. The way she told it, it really was amusing that she and two sisters had to share a bed, and she’d wake up every day with her sister Tessie’s feet in her face. Or how she had to leave school after the 8th grade and go to work in a factory because her family needed the money (no wonder she thought we were living the high life by not having a job until we were 16).

I enjoyed the story my grandmother told about how my grandfather finally asked her out on a date, but her mother said she would need a chaperone.

“No,” my grandmother replied. “I will not have a chaperone!”

This was in 1927. My great grandmother insisted. “Oh yes you will!”

They argued back and forth until my grandmother said, “If you make me have a chaperone, I won’t go on the date, and I will live here with you forever!”

My great grandmother relented.

My grandfather and grandmother couldn’t believe their good fortune. They rode the subway to Coney Island, took photos in the photo booths, shared some cotton candy, rode the roller coaster and even held hands.

Yes, they were young once

Yes, they were young once

It took a while before they realized that my grandmother’s mother and oldest sister were walking/hiding about 30 feet behind them at all times.

My father must’ve gotten his storytelling genes from his mother. On days when we would walk through the streets of Bayside, my father would tell me all sorts of stories about growing up in Flushing on what was then called “The Hill,” about the girls and boys he hung around with, the guys he beat up and the ones he got beaten up by.

My dad, uncle, and their friends from "the Hill," Queensborough Hill.

My dad, uncle, and their friends from “the Hill,” Queensborough Hill.

But by far, my favorite stories were the ones he told about his life as a young, single man-child just starting to date.

There was his first girlfriend, Faithie, who gave him his first kiss when he was about 6. Then there was the crush he longed to go out with when he was 14 and in his first year of high school. He really, really wanted to meet her on Main Street and see what might happen…but my grandmother wouldn’t let him go out after dark.

Dating in the 50s

Dating in the 50s

There was also the one who became his girl when he was 17. No sooner had they agreed on this arrangement than she told him that he would have to quit smoking, drinking, being a musician and playing baseball. By the end of the conversation, she was no longer his girl.

He dated a lot of girls, but none of them would get past the 3rd date. Fearing the dreaded “C” word (commitment), he would break up with them, saying that he just “loved them too much” and that they “deserved so much more.”

The girls would cry a little, give him one last kiss, and then thank him for his honesty. He would drive away feeling elated. He was free!

So many girls to meet at the soda shop

So many girls to meet at the soda shop

This method was foolproof, even for my father. That is, until he met a certain Latina girl in High School. She was a new girl in the neighborhood, having moved to the area from a rough neighborhood in the South Bronx. He used to see her every day when they waited at the bus stop for school.

Oh my, was she pretty! He thought she was out of his league, so he never approached her. Instead, he played boyfriend backup to a girl named Georgette and her on again/off again boyfriend.

Greased lightning!

Greased lightning!

A few years passed when a friend asked my Dad to meet him so he could try to get a date with a hot mama he really liked. “You can amuse her younger sister,” the friend said. “These Puerto Rican girls love to be photographed, and I’ve got this camera.”

So Dad went…and who was the younger sister he was supposed to amuse but the pretty Latina from High School.

They struck up a conversation and discovered that they had a lot in common. She was easy to talk to and found his jokes funny. He really liked her, so he finally screwed up the courage to ask her out. And this is where one of the first of many miracles came along in Lou’s life: she said yes.

They went to the Riviera, a swanky restaurant on the harbor in Port Washington. They ate, danced, and laughed. At the end of the night, she even gave him a kiss. The two of them had such a good time that they agreed to go out to a supper club for some live singing and dancing on their next date. Again, they had a wonderful time and a few stolen kisses.

Scenic Port Washington

Scenic Port Washington

Instead of enjoying his profoundly good luck, he began to get cold feet. My father decided he had to break it off with the Latina after the 3rd date, before things got too serious. He wanted to be a musician! A baseball player! A free agent! Anything other than a married man with lord knows how many children. Blech…children.

So, at the end of their third date, he decided to let her down easy.

“I have to break up with you.” He said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I just love you too much, and you deserve so much more.”

The Latina burst out laughing. “Okay,” she said.

My father was used to getting some tears thrown in with some begging, but instead, the Latina just kept on laughing.

As she opened the door to get out of the car, my father yelled after her: “I won’t be calling you again.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Okay. See ya.”

Scene of the crime

Scene of the crime

My father had gotten what he wanted. He was free! He didn’t have to fight with her or talk her into the break up. There was no messy sobbing or consolation necessary.

But wait a minute…he didn’t have to talk her into it. And why did she keep laughing?

Suddenly, my father began to rethink his strategy. In the weeks following the break up, he started to call her repeatedly, for one silly reason or another. One time, he told her that he had broken both of his legs and was in two casts up to his hips.

Not my father

Not my father

“I really need help,” my father said.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she replied. “I’m busy.”

Finally, he just asked her out again, but all she said was, “I can’t. I have to wash my hair.”

I remember interrupting my father at this point in the story to say how mad I was at him.  “That wasn’t nice,” I said, referring to his discarding girls after 3 dates by saying “he loved them too much to continue” just so he could get off the hook. Would someone do that to me some day?

But I also felt kind of sorry for him in the part of the story where the Latina girl laughed and said, “See ya,” without even looking back.

Would she ever go out with him again?

Would it all work out?

Why did she have to wash her hair so often?

“Let me finish,” my father said.

So I let him finish.

After several more unsuccessful tries, my father finally lured the Latina back out with the promise of tickets to a Broadway show that she was dying to see. They talked, and laughed, and went out a lot more times. He asked her to be his girl; she said yes. She did not make him give up smoking, drinking, music or softball, so he had no reason to break it off.

Lou and Sarita, July 1957

Lou and Sarita, July 1957

On a blisteringly hot summer day in July of ’57, the Italian boy from The Hill married the Latina girl from the South Bronx at the Riviera on the harbor in Port Washington.

That Latina girl was my mother.

Fast-forward: I am at my brother’s house in his backyard where we are gathered to celebrate our parents’ 45th wedding anniversary.

I have a perfect view of my parents as they walk in together. My father is walking slowly, clutching my mother’s arm. For a boy who didn’t want to be tied down, he is holding onto her for dear life. She is unsteady and drags her feet; I can tell by the worried look on her face that she doesn’t know where she is. Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s syndrome make walking a challenge.

Mom and Dad

Mom and Dad

“Happy Anniversary!” we say, as my mother snaps into lucidity for a moment and smiles as my father kisses her.

In that instant, I see my parents, as they are: two people whose story meant a lot to me, and who were weathering some pretty rough storms.

The years dropped away, and I caught a glimpse of them as they were way back then: the sweet Italian boy with the good heart and the pretty, feisty Latina who loved to laugh.

So pretty

So pretty

As another year passes and what should have been their anniversary slips by, I think about them and smile. Their stories tell me that it wasn’t always easy, but it was always worth it.



I’m really glad that things worked out for them.


Paella Italiana

paella italiano

So…what do you get when you mix a crazy Italian boy with a spicy Puerto Rican girl? Seven kids, 2 dogs, 5 cats, 1 rat, 3 hamsters, a Mynah bird, a boatload of relatives, no money, and lots of laughs.

Here’s a dish that reminded me of my family because it mixes the spiciness of Paella with traditionally Italian ingredients.


Here’s a dish for you hardliner Paella traditionalists:

For Paella purists

For Paella purists


So, Hungry Lifers: what’s your favorite family story? Which story did your mother, father, sister, brother, best friend, grandparent or relative share with you that still makes you smile? Please leave a comment and let us all know. Thanks.


  1. Yeah I knew your father back then. He WAS a pretty good ballplayer but I digress before I even started to “gress”. The point I wanted to make was that he let the girls down nicely. They all went away feeling good about themselves. He was only thinking of them to borrow from “Don Quixote. The other point I wanted to make was that he really liked that Latina girl because she laughed a lot and always laughed at his jokes which he made plenty of but not everybody laughed, except her of course. The second thing about her was she was gorgeous and he always was appreciative of beauty. They were always happy for the most part. July 27 marks the 56 year they would be together. They really were a nice couple, she nicer than he but he wasn’t so bad. I wonder whatever happened to them. Oh by the way I remember they had a lot of kids, seven I think. He never regretted one day..

    Comment by Bglou — July 24, 2013 @ 9:49 am | Reply

  2. So lovely….

    Comment by Lisa (Hahn) Kenny — July 24, 2013 @ 10:39 am | Reply

  3. I have tears in my eyes – this will always be my favorite blog post of yours.

    Comment by Perette — July 24, 2013 @ 2:53 pm | Reply

  4. I am just laughing thinking of Dad pleading with Mom, “I WILL NEVER CALL YOU AGAIN!” Mom once told me this story but her twist was, “He told me that he had to break up with me. I told him Ok! I was very upset but I wouldn’t show him. Then I finally said I would go out with him again. He asked me if I would be his girl. I said yes. But he didn’t know that I was saying yes to that I would be his wife.” She let out a big laugh after that. Classic Mom at her Best!

    Comment by Chris — July 24, 2013 @ 6:58 pm | Reply

  5. I love accompanying you as you share your heartwarming stories.

    Comment by Neil Platt — July 24, 2013 @ 10:58 pm | Reply

  6. Maria- that was an awesome story !!!! Really enjoyed it – XO, Kim

    Comment by Kim — July 24, 2013 @ 11:00 pm | Reply

  7. OMG! I cried! What a wonderful post, Maria! What a gift and a blessing you have in your family. Oh…and did I mention you’re a terrific writer? 🙂

    Comment by wordimprovisor177 — July 24, 2013 @ 11:07 pm | Reply

  8. I love the pictures…I love the stories…and most of all I love the people in them!

    Comment by Tom C. — July 24, 2013 @ 11:11 pm | Reply

  9. Ah, beautiful, Maria. It put a lump in my throat, a tear in my eye, a smile on my face … just a few of the many reasons why your memoir is going to be a smash hit!

    Comment by Lisa — July 24, 2013 @ 11:35 pm | Reply

    • Yes, looking forward to finally getting it out there! I’m glad you enjoyed this — that always puts a smile on my face.

      Comment by talesfromahungrylife — July 25, 2013 @ 7:57 pm | Reply

  10. I loved this. It made me cry too. Yes, we all have a story, but we all can’t write it as beautifully. One of my favorite quotes is,”the greatest gift a man can give his children is to love their mother”. You got that great gift.

    Comment by Suzanne Tavel — July 25, 2013 @ 6:02 am | Reply

  11. This and up coming generations will miss out on these stories because the extended family is stretching further apart. No one wants to be honest about the bad times and they try to cover them up with flowery stories that make no sense to people who were there at the time. With this distance we don’t have the familiarity with our aunts, uncles and cousins (and sometimes our grandparents). These are the people who give us our history and if we don’t know them, or can not trust to know if they will be accurate reporters of the past, history can be rewritten. That is why it is important for people to write down their stories so that when the grand nephews or nieces come a calling for answers we can give a credible account of what happened. Also, the new generation is usually busy playing with the IPad or phone when the adults recap the family stories. I know when I and my siblings talk about our past at times it seems that we were not in the same house. It is then that the group shares their life experiences and passes it down to our kids. I feel fortunate to presently have three generations living under our roof because at dinner time I look at my 25 year old daughter’s face and the horror it shows when she hears how we grew up without air conditioning, no cable, and we had to go to the movie house to view big screen epics. Sara almost falls off her chair when her grandfather chimes in and tells her his limitations as a kid (i.e. showering once a week). Unfortunately the following generations will want to know more about where they came from and I just hope they have someone who wants to spend the time giving them this information. Who knows, maybe we will be living a busy senior citizen life where we are making new memories.

    Comment by Tony Lagalante — July 25, 2013 @ 11:52 am | Reply

    • I think as long as there are writers or people who enjoy a good story, family stories will get passed down. I promise to be there with you, leading that busy senior citizen life and making lots of new memories.

      Comment by talesfromahungrylife — July 25, 2013 @ 8:00 pm | Reply

  12. Lovely way that you captured a bygone era of courting and dating. I could almost hear the ’50s soundtrack as I read your piece. I look forward to next Wednesday!

    Comment by Emmi — July 25, 2013 @ 8:06 pm | Reply

  13. Beautiful Maria….
    Tony, we are in a rental for some weeks without a microwave. Well, my two teenage boys were just freaked out when I told them it did not bother me not to have one. Could not understand how you live without one!! I had to explain how Lou (my husband) and I grew up without one, how we heated the pasta up in a pan, took an hour to bake a potato etc…. It was hysterical!!!

    Comment by Gina Arresta — July 25, 2013 @ 9:41 pm | Reply

  14. How lovely… and how lucky you are to have this story.
    Thoughts of a bygone era.
    Thanks for sharing this one – it made me wish I knew more of my parents’ stories.

    Comment by sussman81 — August 1, 2013 @ 4:48 pm | Reply

    • Thanks, Mary. I’m so glad you liked this post! Now, go ask your parents how they started dating. 🙂

      Comment by talesfromahungrylife — August 4, 2013 @ 6:54 pm | Reply

  15. 💕💕

    Comment by Cindy Lee — July 27, 2018 @ 9:09 pm | Reply

  16. I love these stories. You always make me want to write down my family history through the amazing stories from my Nana and parents. On this Sunday morning, in 2018, for just a few moments, I am 6 years old, sitting in the backyard in Little Neck with my “family,” all of them. Grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, siblings, and so many cousins, laughing while passing around the platters of meatballs and sausage to go with our bowls of pasta. Good times. Keep writing Maria!

    Comment by Lorraine Dobnack-Tucci — July 29, 2018 @ 10:18 am | Reply

    • Thanks, Lorraine. One, for taking me back with you to Little Neck while you and your family enjoyed meatballs and sausage with pasta. You made me feel like I was right there with you. And two, for always reading and commenting on my posts. It means so much to me!

      Comment by talesfromahungrylife — August 2, 2018 @ 10:16 pm | Reply

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