You began working in a glass studio at fifteen. You were an artist. A talented woman, a kind-hearted creator, a towering beauty, an authentic environmentalist.
Decades later, I’d meet you as my future-mother-in-law, and we’d become the dearest of friends.
This post is dedicated to the working woman…
(I sketched Karole from an old photo – one I adore to this day. The 2 faded photo images are from Karole’s modeling days)
Ah, back when my son was little, and each daily word and thought was ‘mom-ish’
Way back – when I used to take photo pics of my kiddies. If Max struck this same pose today, He’d need a much larger towel❤️
(I deep-dove into my older WP posts this morning. I’m going to re-post some. I so enjoy the merging of image & words)
Hope you’re all managing
am:)
Sometimes, a hug can brace us for tomorrow
hope you’re all managing okay
am:)
A gleaming motorcycle arrived via flatbed to our suburban ranch. Six children are warned not to touch its chrome and attitude. Dad has never ridden a motorcycle before. He tells us he’ll be back later — he’s taking the bike across the George Washington Bridge. Wearing a button-up shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, black knee socks and brown loafers, no one ever looked more badass.
Across many years, our kitchen linoleum withstood the battering soles of six Roselli siblings and the endless march of neighborhood children.
In our home Sundays began with morning Mass book-ended by evening pasta. Tomato sauce was gravy. Mom’s gravy hid meatballs. Our forks would battle fiercely.
My ‘best’ friend lived across the street. Every Sunday night her family ate pierogies and their cars were shiny. Her older cheerleader sister drove a beige Pontiac Firebird. I loathed the color—fast cars must be kissed by fire. I’d never eaten pierogies. I’d never been invited into my friend’s home for dinner.
One evening I was invited over for Sunday pierogies. Filled with potato and pan-fried to a golden-buttery crisp. That night, rather than my beloved dreams of flying horses, I sailed upon heavenly-winged pierogies The following morning I prayed for God’s forgiveness.
(in my childhood kitchen – a photo op – i didn’t cook back then – i can’t cook now – i’m a horrid kitchen italian)
Three of us usually accompany her. Two of us push unwieldy shopping carts. Mom fills three carts every two weeks for nine ravenous people, one voracious dog, neighborhood visitors (back when it was quite common for neighbors to stop by) and of course, the Italians-the Italian relatives.
The store is bright. The bakery section smells of heaven. The produce aisle with its brazen display of foil-wrapped candies is my favorite. When Mom moves onto the adjacent aisle with two carts and one of our other sisters, my younger sibling and I begin stuffing our pockets.
Though Dolores and I believe these illuminated candies are ‘free’ — our better angels tell us to stow the candy deep.
Mom wouldn’t catch us for quite some time.
One of my favorite photos – Uncle Robert (Mom’s brother) always brought great gifts whenever he visited us from far-off California – this was the one visit he botched – then our smiling mother forced us to wear Uncle Rob’s gifts for a photo op. We were all quite miserable about it. Still – some of us attempted a smile…
Top row – left top right Grace, Virginia; bottom row – Robert, Vito, Dolores, me
Well, it’s official – no turning back now – 2025 here were go…!
am:)
Months ago, my son had asked me if I could recreate a painting for him. The particular artwork in question – he’d decided long ago – was his favorite of all time. Since I’d painted a picture of fish for his sister, I told him I’d create art for him too. The painting he wanted had been living as a blurry photo on his phone for quite some time. He’d seen the art – years ago – hanging on the wall of a restaurant.
Neither Max or I were able to locate a decent reference image – my son’s photo was so blurry in fact, I saw nothing but white in the air and dark lumps on the ground. My son’s description from memory was “men on horses and some cabins.” We went as far as returning to the restaurant (under new ownership for several years) and inquiring about the painting that had once hung on their far left wall.
Now I’ll tell you, I don’t like painting landscapes – I never have – meaning – I’ve avoided them my entire life – so my best attempts at recreating any are fake – I muddle my way through in an effort to get something close to the needle of credibility. The painting above is the result – my son – of course – loves it – because his mom made it for him. Any artist looking at this might smile and keep the honest review beneath the tongue.
And, as karma so often intervenes, months after I’d finished the painting, Max and I walked 2 blocks from the house to get coffee. The coffee-bar’s proprietor was a collector of books, art, antiques…and when we showed him the photo of my painting – he immediately knew whose artwork I’d been trying to recreate (in fact – the framed reproduction below was actually in another room of his coffee bar)- dang – was I off.
The Last Cantonment, 1783 – John F. Gould
John Fleming Gould (1906-1996) graduated from Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, NY, and later instructed at Pratt for 22 years. He was a prominent illustrator for the Saturday Evening Post for more than 8 years. Many of Mr. Gould’s works hang in private collections. He was partial to historical subjects, especially in the Hudson River Valley from the Statue of Liberty to Albany, NY.
I’ve provided more visual snow for some of you. who don’t really need to see anymore snow.
I hope you’re all keeping warm,
am:)
Too many mornings spent waiting. My Converse forever damp from crossing the neighbor’s lawn. Daily curb squatting since noticing the bony cat. Cereal bowl sloshing in my hands.
Finally on this damp morning the bony cat sidles near, laps up the Fruit Loop milk, then she bites me and sprints away.
I’m tiptoeing home to wash the blood off my thumb and to hug our German Shepherd who’s never bitten anyone except the paperboy but that was the day he tossed a Community Life at her head.
(Pictured here: back row left to right- my wise older sister Virginia, my baby sister Dolores sitting on Uncle Robert’s lap (mom’s brother), Grandma Gulli (mom’s mom), my other wise older sister Grace holding onto Tima, our beloved family dog, front row- my little brother Vito, I’m squatting in center. and our baby brother Robert in bouncy seat)
Danielle Imbo and Richard Petrone disappeared in 2005, in a time before cell phones and surveillance cameras. My brother, Vito, was the lead FBI agent on this case till retiring last year (mandatory retirement age — 57). This case remains the one case that troubles him still.
The brutal truth of Danielle and Richard’s disappearance remains buried within the tight-knit neighborhoods of Philadelphia. The Imbo and Petrone families continue to suffer with the open wounds of stolen goodbyes.
I do hope you listen to “There and Gone: Missing on South Street.”
The podcast is excellent, and all 10 episodes are now free-of-charge.
Thank you,
annmarie
Apple podcast “There and Gone: Missing on South Street”
iHeart podcast “There and Gone: Missing on South Street”
anntogether 