On Pandemic Fatigue, and the Power of Ritual

On Palm Sunday morning, I did what I’ve done most Sundays during the past year: sat in front of a television, watching a Roman Catholic mass, drinking coffee. The pandemic, having shut down churches previously, now allowed for limited seating if you wanted to attend in person, but I hadn’t taken the leap yet.

I wondered whether my attempt at community contribution (protecting others from an improbable but possible COVID infection) had turned into inaction, based in fear.

Others, some much older than myself, had no problem with live attendance. I still sat in my living room.

Not a good look at all for someone that likes to preach “go for it!”

Pandemic weariness, for me, had reached its peak. With cases in New York, especially upstate, on a steady decline I decided enough was enough. On Easter Sunday, I would make the short drive downtown and set foot in St. Anthony’s Church for the first time in over a year.

Media has beat the drum ad nauseum on pandemic fatigue, and its effect on you psychologically. My fatigue was slightly different. I told my wife early last year I had no problem going into “monk mode” for six months, if necessary. We adapted well to enjoying just spending time with each other with very limited outside interaction.

Much had changed in the past year: my wife was no longer working, I transitioned to working from home, and worked in an office space that I now shared with my son. College campuses were off limits, and Zoom became his lifeline.

Although new rituals were born after March 2020 to preserve sanity for many of us (running outdoors was my lifeline), we were able to maintain some of the ones we loved most.

No, there was no live music. No trips to baseball stadiums. No trips, or travel, period (and in early 2020, we had our bags packed before canceling).

It was a “back to basics” scenario, no question. But having being brought up the way I was, with frequent reminders to enjoy life as it came, I was taught to embrace the simple pleasures.

Although I’m “American made” in the purest sense, my roots run deep in Sicily, and southern Italy. The simple things, the fundamentals, stay with me always and were strengthened during the past year.

Faith, tradition, food & wine, community, gratitude: not necessarily in that order.

Related reading: 8 Happiness Rules (That You Can Use) From My Italian Grandmother

We thought we had nailed the gratitude thing long before COVID-19. But the realization set in that we had new things to be happy about. No more commutes or compressed schedules, more time together.

Our coffee ritual just got better with the increased time. The grinding of the beans, scooping of the grounds into the espresso pot (no Keurig here, kids), the anticipation of the boiling sound, preceded by that steamy hiss. To be poured out, cup with cream and cinnamon, and enjoyed on the back deck even in slightly frigid early spring temperatures.

Yes, I’m very grateful for coffee.

As you might expect, we cooked at home more than ever before. Although I perceive myself as some kind of meatball wizard (nod to the Who’s “Pinball Wizard” here), my wife is the true kitchen maven in this house, seemingly becoming more creative with each passing week.

As before, she is the true glue that holds this family together.

The majority of our meals came from our kitchen. Small businesses, especially restaurants, suffered mightily during this craziness and are just starting now to mount a furious comeback (labor shortage not withstanding). We hope we did enough to support some of our local small businesses even if we couldn’t, or chose not to, sit in their dining rooms.

Related reading: A Former Bartender’s Ask of You

With the three of us in our household choosing to vaccinate, we have sat in those dining rooms recently. Our experiences from these dedicated food service workers were nothing less than extraordinary. Attendance at Easter mass led to more of the same, leading to small dinner parties, to reuniting with my cousins at my favorite coffee hangout on the Sundays after mass.

I hadn’t seen some of them in over a year. I was thankful to have another opportunity.

In the end, I had the feeling we made a narrow escape: coming out the other side with health, life, and the important things within fairly intact. This life is brief, however, so I want more, of course.

I look forward to a concert hall guitar solo, the swelling roar of a baseball stadium, or crossing the Atlantic on a jet plane when those opportunities happen.

It’s the same for all of us: this life ain’t no dress rehearsal.

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Why I Love That Chip on Tom Brady’s Shoulder

Featured photo by amny.com

As a fan of the New York football Giants, my opinions of Tom Brady ran the gamut from mild distaste to unwavering suspicion (think: Deflategate).

Brady, even with his success, could be viewed (albeit rarely) as an unfortunate figure: with two crushing Super Bowl losses to New York, fueled by game saving Eli Manning passes that could be described as nothing less than miraculous (check out the freakishly accurate throw to Mario Manningham in Super Bowl XLVI).

Even with those two unlikely defeats, last week Brady secured his seventh Super Bowl win in 10 attempts. To label him the greatest of all time is making an understatement.

With his successes comes my growing admiration: even as a Giants fan, I recognize Brady’s humility and praise of his team’s efforts to buoy that success. Even better, he knows he’s an older guy that needs to work even harder to sustain the levels he’s reached.

At 43 years old, he is the oldest quarterback to start a Super Bowl game.

That’s the reason I’m now fond of Brady: not much younger than myself, he lives and plays with a certain fire. Never satisfied, and still with a gigantic chip on his shoulder.

If you’re a man, in your 40s or 50s, and not inspired by Brady’s exploits, you should see your doctor and have your testosterone checked.

The chip on his shoulder, formed by being drafted out of college in the sixth round (even now, it sounds ridiculous), has never been worn down by the swells of his success. Even behind that smiling face and “aw, shucks” demeanor, you know his attitude is to burn the most competitive foe.

As someone that has experience with chip on shoulder syndrome, I can relate. The chip on me formed as a middle schooler, overweight and an easy target, and segued into a Stallone inspired workout regimen and steely resolve into fighting shape. That chip has never wavered, and into my late 50s, I still pursue the ideal of what will be the best physical shape of my life.

There is no other alternative than to go down fighting. With Brady, you can just sense his never quit mentality.

With as much as I hold my example close to heart, to be fair, it’s a small one. I have family, relatives who were crucial in setting the table of prosperity that we sit at now, to give the most credit.

Picture this: your father, a successful businessman, and your mother, a healer, pull you from your home because of outside criminal threats. Mayhem and violence.

You leave your home country, landing by boat to the bleak skies and bitter winds of New York City. We’re not in sunny Sicily anymore.

In your previous life, you had relative luxury – even with staff to help you keep house. In the new land, you are nothing: in some eyes, less than nothing. You now have nothing. The tables have turned. You are now the servants.

That’s how, as a child, my grandmother’s story started. The nucleus of my grandfather’s story isn’t vastly different. For them to survive – to hell with the concept of succeeding – they needed a chip the size of a boulder to plant on their already weary shoulders.

They had them. And they made it. Through sheer force of will, with the strength of their backs and resolve, they built lives, businesses, communities, and a deeply appreciative family.

To say my grandmother and grandfather were ferocious competitors in the game of life would be yet another understatement, on the same level of calling Brady a decent quarterback.

No matter what type of shit storm they had to persevere through – and there were plenty of them – they never stopped moving forward. They were, as I’ve often said, relentless.

Watching Brady meticulously call audibles and throw passes last Sunday, to keep a lightning fast Chiefs defense on its heels, I didn’t think of comparing future fortunes of two unrelated, underrated underdogs: whether a late blooming college player, or the immigrants that spent so many years working to shape our own destinations.

The conclusion I came to draw is undeniable: with the team I always had around me, I was set up to win big games my entire life.

My “Resolution” – Same As It Ever Was

Cape Cod: October 2020

As waves ripple against the sandy shores of Chapin Beach, I’m sitting on a patio chair on a second story deck, staring out into the Atlantic. With coffee in hand, I shield myself from the early autumn chill by zipping up my trusty Adidas windbreaker. The rest of my dress signals a refusal to let go of summer’s promise: running shorts and bare feet.

It’s a favorite pastime for me: looking out into the ocean’s horizon, watching birds dive bomb the waves, scanning that horizon for boats in the distance. My wife stirs in the kitchen of the beach front house where we’re staying, prepping a breakfast of a protein smoothie or pastry, depending on the mood.

It’s been said that listening to the ocean waves, along with the smell of the sea air, is a great tool for getting your head on straight, bringing you back to center when life may have thrown you off course. It’s a prescription I like to take a regular dose of, without fail.

After breakfast, we’ll take a 30 minute walk along the beach, barefoot in the sand, completing another perfect morning ritual.

A Year Like No Other

This pandemic has throttled most people’s lives into a tailspin, and although there seems to be light at the end of the tunnel, it’s looking like we still have a few months to try to get through unscathed further. If you haven’t fallen ill because of the virus, chances are you’ve been impacted either financially or psychologically, or both.

There have been numerous bright spots. We’ve witnessed a great resolve and resilience from front line workers helping to solve this puzzle. On a personal level I’ve been able to fulfill a goal to work remotely, ditch my commute, and spend additional time with family.

With that last factor, I noted this: the more time I spent with my wife, the deeper into 2020 we got, I felt more confident that days would be better on the other side. Although she doesn’t always see herself in this light, her strength and ability to continue to keep us connected in isolation was a candle burning into the darkness of an unpalatable year.

Strong women have helped shape my life for a long time. She took the baton from the women in my family, notably my godmother and my grandmother, among others. Their influence was similar: in times of strife, their strength was displayed in subtle ways, such as nurturing in the kitchen, providing security, and peppering conversations with hints on how you used adverse situations to become a better person.

“Life is precious” and “it’s later than you think” weren’t phrases just tossed around casually: words like that were my grandmother’s mission statement, tinged with life experience of many times of strife, adversity, loss.

The Sicilian immigrant factor is the reason why my one “resolution” at year’s beginning remains the same, and may always: to uphold the traditions of the family that I grew up with, and create new ones with the family I have now. To get better at them, pay homage to them more frequently, little by little.

Get Your Reps In

Throughout the year, my wife exemplified this. With every social connection, every meal prepared, every creative project to make our house an inviting home, we kept long standing tradition in mind, while planting the seeds of new ones to come.

Minestrone, our perfect example of “cucina povera” that my wife has mastered over hundreds of reps

To keep tradition from extinction, whether it be the ritual of forming and frying meatballs, leading your family in a dinner time prayer, or making the best damn coffee (words of a friend) your social group will ever sip; practice, and repetition, makes perfect.

As with anything in life, extending traditions, as well as creating new ones, requires “getting your reps in.” The way my Sicilians and southern Italians did, every day, without fail.

In his book Living With a SEAL, author Jesse Itzler recalled Navy SEAL and extreme endurance athlete David Goggins being asked by acquaintances about a resolution for the upcoming new year. Goggin’s statement was simple:

“I’m going to do the same shit I’ve always been doing. I’m just going to do it better.”

I couldn’t think of a better resolution myself. Happy New Year, friends.

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Up With the Birds: Nature Appreciation, and My Growing Sicilian Tendencies

When I was a younger man, things were pretty straightforward, without much confusion.

You were expected to act a certain way. Dress a certain way. Treat your elders with respect. Show up to the dinner table most nights, but especially on Sunday afternoon. That was a non negotiable.

Once I turned 12, it was time to stop slacking and help out in the family business, albeit on a very part time basis. Household chores were a necessity as well, whether in my parents’ house, or the modest brick ranch where my grandparents’ lived.

When my cousin Anthony got too busy with life to mow my grandparents’ half acre of land with the smallish 20″ cut push mower, and trimming hedges that covered the entire fence line, he handed the reigns to me.

I always wondered why he would perspire so much, in the summer heat, doing that job. It didn’t take me long to find out.

Between navigating tree trunks, pushing up inclines, and squeezing through shrubs with their sharp, pointed branches, being my grandparents’ personal landscaper turned out to be an intense job, manual labor that I couldn’t outsource to other relatives even if I tried (and I did try).

When the chore was done, mower and trimmer put away, t-shirt wrung out from two plus hours of sweat accumulation, I was hoping to go into the house to an offer of a couple of gallons of cold water.

The refrain remained the same: “How about a nice, hot cup of coffee?”

Nonna Rosina’s Wild Kingdom

That yard, with its plentiful gardens, grape vines, and fruit trees was the source of some confusion during my teenage years.

I had never seen animals quite like the ones in that yard. Birds were bloated, squirrels had the shape of Sherman tanks, and chipmunks ran wild in numbers that I had never quite seen on my own property.

Nonna, who always indulged in recycling before it became cool, didn’t waste a morsel of food. If it wasn’t eaten at the family table, it made its way to the patio or the grass, for the birds and animals to enjoy.

Obviously, this wasn’t regular bird food. If there was leftover spaghetti, that went out. Snack food that didn’t get eaten? Out the door.

When she was done making her 20 pounds of homemade bread crumbs with whatever stale bread she had lying around the house, she was more than happy to spread the scraps around for the squirrels hiding in the bushes, waiting for the latest bounty to drop.

The only thing that wasn’t offered was the obligatory cup of coffee. These animals probably had a no caffeine rule for their diet.

Any confusion ended there. My grandmother willingly put them on the high carb plan, probably admonishing them for being “too skinny” and “not eating enough.” Like all good Sicilian grandmothers do.

Nowhere to Be But Home

Since we were all encouraged to spend the majority of time at home these last few months, venturing elsewhere only when necessary, the three of us (including my son) took advantage of nicer early season weather, with a lot of that time spent on our back deck.

My wife planted her usual number of herbs and flowers, with some pots added later. We noticed, during morning coffee sessions on the deck, the birds and animals in the yard seemed more prevalent.

Maybe it was just the fact that I was no longer commuting to an office and developed more of an appreciation, but the yard seemed more alive than ever.

The bird species we observed each day were plentiful: cardinals, blue jays, sparrows, cedar waxwings, finches of different colors, robins, orioles, doves, and a coopers hawk or two that used our property for his personal hunting ground.

And, of course, we had squirrels take over the land in large numbers.

My wife had always tossed out bread and other items for the birds to enjoy if we weren’t going to use it. Now, as I began spending more time than ever on our deck, I started doing the same: lining small pieces of bread along the wooden rails, then flinging some to the ground below, waiting for the bird buffet line to form.

Just like any good Italian grandmother.

It didn’t stop there, however. When we did have a couple of guests this summer on our deck, or a nice socially distanced dinner party, I found myself defaulting to the same type of service standards that Nonna made obligatory:

“Want some coffee?”

“A little more on that plate? I’m going in the kitchen…”

“You’re finished?? We still have some left on the stove!”

You might think I (or my wife, for that matter) do it just for the guests. That wouldn’t be the case. Whenever I offer coffee, or espouse my love for what we just put on a guest’s plate, or compliment them on their eating prowess, I’m staying true to my genetic code. In a small way, keeping a flame of tradition still flickering; even if it is getting more difficult to do these days.

The guests are the recipients, but there’s no mistake I’m doing strictly for myself.

My grandmother gave, nurtured, and cherished her closest relationships with symbols of unerring hospitality. As I grow older (but not old; let’s get that straight right now!), those symbols that I recognize as part of my bloodline are my obligation to move forward.

Fine feathered photos by Gabrielle DeGiorgio

Immigrant Influence: The Trickle Down Effect of Work Ethic

img_0703-1 — My great uncle Mariano – gardener extraordinaire

As I stood in the kitchen, awaiting my instructions, the elderly cook ambled over. A gentleman named Frank, he had worked in restaurants for a long time. His chore now was to help me, an out of shape 12 year old, showing up for his “first shift.”

“That dish rack is kind of heavy, let me help you with that.”

The dishwasher, obviously of the industrial variety, had racks that were just as heavy duty. Frank lifted it gently, probably thinking that this kid with the soft body wasn’t going to handle it.

And so began my work life. At the age of 12. Very part time to be sure, but physical work nonetheless. Helping out in my family’s restaurant just wasn’t a job for me to do – it was time for me to be indoctrinated into the work ethic of my family, my community.

School work, and hanging out with my friends, was going to be the focus for me at that age. But in an Italian American family, that didn’t mean you couldn’t supplement it with little jobs here and there – or helping out with the family business.

My family never pushed me to adopt a work ethic… but I had plenty of examples of watching them work jobs or run businesses, then go back to the well for more toil, including:

My great uncle Tony, tilling the soil of a large garden after finishing his day at his city job (he was a beast – with forearms of titanium and even stronger grip).

My grandfather, going to tend bar at the family restaurant after a shift at the factory.

His brother, Mariano, trimming and pruning grape vines and branches until his white tee shirt was soaked with sweat (photo at left).

My grandmother, cooking for her family after hours spent prepping meals for hundreds of restaurant customers.

For years, I attempted to follow in the footsteps of my role models with unbridled enthusiasm – working double shifts at the family restaurant, years later spending 60-70 hours a week in sales as a road warrior, and during one period having two or three gigs just to cover ridiculous health insurance costs right before my son was born in a local hospital.

I was always tired, but I was satisfied. No one could question my capability for work. I proved to have the same stamina as the immigrants that paved our way.

“Success is my only…option, failure is not!” – Eminem

If it’s a theory that some kids may lack work ethic today, doing nothing but constantly immersing themselves via Netflix, social media, or other forms of entertainment.

Don’t blame the children for this, as adult role models are hard to find. If their parent(s) aren’t themselves relying on constant entertainment or wasting time scrolling and swiping through their (“smart”) phones, they could still be tagged with letting their children get away with not developing a work ethic.

Which, in the long run, helps no one.

Our kids knew (if not on their first day, shortly thereafter) that kind of thing would not fly. That taking the easy way out was not an acceptable option. Whether it was doing the work to excel in their classes, picking up after themselves, or doing chores/ holding jobs to earn their own money, they got the message that their work was going to matter.

We were, and are, teaching them the same work habits as we were taught by parents, grandparents, and extended family – who I assume would be happy with the acceptance of their way of the working life.

Italian American Podcast founder Anthony Fasano wrote in an article: “I am confident our ancestors would never tell us to let up on our aggressive and passionate approach to life,” as well as:

“Our ancestors had to hustle to survive. They worked themselves to the bone every day; their families depended on it. We are here because of their hustle, and now that same forceful work ethic is ingrained within us.”

Don’t like the word “hustle?” No problem – a lot of people don’t. For those that think the word’s been overused, feel free to use success, grit, determination, diligent, persevering, relentless.

I’m comfortable with them all – for my Sicilians and Southern Italians embodied the words.

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