We interrupt this Substack...

to bring you a "Netti" announcement

Easter Monday morning I texted with my husband. He was in Louisiana for a conference. I was stuck in Ohio.

“Good morning…I almost don’t want to start my day…I don’t want to share this secret with anyone except you and three people in Oregon. I want to sit in this world of miracles and kindness and hope and the eternal spring and believe that humans are better than what we are.”

Scientists say this might be gerotranscendence, a state of natural evolution of aging that becomes not a narrowing, but an expansion – we move to a more soulful way of being and become less materialistic, according to Swedish scientist Lars Tornstam. Or maybe, I write more poetically when at a loss for other words. Regardless, the editor of my first book, Brooks Nohlgren, now a marketing agent for world’s largest ultra-luxury residential ship, posted about gerotranscendence on LinkedIn. Maybe she knows a bit about how people choose to leave every last bit of their old selves on land to reside as someone new at sea.

As the astronauts cruised around the dark side of the moon and expressed their views on the expansiveness of the universe, my world widened again too.

Our third grandchild, the first Januzzi grandchild for me, arrived Easter Sunday. And I became “Netti” again.

Once used as a moniker when my nieces and nephews were young and Aunt Annette was too cumbersome a name for their little mouths to form, Netti punched above it’s silly sound. While other nicknames ran the span of those related to shoes and Mouseketeers, none were more endearing than Netti. My dad called me “Net Marie,” my mother called me “Net,” and my baby sisters and older sister too. Always some version of Netti. Plus, one can never count out how much Aunt Lynne counts in my life, when she uses “Netti” to tell me something important.

Now, it’s my chosen grandmothering name. If the third time (of grandmothering) is indeed a charm, what I feel about becoming Netti again is another broadening of the mind, not time—an insistence with the megaphone I have, to think, how can we get this life right as human beings?

*

Growing up Italian and Catholic, Easter was a sacred day.

Yet, my siblings and I probably still fought, for whatever reason. Or my mother or father probably yelled at us to help with the raviolis, stop picking on your sister, etc. We called back, “How can you yell at us when we just came from church?” I wanted to give the current US president the same sermon. I don’t judge anyone whether they attend church, being a former “Chreaster” (Christmas and Easter) attendee myself. We all find our way to celebrate the glory of renewal. But he woke that morning, and continued to do so, and chose profanity and genocidal threats.

Easter morning, an hour after reading some of those first incredulous posts, my phone rang. Our son, Davis, calling from Oregon, at 5:30 a.m. PT. There was a rising timbre to his voice. I realized the time. Early on the west coast. “Hey Mom, we’re at the hospital….” That was all I heard. “DAVIS, DAVIS. Oh my gosh, It’s happening.” The baby was coming. Two weeks early. He didn’t get a word in otherwise, other than a promise to call.

I sat alone with this excitement, made the long trek to yoga, two miles, and made a long walk after. As I bucked against the new April winds, my mind swirled. I started playing songs that reminded me of meeting Davis’s father (Peaceful Easy Feeling), our wedding (Beautiful in My Eyes) and our life before baby (Italian Girls), our life with the baby (Only the Beginning) and during his dad’s cancer (You’ll Be in My Heart), and our life after cancer (Everything from U2’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind). And Davis as he has matured into a fine young adult. (Green Day, and Mr. Brightside immediately came to mind). And Closing Time, partially inspired by the lead singer becoming a father.

And finally, played while the yoga class was in Shavasana, “Here Comes the Sun” when tears strolled down my cheeks onto my purple yoga mat.

Holding this secret close to my chest, I remained alone all day, reading, charging my phone. Doing laundry, charging my phone. Panicked by 4 p.m., I texted Davis, “I don’t want to be ‘that mom,’ but updates would be appreciated.” Restless and distracted, I sat through an entire Easter dinner with my sister and family. I met my niece’s new boyfriend and could not execute my usual line of pointed questioning for anyone new wanting to break into the “family” and date one of my precious young family members.

Davis’ call came through while I was in my car, driving home. The reference to my first book about love and loss and his dad, “I’ll Be in the Car,” did not escape my subconsciousness.

A girl. Harper Jo. Healthy at 8 pounds-plus. Long, much longer than my short Italian ancestors could have imagined.

Headed home, west into the sunset, my spirit traveled to Oregon, to the hundreds of suns I had watch go dark over the coast. Nearly blinded by sunlight, I let go of the winter we’d been waiting to rid ourselves of.

Gradually and gracefully, I’d forgotten about the president’s posts by removing myself from the nastiness of his fake world. Certainly not the same world viewed by the astronauts from afar.

*

Another baby, another light in the world. Harper is the fourth baby this year in our extended family. She is also the fifth of the “oldest daughters” in this next generation our families. Strong women they will grow up to be. Already the pediatrician called Harper Jo “vigorous.” If you knew her mom, a DI soccer player, or her father, a devoted sportster, and Reds, U of O Ducks, and Rory fan, you’d understand.

We don’t need to wait for humans to expand their consciousness or to experience a gerotranscendence, to become what this gift of a baby deserves.

We already participate in a perennial magnificence—like Easter, or the constancy of the clock which brings us Spring when we emerge with melted hearts. The poet Joy Harjo once wrote how, for babies, “nothing quite prepares us for the abrupt shift to the breathing realm.” But what is our first breath meant to be, after we’ve waited in the womb, or after we expected Easter and Spring, or hoped for something better to arrive than the person who presides over the States, united? That first breath is meant to be one of safety, surety. Preciousness.

There is also a preciousness to belonging to the female gender. How each day, we take none of the rights—bestowed upon us as human beings capable of making our decisions for ourselves and our bodies—for granted. My writing always has had this at its core. A connection to the grandmothers and mothers, the women’s Team USA hockey team, the Epstein victims. Those who suffer in wars—always the women and children. And those who suffer at the polls.

My gerotranscendence is this: How will I, how will we, protect this little one’s breath, grant her safety, surety, preciousness, in all her years to come?

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For Mother’s Day, if you’re a paid subscriber, I’ll be pulling names from a soup pot and giving away two copies of Something Italian, signed and mailed to the person of your choice.

Here’s a share from the United Italian Society, reading about dialect in Something Italian.

April 11 - Italian American Museum, Cleveland. POSTPONED.

May 10 - Mother’s Day, Something Italian is the perfect gift for Mom! Paid subscribers will receive a special break on Something Italian. Look for an upcoming information in April!

May 15 - 7 p.m. Women Writing for a Change - Friday evening book talk

May 16 - 10 a.m. WWfaC - Finding Memoir in Food writing workshop. Renowned chef James Beard writes, “Food is our common ground, a universal experience,” providing us with a center as we seek commonalities among others.

Details.

July 28 - Caring for the Caregiver Writing experience, virtual, FREE. REGISTER. Contact Kara Pierson Harper. Phone: (513) 244-5494. Email: kpierson@muchmorethanameal.org.

Oct 15, Oct 29 - LitCleveland - Finding Memoir in Food. Sign up for LitCleveland here, or return here for details.

October 21 - Lloyd Library and Museum in partnership with Fotofocus, Presentation - Chestnuts: The New Comeback Kids.

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Other upcoming opportunities

West Virginia Italian American authors conference, Tuesday, August 25

Cleveland Book Festival

Cincinnati’s Books by the Banks