Happy Palm Sunday

Today is Palm Sunday and I am reminiscing about my great grandmother. Christened Almirinda Proscino, my great grandmother was born in the United States but returned to Italy as a young girl with her parents. Later in life, she married my great grandfather, Ciro Fiondella, boarded a ship to cross the Atlantic, and returned to her birthplace. (I never thought about it before, but my nonni (nawn-nee) was a TCK –a Third Culture Kid. That is, a child who grows up in a country that is not their passport country, like a Missionary Kid.) In Hamden, Connecticut, the Fiondella family raised their five children, one of which was my grandfather, George (my mother Carol’s father).

I remember Nonni today on Palm Sunday because we celebrated the holiday at her home each year. Palm Sunday in Connecticut is celebrated like nowhere else that I have lived (Florida, Indiana, Jamaica). I don’t know if it’s an Italian thing, a Catholic thing, or a New England thing, but Palm Sunday in Hamden was special.

Our large extended family arrived at Nonni’s abode after church on Palm Sunday. It’s difficult to describe how many people descended upon her humble home, think ala My Big Fat Greek Wedding and you’ll get the picture. Nonni had a huge garden in her backyard (huge from my childhood perspective anyway) where she grew eggplant, squash, tomatoes, etc. A trellis of grapes framed her back entrance, and wine fermented in the cellar (Communal wine, I’m sure).

The din of chatter, and laughter, greeted you at the door, and with the melody of All Glory, Laud, and Honor still ringing in your ears, strips of palms were fashioned into crosses and exchanged with loved ones. The smell of delectable treats tempted your taste buds. On Palm Sunday you had your choice of tea, coffee, soda, and assorted homemade delights: anginetti, angel wings, pignolli, ricotta pie, cannoli (oh, how I miss the food from my hometown). But it was the love that oozed out of every crevice of my great grandmother's being and home that I remember most. It was in every hug, in every kiss, in every tin of cookies, and in every dollar bill secretly crunched into your hand.

In many churches, Palm Sunday is a second-rate holiday, a precursor to Easter and not much more. But to me Palm Sunday is special. So wave your palms, give thanks to the Christ who rode triumphantly into the city, and bless your family on this special day.

Happy Palm Sunday.