Goomba is Italian slang for friend, and I’m a good one, and stay one, no matter what you do.
“Oh, so they dug up heads in your backyard? Hmm, are you in jail? Can I bring you anything?”
“I just shot my husband.”
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry…did ya eat?”
It’s the Italian in me, all accepting.
I learned to be loyal when I was little, from my grandfather who’d say, “Don’t tell on Fluffy, say you don’t know who ate the goldfish.”
I was 3, and you couldn’t beat a confession out of me.
Omerta’, the Italian code of silence, was already embroidered on my bib.
We lived in a two family house and he and my evil grandmother and her wooden spoon, resided on the first floor.
Grampa made wine on his side of the cellar. Vino: 1 and 2, one being weak, but you’d have to hand over your car keys before you’d get near a jelly glass of Vino Number 2.
I’d sit on a stool and watch while he stirred and sang Scilian songs, and when it was ready, he’d always give me a little taste with the added reminder, don’t tell your mother.
One day I tooled back upstairs and there she was, gazing into her crystal meatball. “You were just with Grampa, weren’t you?”
Uh-oh.
“Did he give you wine? If you tell me the truth, you won’t get punished.”
Well, imagine Clemenza ratting on the Don. She could have hung me on meat hooks and there was no way I’d be squealing on Grampa.
Despite knowing I was already cooked, like the lasagna in the oven, I still said, “No.”
Well, me and my dolls were separated for a month after that, because unbeknownst to me, I had a little red mustache that told all.
I had yet to learn…hide the evidence…even if it’s in the backyard.
SB 
Definitely Italian, Susannah, when you have a red mustache instead of a milk stash, ha ha! I love your line about the crystal meatball.
My girlfriend’s son must be Italian. In his late 40s he still insists it was the cat (long gone) that tapped and broke their TV screen with a hammer.
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See, I totally get that. No true Italian ever squeals. A silly piece. Funny what one remembers. Thanks.
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My grandfather was like that too (or so I heard…he died when I was too young to know him). He always gave my brothers wine but everyone lied to grandma or there would be BIG trouble. They must have know about the red mustache because no one got caught (or she wisely let it go).
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Boys are craftier. I was little and in dreamland, even then. sigh
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I knew it! I knew you had super training for being the good Samaritan you are! People trust you now because they sense the Italian iron underneath. We should all pause and say a prayer of thanksgiving for your marvelous grandfather.
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He was the kindest soul I’ve ever known. It all began with him. Give till it hurts and never betray another.
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Good words to live by.
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Damn that red mustache! You were so close…
I love the idea of different generations of family living under one roof. There are homes here in the city called the “Holy Trinity” style. They were built for generational living.
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I never heard that term before. Love that. Tiers of cousins, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and their wooden spoons. Like the Don’s house. Connie, after Michael offs Carlo. Fredo, before Neri takes him sailing. Italian living. sigh
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Mangia!
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🙂
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I love your writing, Susannah, just gotta say. I wish I could write like this. I can’t believe how many posts I’ve missed while I was away and busy. It’s been too long. 🙂
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I can’t believe you just read them all. You’re such a pal.
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