{"id":4346,"date":"2016-04-09T15:18:48","date_gmt":"2016-04-09T15:18:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/?p=4346"},"modified":"2016-06-25T15:19:16","modified_gmt":"2016-06-25T15:19:16","slug":"under-the-grape-arbor-maria-mazziotti-gillan","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/?p=4346","title":{"rendered":"UNDER THE GRAPE ARBOR &#8212; Maria Mazziotti Gillan"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>After dinner when I was a child we\u2019d walk from 17th Street<br \/>\nup the hill to visit my aunt and uncle, Zia Rosa and Zio Gianni.<br \/>\nZio built a huge grape arbor at least thirty feet long<br \/>\nand 20 feet wide down the center and lined up tables<br \/>\ncovered in oilcloth. He built a bench<br \/>\nthat ran all the way around the edges, where all<br \/>\nthe children would sit. Zia Rosa would give us<br \/>\ncream sodas and cookies and the women would sit<br \/>\nat one end of the tables gossiping in whispers<br \/>\nand laughing. The men would sit on the other end<br \/>\nplaying cards, talking politics, and drinking wine<br \/>\nin short glasses, peaches sliced into each glass.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMy father and the other men all made their own wine,<br \/>\nand at the same time each year, they made a trip<br \/>\nto the farmers\u2019 market to buy boxes of grapes. I remember<br \/>\nmy father lugging those boxes into the basement.<br \/>\nHe\u2019d wash the grapes, feed them into the wine press,<br \/>\nand then transfer them to the wooden barrel<br \/>\nwhere they\u2019d ferment, the aroma rising<br \/>\nthrough the floors into our cold water flat.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIf I close my eyes, I can still smell them.<br \/>\nMy father poured the wine into green gallon jugs<br \/>\nto be set out on our dinner table, one bottle at a time.<br \/>\nThen, he would pour the wine into a short water glass<br \/>\nand he and my mother would have one glass with each meal.<br \/>\nWe never got to drink this wine, except sometimes<br \/>\nat my uncle\u2019s house. My uncle made the best wine<br \/>\nof all the men, and he also made whiskey and liquor so strong<br \/>\na tiny glass could send even larger men reeling,<br \/>\nand he\u2019d encourage them to drink more than one<br \/>\nuntil they\u2019d stagger home. <\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMaria Mazziotti Gillan is a recipient of the 2014 George Garrett Award for Outstanding Community Service in Literature from AWP (Association of Writers &#038; Writing Programs), the 2011 Barnes &#038; Noble Writers for Writers Award from Poets &#038; Writers and the 2008 American Book Award for her book, <em>All That Lies Between Us<\/em> (Guernica Editions). She is the Founder \/Executive Director of the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College in Paterson, NJ, and editor of the <em>Paterson Literary Review<\/em>.  She is also Director of the Creative Writing Program and Professor of Poetry at Binghamton University-SUNY. Maria has published twenty books. Her most recent are the poetry and art collection, <em>The Girls in the Chartreuse Jackets <\/em>(Redux Consortium). <em>Ancestors&#8217; Song<\/em> (Bordighera Press), <em>Writing Poetry to Save Your Life: How to Find the Courage to Tell Your Stories<\/em> (MiroLand, Guernica) and the bi-lingual poetry collection, <em>In a Place of Flowers &#038; Light<\/em><em> (poems in English &#038; Italian with a preface by Elisabetta Marino, edited by Osvaldo Marrocco (San Mauro and Mia Mama).<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>After dinner when I was a child we\u2019d walk from 17th Street up the hill to visit my aunt and uncle, Zia Rosa and Zio Gianni. Zio built a huge grape arbor at least thirty feet long and 20 feet wide down the center and lined up tables covered in oilcloth. He built a bench [&#038;hellip<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":4350,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[219],"class_list":["post-4346","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry","tag-photo-by-jill-wellington"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4346","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=4346"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4346\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4351,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4346\/revisions\/4351"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/4350"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4346"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=4346"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=4346"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}