They sit on their front porches, dressed in colourful frocks or all-black outfits, staring at the street that lies beyond manicured lawns and altars to the Virgin Mary. Faces set to an unamused frown, they watch you shamelessly as you walk by; women quietly, men sometimes louder, yelling "Bella! Bella! Buonjourino!" They talk to neighbours in loud Italian, laughing and yelling from street to porch. One time, I even saw an old Italian woman -dressed in a moomoo and slippers- run out to her son's car as he was leaving, shouting in Italian and waving a Tupperware container filled with food. There was snow on the ground and she hobbled back to her home slowly, but she was happy that he would be well-fed.
Often times you can see these sweet old grandparents sweeping their porches, walkways, sidewalks and even the street in front of their house, f
ollowed closely by a quick spray-down with the garden hose. There are many puddles on sunny days in a Little Italy neighbourhood.
Little old Italian women are great.
