Tessa Rose

I was gone to Starbucks when the news you were coming arrived. My phone, which had scarcely left my side for the last several weeks as I impatiently waited on news of you, was sitting on my desk; the text message announcing that you were on the way sat unseen and unread on my phone, an eagerly awaited message that would have to wait just a little longer.

When I returned to the office, iced coffee and bacon gouda breakfast sandwich in hand, I absently checked my phone and saw the message I’d been waiting to see for weeks. “Your new niece is on her way!”

The thirty or so minutes after that are largely a blur to me. There was a lot of squealing, a lot of dancing around, a lot of running from office to office to share the exciting news. I called my Mama (your BB) first, as she’s the one that sent the text, and then I called Jennifer, your Mama, to see how everything was.

You were definitely on the way, she said, and before she drove herself to the hospital, she was going to stop at a fast food restaurant to grab some fries, because naturally, she was hungry. Labor’s hard work. This is your Mama. She’s the strongest woman I know. When she went into labor with Garrett, your big brother, she insisted on doing a load of laundry before she left the house. She’s like Super Woman on steroids, and if you’re anything like her at all, you’ll be amazing.

After much celebration at work, your Uncle Jeremy arrived to whisk me away to meet you. We went home, fed the cats (your cousins), grabbed the camera, and away we went. For a good twenty minutes of the hour-long car ride, I squealed intermittently. You can ask Uncle Jeremy. I was pretty excited and pretty annoying. It was about 5:00 by the time we were on the road, and Atlanta traffic can be a nightmare. But not that day. That day everything was perfect.

We made it to the hospital in plenty of time. You were in no real hurry. Your Mama was patient and calm, and for awhile, we just hung out with her and your Daddy in the hospital room. They would only let in two of us at a time, so we took turns. Me, BB, and your Papa. I would say the three of us were equally excited to meet you; we’ll always be your biggest fans.

The waiting room was crowded at first. Families came and went. Babies were happily announced, hugs were shared, even a few tears were shed, and still, we waited.

By 10:00pm, the waiting room was just me, BB, Papa, and Uncle Jeremy. We were ready for you to arrive, and an electric current of anticipation was buzzing in the room, but there was also a strange sense of calm. When your big brother arrived, I don’t think any of us were calm, but with you, things were different. After meeting you, I realized calm was just part of who you were.

We finally did get to meet you at about 1:00am. You were, and still are, beautiful. Your Mama was beautiful, too. When we came in the hospital room to see you and her, she looked amazing. We kept asking how everything went, and she would just shrug. Easy peasy. I know very few women who shrug after labor. I told you your Mama’s pretty amazing.

I’ve held you and kissed you and cuddled you close. Soon, you’ll be a week old, but I loved you before you were even born.

Tessa Rose, I wish you a life of giggles and bare feet, of ponytails and sunshine. I can’t wait to know you even better, to play with you and kiss your boo-boos and be the best aunt in the world. You’re already the best niece.  

  

 

Me and My Shadow

Daddy and Me

His boots would be sitting by the door; a day's work of sawdust and clay settled on them like the dusting of a first snow. They always fascinated me, those boots. I would silently watch him put them on sometimes, deft, weathered hands moving in a muscle memory dance that would always conquer that complex system of laces and hooks.

But he wouldn't have them on tonight. They would be sitting by the door, a reminder of obligation and worry that held no place in this nightly ritual.

He would have on a pair of boat shoes, shoes that I'd slipped my own small feet into a thousand times, and if his boots represented work and obligation, those boat shoes represented freedom and happiness.

After scooping up some kibble and tossing it into a bucket, we'd make our nightly trek through the backyard, up to the hill where Barney the basset hound would be waiting patiently for his meal. Our journey there would not be ordinary, and it would always be ours.

I'd follow beside him, my smaller steps matching his larger ones in a perfect rhythm, a Daddy-and-Daughter dance always with the same soundtrack.

He'd sing, "Me and my shadow, strolling down the avenue, do de do, do de do."

Every night. Just the same. The sun would be setting, and our shadows would stretch before us, tall and silly, as silly as he and I, singing and strolling and sharing that time together when boat shoes and a basset hound could chase our worries away.

I'm still my Daddy's shadow, always following in his much larger footsteps and remembering that no matter how old I get that will always be true.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy!

Patchwork of Love

Today, when driving in to work, I heard a phrase on the radio that I completely fell in love with. Two women were talking about their parents and how the relationship between their parents had shaped their lives. One of the women described seeing her mother and father exchange loving, tender glances. She stated that such moments helped build and shape a patchwork of love that would endure into her adult life.

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought. When I heard the words, I immediately imagined a huge, intricate quilt with vivid and unique patches, woven together with a myriad of different threads. I imagined that my own quilt could stretch far across the sky, wrapping the Earth itself in a warm, comforting embrace.

There would be patches of the strangers who darted in and out of my life and yet left an indelible mark of kindness.

Patches of animals and pets, their fuzzy souls making everything more fulfilled and complete, their friendship filling a gaping hole of loneliness through so many heartbreaks.

Patches of friends, those I can touch and those I can only speak to through words on a screen, but all of those who reached out and whom I reached out to for a lasting connection of laughs and tears, shared happiness and fears.

Patches of memories. Of Pawpaw. Of vacations to Florida. Of Easter egg hunts and Christmas mornings. 

Patches of the family I so adore, the blessing of a lifetime, the genesis of my own patchwork of love, the memories shared, the bond of blood, the certainty that if I ever need them they’re always just right there.

Patches of the man I love, the partner and friend. Patches of his hugs and kisses and the comfort of his smell and the sweetness of his heart. Patches woven together across great distances with a strong thread that cannot be broken or cut or torn apart.

I am blessed with patches of many shapes, sizes, and colors, but as beautiful as my own quilt is, I find myself even more marveled and mesmerized by the patchwork of love of others, by the differences I see in each. Because truly, the most incredible thing about a patchwork of love is that not everyone's will be built the same or look the same. 

Some will be sewn together later in life, past the dark days of an undeserved childhood, past the void left empty by those who should love you the most. Some love has to be built from the ground up with a family that may not be from blood but is instead from the heart. The threads of this patchwork are like steel.

Some, the lucky ones, are born with a patchwork already started for them. From the moment they are conceived, so is the soft quilt that will envelope them through childhood and on.

Some will endure rips, tears, burns. Some may even begin to unravel at certain times, but they will be sewn back together. They will from this darkness be stronger than ever.

Some patchworks...most I would say...will revolve around family. Families of all shapes and sizes and colors. Families brought together by the only thing that really matters: Love. These are the patchworks that will be so alike and so different. These are the patchworks that we all must embrace because of that common thread, that universal thread that bonds us all, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, or gender. 

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought, and the even more beautiful thought is that each person carries with them a patchwork of love and that each one is stunningly unique and yet always tying us together with that common thread of love. 


What does your patchwork of love look like? 

Source: inaweofapplique.blogspot.com via Kristin on Pinterest

I Was There

I was there...

...as a little girl, tucked tight with you in Mawmaw and Pawpaw's guest room, kicking you awake constantly with my flailing legs and arms. You probably hated having to share a bed with me, your annoying little sister, but I loved those nights; excitement would rush through me, the thought of a slumber party with my big sister would nearly overwhelm me. We'd lie awake and whisper to each other, sister secrets shared in the dark and away from adult ears.

I was there...

...helping you decorate for prom. Ducking behind you when your cute friends would come around. I lived in awe of your high school world, crushing on boys way older than me and worshiping you as the princess that you were. I was always just on the outskirts of your world, separate but a part of it because you allowed me to be a part of it. And those times when you didn't allow me to be a part of it? Well, I'd just tell on you like the brat that I was...and still am.

I was there....

...as we grew older, the nine years separating us became fewer and fewer, though the physical distance between us expanded. Friendship blossomed, and we were there for each other in new ways. Georgia Tech games, trips to Disney, phone conversations that would last for hours. Tough times came and went, and we had each other through it all; sisters and best friends. No one understood us like we understood each other, through both joy and pain.

I was there...

...when your water broke and a new adventure began. Labor didn't stop you from doing loads of laundry and offering to drive yourself to the hospital. You've always been strong like that...even when you think you're not, you are. The strongest person I know. And then you gave us Garrett, sweet, unique, handsome little Garrett, a new bond between us, another branch of love.

I was there...

...to watch you become a mother. Years of practicing with me, offering love and guidance, made you a pro. You handled the transition like a champ, though stresses would come and go. You began raising a polite, caring, and very nearly perfect little boy. Jeremy and I would talk about your skill and patience with him, the way you seemed to be born to be his mother.

I was there...

....and I am there. Through it all. Thick and thin. We're sisters. Alike in so many ways and just enough different to make it all more interesting and fun. I know I can call you anytime. I know I can count on you for pep talks and sharing tears. Miles may still separate us, but no distance could dampen our friendship and support of each other. Thanks for being the best big sister. Thanks for putting up with me when I was an annoying tag-a-long and tattletale. Thanks for seeing me through heartbreak and sadness. Thanks for sharing the many happy moments that build our lives.

And happy birthday!

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Before It Slips Away

You and Mawmaw

It seems odd to me that I hardly ever write of you, odd that I think of you almost every day and yet do not wrap my words around you and the memories I have of you. Why would that be? Why would you whom I love and miss so much almost never find your way into my words?

You're Pawpaw. I think of you often. I talk of you often. You're the man who gave me my love of cats. You're the man who paid me a dollar to scratch your back. You're the man who sailed the ocean and fed hungry sailors. You're the man who could talk for hours about nothing and about everything.

You defined my childhood; in many ways, you define my now.

The memories I have of you I keep close to my heart, cherishing each one, replaying them in my mind over and over, grasping constantly for the little pieces that might be slipping away. And yet, I write none of them down. Me: the writer of words, the recorder of thoughts and dreams and yesterdays.

Mawmaw spoke of you last night. Equal parts sadness and sweetness evident in her voice, tears and the ghost of you reflected in her eyes. She spoke, and I drank it all in, eager to hear stories I'd heard a thousand times before, eager to see you again through her words. And I did see you again.

Just as her story ended, she said something that pierced my heart and made me deeply ashamed.

"I wish I could write it all down. It could almost be a book."

I don't have many talents. I'm not particularly athletic or crafty. My cooking is mediocre at best. I don't paint or take photographs. But I do write. I write because I love to. I write because I'm driven to. I wish I could share my writing with you now. You don’t know how many times I’ve wished that.

Over the years, I’ve wished many things that involve you.

I wish you could have been there to see my horses, to see me and Danny sail over fences, to see Suzy looking so fine all prettied up for a show.

I wish you could have been there when I graduated high school and college…even though I felt you there in each moment.

I wish you could have met Jeremy. You would love Jeremy. He’s honorable and kind and so smart. A lot like you. He’s quiet though; you would’ve enjoyed ribbing him and uncovering that quiet exterior. You two could have talked on the porch for hours.

But I don’t have to wish one day that I had written your’s and Mawmaw’s stories down. I won’t wish that someday. Mawmaw may not be able to write it all down, but I can.

The story she told last night was about your time in the Veteran’s Hospital, back when you fought your battle against tuberculosis. For two years, you were away from Mawmaw and your children, my mother included, fighting to get well. For two years, Mawmaw visited you every weekend, wearing gloves and a mask and unable to even be near you or touch you.

It’s unfathomable to think of you, strong, virile, full of life, reduced to a bed and a hospital for two years of your life. But you were. You lost a lung, lost much of your physicality during those two years. Mawmaw says when they first took you into the hospital that you were so strong needles would break in the muscles on your arms. And when you left, for a long time you couldn’t even get a job because of your limitations and others’ fear that you could still be contagious.

It’s just like you to bounce back. It’s just like you to fight against all odds to rebuild your life and your family and do whatever was necessary to provide for them. And you did bounce back. You went on to live a full and happy life, with three children, six grandchildren, and Pawpaw, now you have five great grandchildren.

But that’s a story for another day, and I promise, Pawpaw, to write it all down.

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But, Now I See

It’s a surreal experience to sit through the same grandfather’s funeral twice in one lifetime. And yet, here I sit, surrounded by family and mouthing the words of “Amazing Grace” as the pastor strums along on his guitar.

I’m ashamed that I don’t know the second verse of “Amazing Grace,” and when I look across the room and see my grandmother, who has Alzheimer’s, singing along at the top of her voice with every word, it makes me even more ashamed.

Today is a good day. MeMe’s mind is sharp; her eyes are bright. It should be a sad occasion, but instead, it feels joyful and sweet. She seems happy, and that makes us all happy.

My grandfather, MeMe’s husband, has been dead for over sixteen years, but in her damaged mind, he died only recently. His death had been troubling her for a few weeks. She had begun asking Daddy and my aunt Claire daily when the funeral was going to be. One particularly hard day, she was ready to leave for the cemetery when Daddy arrived for his daily visit.

Daddy and Claire finally decided that a funeral was in order, something to put her mind at rest and give her some resolution.

Sitting here now, watching her smile and sing along with hymns that are as familiar to her as her own name, I know that they were right.

Alzheimer’s is a nasty disease. It picks and chooses the memories it destroys, leaving some and taking others without any rhyme or reason.

MeMe has vivid memories of the past. Daddy can ask her about neighbors they had thirty or forty years ago, and she remembers their names and the stories surrounding them. Most of the time, she lives in this vivid past, speaking of her Mama and Papa as if they were in the next room, speaking of her children as if they were still teenagers.

I often wonder where the present fits into this past, because, thankfully, MeMe still remembers the names of those in her present. When I visit, I see the recognition in her eyes, and I feel relieved that we have this, just this one thing that we can all still hold on to. In MeMe’s world grown grand-children and long-dead parents can exist together outside of any physical boundaries of time and space.

It’s a world you could almost envy, if you didn’t know any better.

Today, in this present, her smile is infectious, toothless though it may be. She beams it at all of us and keeps saying, “It’s a shame that something like this had to happen to bring us all together.”

And it is a shame.

We visit the Nursing Home as often as possible. Daddy and Claire are there nearly every day. But it’s hard. Life is moving on in the world outside of those walls that keep MeMe so closed in, life is moving on, and because it is, it’s easy to forget.

Which is pretty ironic when you think about it.

Daddy is constantly reminding us all that the people inside the Nursing Home are still people. They still have hopes and dreams and sadness. They have good days and bad days and days when they might not want to go on at all. They're trapped inside a place that reduces them to nearly nothing if we let it. So we mustn't let it, and thus, he reminds me often that those inside are people just like us.

I have to keep repeating this thought like a mantra when I go down the long corridors of the facility. I make it a point to meet the old eyes of each resident I pass, smiling kindly and offering a softly-spoken "hello" and "how are you."

Yes, it's hard to go there. It's hard to see those people trapped. It's hard to see MeMe in a tiny little room that's shared with another resident, a virtual stranger, whose name constantly escapes MeMe’s damaged mind.

But on days like today, when off-key church hymns fill the stale air and make an otherwise sad place happy, when MeMe smiles like she used to, and you almost forget where you are, it’s easy.



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These Hands of Mine

As I stood in the kitchen the other night, peeling potatoes and preparing supper for myself and my husband, I was struck by the motion of my hands. They slid over the potatoes confidently, quickly. They grasped the peeler with familiarity and determination.  They almost made me look as if I knew what I was doing.

And they so strongly reminded me of my mother’s hands that it caused me to stop for a moment and stare. I was mirroring the motions that I’d watch her make a thousand times before; it was almost as if they were her hands.

I’ve always been ashamed of my hands. They’re slightly pudgy. Stubby looking, if you ask me. But looking at my hands as I peeled those potatoes, I saw my mother’s beautiful, elegant fingers, and I saw just how much of her I had inside me, even in my hands. It was surreal to look down and realize that such a simple thing, a thing that I’ve taken for granted a thousand times before had actually become a part of me.

Looking at them then, in the clarity of that moment, I realized that my pudgy and homely hands were in fact the perfect and beautiful combination of both her and my father’s hands, though they may not look like either.

From Mama, these hands of mine can confidently create meals for my family, meals that bring me joy and pride as I almost instinctively follow in her footsteps in the kitchen. And it’s so much more than peeling potatoes. I see her also when I tenderly touch the forehead of a sick husband, back of hand to skin, pursed lips, a softly spoken, “Are you alright?” And it takes me back to days when only a Mama could set things right again.  

And of course, l see Daddy’s hands, too, in every callus and scar on mine. When I was in high school, I had an after school job at a local barn. I cleaned stalls and fed horses and basked in every moment of it. It was a hard job. There were days when I didn’t want to go, especially when it rained. But I always went, and on those days, Daddy would work alongside me, knee-deep in mud and manure, his hands competently helping his teenager earn money to buy books and movies and all of the things she wanted and loved. He didn’t have to, but he did.

I see his hands in mine, too, when I take the hands of my nephew to either toss him towards the sky or to keep him from bolting away in the way that toddlers are wont to do. I remember holding Daddy’s hand like that as a child, hanging from his strong grip like a monkey and knowing that he would never let go.

When I look down now, I see my own hands travel furiously over the keyboard. They’re always racing to get the next word down and to breathe life into a character or a feeling. They are my hands, pudgy and homely at worst. At best, like me, they are the sum of all my parts and the parts of the people who raised me. 

Author's Note: Sometimes all it takes is looking at a "flaw" in a new way to realize it may not be a flaw after all. I don't think I'll ever see my own hands in quite the same light again. 

What do you think of your own hands? What do you see when you look down at them?

A Bowl Cut, a Boggin, and Barney

I laughed. The giggles kept me warm against the unfamiliar cold snap that invaded our typically mild Southern winter. Mama also kept me warm, her arms and legs pulled tight around me as we situated ourselves on the red plastic sled.

Our normally gravelly street was slick with fresh ice, and a sled that rarely saw the light of day was dragged from underneath the house and given a chance to reveal its true purpose. I had never seen so much snow. Later, the snow fall would earn its own name: The Blizzard of '93. But to me, a ten-year old with a bowl cut and a boggin, it was simply paradise.

Daddy tested the sled first, slipping down the hill fast and laughing like a little boy. Barney, our Basset Hound, was right behind him the whole way, baying at the top of his lungs. Looking back, I guess Barney was just laughing along with us, but it was us who got the last laugh when poor Barney couldn't make it back up the slippery hill. Daddy had to carry him back up, and after that initial sled launch, we learned that someone had to hold Barney's collar while the sled glided its way down the hill or else we'd be stuck carrying eighty pounds of Basset Hound up and down the hill all afternoon.

I laughed then. At the joy of sledding, the silliness of a family dog, the simple happiness of an afternoon with my family.

I laugh now. At my Mama and my sister's matching perms, my puffy lavender coat and ugly white boots, the memory of my Daddy carrying Barney up that hill.

I treasure the laughter and the memories of that Southern snow, now frozen in time forever.

Author's Note: This was written in response to the following prompt from Write on Edge. 

Everyone has a favorite photo of themself, whether it’s a childhood snapshot, a professional graduation or wedding photograph, or a close-up taken amongst friends.

Some say a photograph steals the soul. This week, show us yours: take us into the moment that photograph was taken. Show us who you were then and what the photograph means–in 300 words.

What memories do you have of sledding?

My Dearly Departed Diabetic Cat

I clapped my hands and jumped from foot to foot. The squeal that was building in my chest would burst out any moment but that wouldn't do; it might scare them away. I tried holding my breath to keep the sound stifled. PawPaw was down on his hands and knees, reaching through weeds and into the darkness below the blue utility building. He grunted, and I watched the spot where his hand had disappeared under the building, eyes wide with wonder and anticipation. "Gotcha." He said and moments later pulled out a tiny grey kitten.

He turned to me with his blazing grin and presented the tiny fluff of fur. From the moment he dropped her into my hands, I was in love. You see PawPaw had a thing for cats, and he'd passed on his thing for cats to me, his youngest granddaughter. Neither of my parents ever fully understood my connection with animals as a child, but PawPaw did. He loved them like I did, cats most of all.

Little Bit's newest litter resided under the blue utility building. It was PawPaw's intention to get them out so I could admire them up close-like. The first kitten he pulled out was enough for me though. I can remember sitting down in the cool grass and pressing her to my chest. She mewed softly at me and gazed up out of nervous green eyes. She was perfect. From that point on, every visit to MawMaw and PawPaw's was spent with the kittens and that perfect little grey kitten in particular. I wanted to take her home with me, but like most parents, mine weren't too keen on adding another member to the family, especially one that they assumed I would tire of within a few months.

But I wasn't to be deterred, and I enlisted the help of PawPaw in developing a plan. My parents had dropped me off at Kitten Haven while they went on a date night. While they were gone, PawPaw and I plotted and planned, thinking of various arguments and reasons why I needed that grey kitten. By the time my parents returned, we had our script perfected. They didn't stand a chance against us. That night, I rode home with the grey kitten in my lap.

The kitten never really got a proper name. We called her Kitten for awhile, and with our Southern drawls, her name eventually developed into Kidden. Because PawPaw gave her to me, she was more special than any pet I'd ever had and will probably ever have since. She would prove to be an inextricable tie to him even after he passed away from cancer only a few years later.

I loved that cat with a fierce passion that only a child can possess. I grew up with her, rarely can remember a time when she wasn't there.

When she was twelve-years old, she became sick. We took her to several veterinarians, desperately searching for what was causing her severe weight loss and dehydration. Eventually, she was diagnosed with diabetes. The vet advised that most owners of diabetic animals had to make the tough decision to euthanize their pet, simply because the time and money involved in caring for a diabetic pet was overwhelming. He explained that Kidden wouldn't live much longer anyway, no more than six to nine months.

By this time, PawPaw was no longer with us. Kidden reminded me of him and kept his love alive for me. I couldn't bear the thought of losing this last part of him. We decided to try the vet's recommendation of feeding Kidden a special diabetic food and giving her insulin shots twice a day. Have you ever given a cat a shot? Well, trust me when I say, it's not pretty.

Kidden went on to live for two more years. She died just a few months after Jeremy moved to Georgia. I think she was making sure I had someone else to love before she left. I still haven't quite gotten over her passing. When I think of her, I think of PawPaw and all the wonderful times we shared. I'm so grateful for the time I had with him and all the memories he gave me. I'm so grateful for that little grey kitten that would watch over me for him when he wasn't there to do it himself.

Do you have a special pet that still carries your heart?

Don't Cry Because It's Over...

It's so hard to believe that it's over. As much time as I spent looking forward to it, preparing for it, planning it, and dreaming about it, the actual time spent on my vacation was gone in a flash. I suppose that's true for everyone, and I don't know about y'all, but I get sick of that. Sick of working all the time. And time at work never goes by fast...no way, no how. But whatever, that's life as they say.

We had a wonderful time in Blue Ridge, which is where we spent our mini-vacation. Every year my parents rent a cabin and invite me and my husband, along with my sister, her husband, and my precious nephew to join them in the relaxation and beauty of the North Georgia mountains. This trip was another great one. We fished, hiked, read books, and just enjoyed each other's company. My nearly two-year old nephew hunted Easter eggs on Sunday, and on Saturday night, we celebrated my sister's and her husband's birthdays which are coming up in the next couple of weeks. My brother-in-law had complained a few weeks ago that he never gets anything "fun" for gifts, which I supposed is pretty true. We always get him practical things like clothes or socks, so this year I made it a point to fill his birthday bag with "fun stuff." A whoopee cushion, a paddle ball, and a water gun. The whoopee cushion was a huge hit, and for the rest of the trip, we were all victims of it at various times. Nothing seems to make a man happier than farting noises.

source

Along with happy memories and a couple of cheap souvenirs, we came back from this trip with an unfortunate, deceased victim. Our laptop died. *cue sad music* It lived a good life (although not a very long one), but alas, it has moved on to a better place. All of our pictures, music, and my manuscript were on it, so keep your fingers crossed we can recover the data! And another problem we're facing is that our desktop computer has been on the fritz for years now, so right now I don't have anything I can really work on. Just getting this post up took a lot of work and loading time. We're in the market for a new laptop, so if anyone has any suggestions (or warnings of brands or types to stay away from) let me know.

I'm going to catch up on all my favorite blogs asap. I've missed you guys!

Oh, and happy day! My feature at For the Love of Blogs was just posted. Check it out!

A Family Affair at La Trattoria on the Square

Some restaurants just feel comfortable. From the moment you walk in, you're enveloped in a sense of home and family. La Trattoria on the Square in Carrollton, Georgia is one of those restaurants. Even its name suggests this restaurant's homey ambiance. According to the back of the menu, "la trattoria" refers to a type of eating establishment in Italy that is usually family-run and casual, and this La Trattoria fits its name to a tee. This unassuming and cozy restaurant makes great use of the space, which is pretty small but beautiful. Exposed brick walls, hardwood floors and ceilings, you can practically feel the history of the building as you eat.

The entire restaurant consists of no more than 25 tables. A tiny corner restaurant in a tiny corner building on historic Adamson Square: a stark contrast to the "Italian" restaurants many of us are used to with generic menus and stale atmosphere. Nope, there was nothing stale about La Trattoria, and this applied to the food as well.