This episode is titled: Healthcare on Federal Hill.

When my sisters were about six or seven years old, one of them fell seriously ill with a throat infection. In those days, doctors still made house calls, and so our family physician, Doctor Romano, was summoned to our home. After examining my sister, he diagnosed an infected tonsils and announced they needed to be removed immediately. While he was there, he checked my other sister’s throat and recommended she have her tonsils out as well. He offered my parents a deal: the operation was $15 for one child, but he would perform both for $25. My parents agreed, and our kitchen was promptly converted into an operating room.

Two chairs were placed in the center of the room. To assist him, the doctor called upon our family friend, Mrs. Cerce, whom we considered an amateur nurse because she volunteered at the Federal Hill House clinic.

A anesthetic cone was fashioned from newspaper and lined with cloth. A can of ether was prepared with two holes punched in the top. My sisters were seated in the chairs, their heads tilted back, and the makeshift operating theater was ready. Everyone was sent out of the kitchen, though we managed to peek from the bedrooms and pantry, witnessing the entire procedure.

Doctor Romano dripped ether from the can into the cone, placed it over the first patient’s nose and mouth, and once the anesthetic began to take effect, he handed this duty to Mrs. Cerce. She continued to administer a few drops at a time at his command while also helping to hold the girls still. The doctor swiftly operated, placing the removed tonsils in a glass, and then tended to his groggy patients. Afterward, my sisters, who looked like two limp rag dolls, were put to bed. They recovered with no ill effects, and our family was profoundly grateful to Mrs. Cerce. Our mother’s prayers had been answered.

In a bizarre epilogue, the used ether can was retrieved from the trash by a neighborhood character we called Tatono (Sal) Mattera. He used the residual fumes to intoxicate his pet cat, turning the creature into a stumbling, drunken cartoon character. This was typical behavior for him; on another occasion, he captured a rat, tied a string around its neck, and walked it around the neighborhood—needless to say, he walked alone.

Rats were a common nuisance in our community, largely because garbage and trash were never wrapped. We had a bin and several 50-gallon drums enclosed in chicken wire in the backyard for garbage, plus a cement ashbin for stove ashes, cans, bottles, and other refuse.

The most exciting—and hazardous—time was when the ashbin needed emptying. My father would contact Mr. Zinni, the ash man. We children would watch, wide-eyed, as he opened the bin door, pitchfork in hand, ready to strike at the rats that would leap out when their nests were disturbed. He hauled the waste away in his horse-drawn wagon. The weekly garbage collectors faced similar perils, and we knew exactly what had happened whenever we heard one of them scream.

This podcast aims to explain Italian characters and behavior. A full-length portrait of my compatriots may occasionally be witty, grave, cynical, compassionate, melancholy, glittering, scholarly, and stimulating. What is important is that we share these emotions. Italians have discovered America for the Americans; taught poetry, statesmanship, and the ruses of trade to the English; military art to the Germans; cuisine to the French; acting and ballet dancing to the Russians; music to everybody. Suppose someday this world of ours should be turned into a cloud of radioactive dust in space. In that case, it will be by nuclear contrivances developed with the decisive aid of Italian scientists—{Luigi Barzini, in the Italians}.

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