To say that I am not a sports enthusiast would be a gross understatement. While I can tell the difference between basketball and lacrosse, my knowledge of sports and its mind-numbing statistics is less than limited.

   If I attribute this to my sex, I’ll be accused of sexism, but I’ll take that chance. It has been my experience that most women don’t have any great affection for sports, or, at least for the sports that captivates most of prime time and Sunday afternoons.

   Was I baking brownies on my Easy Bake oven when my brothers were in the backyard playing football?

   You betcha.

   So, this weekend’s Super Bowl leaves me yawning. It has completely different effect on the men. Their eyes may well glaze over as they recite statistics and famous Super Bowl plays from the last 25 years. These are the same men who cannot remember a 4-item grocery list. I can name the two teams and the winner of exactly one Super Bowl. And I remember that one only because of my mother. My mother had a crush on a particular quarterback with sparkling blue eyes, a playboy reputation, and a pair of legs that looked amazingly good in a fairly new invention: pantyhose.

   Broadway Joe Namath was my mother’s heartthrob.
It was only because of this that I knew that he played for the New York Jets.
In the AFL.
Impressed guys?
The Jets played the NFL’s Baltimore Colts (with quarterback Johnny Unitas) in the 1969 Super Bowl.
The Jets won.
And that is the extent of my knowledge of Super Bowl trivia.

   I’m not averse to all sports. I’ve been known to watch the ACC finals and the World Series. My heart is, however, in only one sport and that sport is thoroughbred horse racing. And yes, it does indeed qualify as a sport because, as my brother says, horses sweat and wear numbers. I especially enjoy Triple Crown racing and used to avidly follow the races that lead up to that event, so that I could properly handicap the field in the Derby. I learned to do this the year before the only champion of the latter part of the 20th century: Secretariat. (Sham, of course, would have been a champion that year, had Secretariat not been his competition, but I digress.)

   Since my eyes used to glaze over about his statistics, I guess I’ve more in common with my male sports friends than that to which I’ve previously admitted. I still have newspaper and magazine clippings, now yellowed, from the races he won. My small spark of sports interest notwithstanding, this weekend I won’t watch the Super Bowl. It most likely won’t even be on at my house since my husband refuses to stay home during the game because of the episode of 1989. (Apparently, strip teasing during the final two minutes of a close game is considered bad sportsmanship.) He and his statistics will be elsewhere this weekend and I’ll check the TV listings for an “I Love Lucy” marathon. Lucy watching is also a sport (of sorts) and I do know my trivia where the famous redhead is concerned.

   I will close with a trivia question that is, to me, of greater interest that who won the 1974 Super Bowl: What is the name of the English tutor Lucy hired to teach her, Ricky and the Mertzes proper English and who was the actor who portrayed him? Any takers, guys?

   Time is a tough taskmaster. As a youngster, time could not pass fast enough. I wanted to be older, so I could do the things I was then too young to do. Now, having recently stared down another big round birthday, 50, I find that time is truly flying by--something I couldn’t have dreamed of at fourteen, or say, nineteen.

   Nowhere is the quick passage of time more evident to me than in the faces of my middle children, Sam and Jordan. Sam, at fourteen, seems to grow every day, and is tall enough to look me in the eye. (Now, the trick will be to GET him to look me in the eye, when I ask where he has been!) Jordan, at nineteen, is out of high school, goes to WCC, and lives in her own house--decorated in the Mangos, Arizona Sunsets, and Lime greens that are SO Jordan.

   It was the occasion of Jordan’s nineteenth birthday that brought the whole issue of time, and time flying by, to the forefront of my thinking. It seems only yesterday that my little red-haired girl was a toddler, smiling with that big space between her front teeth, as I would sing her to sleep to the tune of “The Preacher and the Bear,” or Johnny Horton’s “Battle of New Orleans.” I know those aren’t lullabies, but they are the only songs I have committed to memory, and all my children loved them. Back to Jordan’s birthday. Usually, part of her birthday would include going out to eat with her Grandfather Bundy and Ruth Graham. The weather on Friday was lousy, and some of her grandfather’s bad habits must have been catching up to him, and he felt like the weather, lousy, so we decided to see him another day. I told Jordan that we could still go out to eat with some of her friends, and we did. We piled into a couple of cars--Jordan, the two Davids (David Pruitt, her boyfriend; and David Bowman, their friend), myself, Sam (her brother), Emily Mullins (Jordan’s friend since Woodward Middle School), and Warren Kilby (Emily’s boyfriend).

   We drove out of North Wilkesboro and down Highway 268 East, turned right on the Quarry Road, drove a few miles until we came to the Old Quarry Road, turned left and, a mile or so later, were in the parking lot of the Sunny Italy Italian Restaurant. It was Friday night and snow was everywhere, but they were busy, the parking lot said so. I pulled open the old screen door, then the wooden door, and held it open for the others to enter. As I walked in “time” came to mind, time standing still, that is. The same counter, the same cash register, the same big old cheese thing hanging there with little “mice” peeking around the corner, the same straight wooden chairs with slat seats, and the same big fireplace on one whole end of the building. Everything the same--it could have been 1967, the first time I ever brought a date to Sunny Italy; or Friday, January 21, 2000, my little red-haired girl’s birthday; or any day in between.

   And the best, the very best thing about Sunny Italy is still there too, Daisy. Daisy (Wiles) Roselli, sitting at the counter on a stool, just behind the cash register, gray hair in a bun, big white apron covering most of her long dress, eyes sparkling, and a smile so warm the snow just melted away. Daisy, now ninety years old, and looking every day of sixty-five, greeted each of us, and instantly made everyone feel welcome and at home. In the course of the evening, she came to our table several times to make sure everything was to our liking, and to visit with us. She talked with us about the restaurant, about times she remembered us coming in before, about Jordan and Sam’s grandfather (Daisy’s sister Rosa Nell “Duckie,” was Dr. Bundy’s first patient when he came to North Wilkesboro after World War II), and, of course, she talked about her husband, John Roselli.

   Mr. Roselli came to Wilkes County from New York, where a cousin of his had been dating a nursing student who was from Wilkes County. His cousin’s girlfriend must have done a good job selling Wilkes County, because John Roselli, in the middle of the Great Depression, came to North Carolina to start a new life. John got off the bus in North Wilkesboro, someone directed him to a boarding house on Main Street (on what is now the vacant lot next door to Dale’s Restaurant). The boarding house was run by Mrs. Dolly Wiles, and her daughter Daisy worked there. Three months later, John and Daisy were married. John worked for a time at the Forest Furniture Company (where Melody Square is now), and later ran a restaurant on Main Street (where the City Florist building now stands), and built and operated the Club Valencia on Hwy. 268 East (later to become Cheetwood’s Steak House, making Boyce Cheetwood famous forever). The Rosellis also spent some years living in New York.

   Sunny Italy opened in 1967. The building looks a lot like a Holly Farms chicken house from that time (perhaps because that’s the plans they used). From the start, it was a family operation. John Roselli was always out front greeting his customers, and he pretty much ran the show. Daisy worked in the background, helping with the food and service. The restaurant was an instant hit--great Italian (or as my dad would say Eyye--Italian) food, and those wonderful salads with the unusual, sweet dressing that remains their trademark. John died in December of 1979 and Daisy had to decide whether or not to keep the restaurant open. Thankfully, she decided to run the business herself, and Sunny Italy remains a treat for anyone who enters. Daisy Roselli told me that her son John helps her during the day. He also owns the Roselli’s Restaurant on Main Street in North Wilkesboro, and, if you ask Nancy Caudill or Pennie Sawyer really nicely, you can get one of those famous “Sunny” salads there, too. Daisy’s other son, David, helps her in the evenings.

   Our visit to Sunny Italy Friday night was great. The waitress, Carolyn Shepherd, has been there for over fifteen years, and treated us just like family. Carolyn made note of the fact that I referred to our meal as “supper,” not “dinner,” as most do now. My father always spoke of having breakfast, dinner, and supper. I guess the older way of saying things just comes out every once and a while. We had pizza, spaghetti, manicotti, lasagna, and, of course, #2 wash tubs full of that special salad. Everyone in the place seemed to be truly glad to be there. We were there for Jordan’s birthday; Les Dyer and his family were right beside us, also singing “Happy Birthday” to someone. Kirk and Mary Beth Phillips were out for a quiet dinner (supper), and even Bob Kennelley had braved the snow to enjoy a “Sunny” meal.

   All evening, I found myself thinking how pleasant it was to be in a place with such atmosphere. Things really can stay the same, and still be so very enjoyable. Daisy’s husband John has been gone for over twenty years, but he was everywhere. Photographs, artwork, certificates, but, most of all, his restaurant--just like he left it. I had a cup of black coffee, along with a big piece of chocolate cake, at the end of my meal Friday evening. I noticed the cup had a red Sunny Italy logo on it, and a Thirtieth Anniversary seal from 1997. When I went to the front counter to pay for our meal, I asked Daisy if I could buy one of those red and white mugs to give to Jordan as a souvenir of her birthday supper. She said “No, but I will give both of you one.” That’s just the way she is, always kind to everyone, humb1e, and thankful: thankful to God who gives her the strength for each day, thankful for her family, and thankful for her friends. When you drive up to the parking lot of the Sunny Italy Italian Restaurant, that’s where you’re going, or you’re lost. It really isn’t on the way anywhere, but if you find it, you’ll be glad you did. Daisy Roselli will see to it.

   During the first snow, I didn’t leave the house. I stayed wrapped in an afghan, peeking through the blinds, and saying “Isn’t that pretty.” During the second, I allowed myself to enjoy it a bit, but was keenly aware of the cold and wetness. By the third I was able to fully enjoy the experience without inhibition. I took a walk, Sunday night, alone. The town was almost deserted, the stoplights flickering green, yellow, red with no one there to obey them. The streetlights cast shadows on the used snow, the snow that had been stomped back and forth by passerbyers of hours past… children throwing snowballs… the curious who wish to see their own footprints. But the night brought stillness and quiet. The snow at night was beautiful.

   It crunched underneath my boots, making the sound of a fresh carrot being chomped on by a healthy set of teeth. The air smelled clean, pure. An occasional house was burning wood, creating an earthy aroma. The fire provided warmth for the inhabitants of the houses, and me in my mind. I find that I am only cold when I think about it. This day I was warm, borderline hot. The cold was only visible by the breath emitted from my mouth. My coat and my mind kept me smiling and toasty. I came home feeling quite famished. I grabbed the first thing I saw which happened to be an orange. It was rather tough and dull on the outside. And I hadn’t much hope for the inside. Once open, it was a sweet and juicy treat. I cut it into small pieces so as to savor each bite of it. I ate as my favorite song drifted from the stereo. Juice ran down my chin, but it didn’t matter. When I finished, a napkin didn’t seem suitable for the occasion, so I licked each finger clean. I felt like a child. I was happy.

   When is it that we stop enjoying these simple things? When do we lose our lust for snow and our joy of oranges? When do we stop looking at frozen precipitation as a joy and start seeing it as a nuisance? I think snow is God’s way of saying ‘take a day off to enjoy the beautiful world that I have given you.’ The town starts scraping the roads before the snow has been sticking to the ground for an hour. What sort of slap in the face is this? I was hoping for a snow that would shut the town down, one that everyone could take a day off and enjoy. Adults somehow just can’t let that happen. It seems to be all too hard to pull away from that grueling struggle for the almighty dollar.

   When I was younger I wanted to go to Never Never Land with Peter Pan and Wendy. I was afraid of growing up and losing my imagination. I was afraid of growing old and bitter and of forgetting how to have fun. I was afraid I’d lose my passion for life and snow and fresh fruit. What I have realized now is that I don’t have to go to another place to appreciate what is here for me. I can feel the warmth, smell the freshness, lick my fingers, and embrace what the world has to offer. And I can do this even if the road is already scraped when I wake up in the morning.