To the loves of my life.. My dearest children,
I’m writing today to tell you a story about growing up back in the early 50’s. We lived on 45th and 18th in those days upstairs from my dad’s
parents, and while my folks and grandpa worked, I would spend the day with my grandma.. She was a very special person who, more than
anyone taught me about love. She loved us kids like nothing else mattered but us.. I remember several things about my grandfather too, but in
particular, I remember sitting next to him on the steps of the back porch in the old Italian neighborhood where during the warm months, after
work, or on the weekends he would sit and smoke a cigar. They might have been Dutch Masters. I can still smell them.
In those days, people did that a lot …just sit on the porch, so it wasn’t an odd thing that he was doing, really a form of socializing by making
yourself available to the neighbors who would walk by. I guess, it was the immigrants’ version of “passagiata” in our town.. Sarafino and Wanda
might walk over with our cousins, or Sam, our milkman might pass by. People walked in those days for no other reason than to take some
fresh air. No ear buds, tennis shoes, sweats.. They simply got out and walked. Often grandpa Carmine would sit there and read the paper with
a glass of wine at his side. He always wore fancy leather shoes, dress pants, white shirts with the sleeves rolled up and wide maroon
suspenders. Oh, and his hat.. He wore expensive straw hats.. His black ‘51 Cadillac was parked in the street. That was before 45th was
paved.. Back then the city crews would patch holes and lay down an inch or so of small stones on the surface then drench the street in heavy
oil to keep the dust down in summer. He was already old by then, but so was everyone when I was five or six.
“Rosa, bring my glasses... Rosa, bring more wine… Rosa, this, Rosa that..” Rosa was his indentured servant and wife …and my
grandmother... but hers is another story. After he had finished a few glasses of wine and the headlines in the paper, sometimes he would just
sit and stare. Puffing on the cigar, rolling it around in his mouth.. saying nothing.. I remember like it was yesterday.. just sitting there along side
with my chin resting on my fists, watching him, then looking out in the direction of his stare. I never imagined then what he could have been
thinking. Then after a long while, he would squint real hard, clear his throat, and say, “Rosa, my shoes..” Grandma would bring him his shoes
and even help him put them on. Then grandpa would put on a jacket and walk to the corner bar, sometimes for a very long time.
My dad grew up in my grandparents house only some of the time… when grandma wasn’t in the County home taking some well deserved rest..
Grandpa used to take her there when she got crazy or too stressed… One day she even took the street car there herself.. Life was tough for
her and her Italian husband in a world of Americans.
Dad remembers that Grandpa always had nice things, even when he was young and times were bad in spite of the fact that he and grandma
didn’t have much money. Over the years, grandpa had expensive suits, shoes, hats, Cadillac’s and even a motorcycle… All things the family
couldn’t afford. But he had them nonetheless. Dad never understood it, and was bitter because of his having to live with other families for
much of his young life while his dad lived pretty well for the times.. Just recently, since moving to Italy myself I began to understand my
grandfather a little better.
I’m guessing that his extravagance had to do with a promise he must have made to himself, years before back in Italy.. Before he left family and
friends to immigrate to the US in search of work and a better life.. Calabria is still relatively poor compared to the north of Italy, but back then,
Calabria was very poor... The village that Carmine grew up in was only a few hundred people who lived in true “feudal” conditions that existed in
the south of Italy back then.. My grandfathers parents lived in little more than a stone hut, not unlike the outbuildings for the pigs and goats
while most all of the profits from their labor went to the Padrone who owned the land and had a big comfortable house up the hill.. Carmine was
a shepherd before leaving Italy.. walking the hillsides following after a pack of sheep or goats.. Next to nothing from his labor was left for him or
his parents.. They were like so many Calabrians, poor but proud… And he had dreams..
News of jobs in Chicago working for the railroad filtered back to Arcavacata where he lived, and he, like so many others decided to leave for
America.. He, like his brothers before him had to say good bye, and it must have been hard.. People in the villages were close. They still are.
They were family.. Even though they were poor, those that left had to give up a lot.. Childhood friends, relatives and even immediate family.
One can almost hear them…“I’m going to the United States to work and make a decent living. I’m not staying here so the Padrone can live a
comfortable life, while I live with the animals!” Carmine did just that.. He worked hard in America and eventually became a Supervisor at the
Simmons mattress factory in town, and he was somebody.
Now that I’m as old as Carmine was back then when I watched him sit and stare from the porch, I too know what it is like to live away from family
and have had time to reflect on the events of my life. I have come to believe that back then while he was lost in thought staring at nothing in
particular, he was thinking of his village and the family he left behind. And why did he buy those things that seemed so extravagant? Perhaps
he had to. To justify or somehow compensate for the loss of family and friends that he left behind in Italy. After leaving Calabria at eighteen,
he never heard his mother’s voice again, spent time with his father, or watched them grow old. His friends were memories, as if they had died…
He and so many others like him gave up treasures beyond measure that his motorcycle and new cars could never compensate for, no matter
their cost. I am sure he often pondered if the move was after all really worth it.
Basta,
Now you know a little more about your family and the people that came before you.. Make them proud.. continue throughout your lives to justify
their sacrifices through your successes large and small..
I love you,
Dad
Ciao!
©copyright 2008 Property of MJSturino,LLC
Any reproduction with-out the owners express written consent is strictly prohibited
I’m writing today to tell you a story about growing up back in the early 50’s. We lived on 45th and 18th in those days upstairs from my dad’s
parents, and while my folks and grandpa worked, I would spend the day with my grandma.. She was a very special person who, more than
anyone taught me about love. She loved us kids like nothing else mattered but us.. I remember several things about my grandfather too, but in
particular, I remember sitting next to him on the steps of the back porch in the old Italian neighborhood where during the warm months, after
work, or on the weekends he would sit and smoke a cigar. They might have been Dutch Masters. I can still smell them.
In those days, people did that a lot …just sit on the porch, so it wasn’t an odd thing that he was doing, really a form of socializing by making
yourself available to the neighbors who would walk by. I guess, it was the immigrants’ version of “passagiata” in our town.. Sarafino and Wanda
might walk over with our cousins, or Sam, our milkman might pass by. People walked in those days for no other reason than to take some
fresh air. No ear buds, tennis shoes, sweats.. They simply got out and walked. Often grandpa Carmine would sit there and read the paper with
a glass of wine at his side. He always wore fancy leather shoes, dress pants, white shirts with the sleeves rolled up and wide maroon
suspenders. Oh, and his hat.. He wore expensive straw hats.. His black ‘51 Cadillac was parked in the street. That was before 45th was
paved.. Back then the city crews would patch holes and lay down an inch or so of small stones on the surface then drench the street in heavy
oil to keep the dust down in summer. He was already old by then, but so was everyone when I was five or six.
“Rosa, bring my glasses... Rosa, bring more wine… Rosa, this, Rosa that..” Rosa was his indentured servant and wife …and my
grandmother... but hers is another story. After he had finished a few glasses of wine and the headlines in the paper, sometimes he would just
sit and stare. Puffing on the cigar, rolling it around in his mouth.. saying nothing.. I remember like it was yesterday.. just sitting there along side
with my chin resting on my fists, watching him, then looking out in the direction of his stare. I never imagined then what he could have been
thinking. Then after a long while, he would squint real hard, clear his throat, and say, “Rosa, my shoes..” Grandma would bring him his shoes
and even help him put them on. Then grandpa would put on a jacket and walk to the corner bar, sometimes for a very long time.
My dad grew up in my grandparents house only some of the time… when grandma wasn’t in the County home taking some well deserved rest..
Grandpa used to take her there when she got crazy or too stressed… One day she even took the street car there herself.. Life was tough for
her and her Italian husband in a world of Americans.
Dad remembers that Grandpa always had nice things, even when he was young and times were bad in spite of the fact that he and grandma
didn’t have much money. Over the years, grandpa had expensive suits, shoes, hats, Cadillac’s and even a motorcycle… All things the family
couldn’t afford. But he had them nonetheless. Dad never understood it, and was bitter because of his having to live with other families for
much of his young life while his dad lived pretty well for the times.. Just recently, since moving to Italy myself I began to understand my
grandfather a little better.
I’m guessing that his extravagance had to do with a promise he must have made to himself, years before back in Italy.. Before he left family and
friends to immigrate to the US in search of work and a better life.. Calabria is still relatively poor compared to the north of Italy, but back then,
Calabria was very poor... The village that Carmine grew up in was only a few hundred people who lived in true “feudal” conditions that existed in
the south of Italy back then.. My grandfathers parents lived in little more than a stone hut, not unlike the outbuildings for the pigs and goats
while most all of the profits from their labor went to the Padrone who owned the land and had a big comfortable house up the hill.. Carmine was
a shepherd before leaving Italy.. walking the hillsides following after a pack of sheep or goats.. Next to nothing from his labor was left for him or
his parents.. They were like so many Calabrians, poor but proud… And he had dreams..
News of jobs in Chicago working for the railroad filtered back to Arcavacata where he lived, and he, like so many others decided to leave for
America.. He, like his brothers before him had to say good bye, and it must have been hard.. People in the villages were close. They still are.
They were family.. Even though they were poor, those that left had to give up a lot.. Childhood friends, relatives and even immediate family.
One can almost hear them…“I’m going to the United States to work and make a decent living. I’m not staying here so the Padrone can live a
comfortable life, while I live with the animals!” Carmine did just that.. He worked hard in America and eventually became a Supervisor at the
Simmons mattress factory in town, and he was somebody.
Now that I’m as old as Carmine was back then when I watched him sit and stare from the porch, I too know what it is like to live away from family
and have had time to reflect on the events of my life. I have come to believe that back then while he was lost in thought staring at nothing in
particular, he was thinking of his village and the family he left behind. And why did he buy those things that seemed so extravagant? Perhaps
he had to. To justify or somehow compensate for the loss of family and friends that he left behind in Italy. After leaving Calabria at eighteen,
he never heard his mother’s voice again, spent time with his father, or watched them grow old. His friends were memories, as if they had died…
He and so many others like him gave up treasures beyond measure that his motorcycle and new cars could never compensate for, no matter
their cost. I am sure he often pondered if the move was after all really worth it.
Basta,
Now you know a little more about your family and the people that came before you.. Make them proud.. continue throughout your lives to justify
their sacrifices through your successes large and small..
I love you,
Dad
Ciao!
©copyright 2008 Property of MJSturino,LLC
Any reproduction with-out the owners express written consent is strictly prohibited
Carmine
by Marty Sturino
by Marty Sturino
Listen to this story in English
