A Promise to my Father

 

(Photograph: Uncle Peppy, my father's brother.)

As Dad's life began winding down, it was more important to me than ever to find out all I could about him. Though there had been countless stories told, perhaps I'd missed something. One thing I wondered about for years was the relationship he and his brother, Joe, (Uncle Peppy), had and why we didn't see his family. There had been speculation that an old rift had torn the family apart. Though I saw my uncle several times, and always enjoyed his visits, his children were always strangely absent. Why?

One of Dad's favorite stories was that his brother bought him a Lone Ranger watch when he was a little kid. Uncle Peppy (Joe) was considerably older and not around while my father was a youngster. But somehow he knew that his little brother loved that radio show, and the greatest gift Dad ever received was that watch. Then through the years when I was a child, Uncle Peppy would stop by and my father just beamed when he was around. They resembled one another and talked non-stop.

The only time I saw my father cry was the day he found out that his brother Joe passed away in early 2000. I didn't know how to console him, so I gave him space and let him grieve in his way. Though our family was never affectionate, we all knew how much we loved one another. Sometimes even in silence.

 I began to think about my uncle's family. Why hadn't we been close with them? Uncle Peppy's visits were always fun and pleasant. But my cousins, well, that was a different story. Why didn't they come on these trips with him. And more importantly, where were they now? Would I be able to find them? Would they even want contact with my family?

I remembered the married last name of Uncle Peppy's daughter and I found her oldest daughter on Facebook. She would not know me, but I carefully reached out, conveying how important it was for me to contact this side of the family. We wrote emails back and forth for a while. I told my father about hearing from her and he was absolutely thrilled that I'd found someone from their family.

Unfortunately Dad became very sick about that time and passed away shortly after. I'd promised him that I would continue reaching out to find if any of the others might be interested in hearing from a cousin they had probably not seen since the 1960's. 

To my surprise, the oldest son, Ron, wrote back to me. I couldn't have been happier to hear from this cousin I barely remembered. But would he be as happy as I was? Or would old family differences get in the way? I soon found out. Our emails were engaging and when we spoke by phone we had a lot to chat about. We shared photographs back and forth. I met some of his children through Facebook as well.

This past Saturday, something wonderful happened. I met my cousin Ron! He came for a visit to my home. He was an amazing, intelligent, warm man. I couldn't stop staring at him because he reminded me so much of our grandfather. His voice was similar to his dad's, and I could see "Mattia," our last name, written all over him. We enjoyed several hours of great conversation. We learned things about our families and past that helped put some of the puzzle pieces back together. Oh how I wished I could call my father and tell him all of this...

When you've lost someone you adored, as much as I did with my dad, you look for anyone and anything that reminds you of them. When you find it, you embrace it or them, with everything inside you. Not alone any longer, there is family and though you never knew them, you do now and you forgive any past hurt or divisions that kept you apart. You go forward with the knowledge that there are more of you... pieces of your past that connect you to those you loved and you go on so much better than before.

Here's to our visit, cousin Ron! I will never forget it, and I truly look forward to reconnecting many more times!

All my love,

Karen

Me and cousin Ron!

My brother Rick got to meet our cousin too!

Auld Lang Syne and other New Years thoughts

I'd been approaching the new year with trepidation. In my mind, all I could picture was the fact that neither of my parents had made it to 2018. It would be the first full year that they weren't around at all together or apart. And I grieved for all that was lost. But then I began to look back, way back. To a time when I was a little girl. I thought about the days leading up to New Years, and how special they had always been.

I remember when I was little, in the week between Christmas and New Years. Mom always donned a festive tablecloth over our table, and upon it were cut glass bowls of fruit, silver trays of nuts in their shells, and the nut cracking implements laid off to the side. There were Torrones, the little Italian boxes piled high on a plate, dried figs, and scads of her homemade cookies on a tiered metal holder. These stayed throughout the week, lest a visiting relative miss out on a table made ready.

In our fireplace colorful, discarded wrapping paper was waiting for the fire that my father would soon build. My toys lay scattered under the tree, a mixmash of dollies, games, and other assorted items, blending in with the manger set; the camels, wise men and holy family. And don't tell me you never played with the set under your own tree. Mary, Joseph and the shepherds had quite a few adventures under ours!

Our large picture window which faced the road, was painstakingly hand-painted by my father, adorned with all the wonderful decorations of the season. Through it, I could watch the falling snow, the passersby, and my cousins as they filed out of their cars so they could play with (and sometimes break) my new toys.

Aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents would visit during this most festive time. Talk was lively and loud--true Italians do not merely talk with their hands. Everyone tried to outdo one another with gift-giving tales, stories of food, and memories of their own youth.

We also would venture to the homes of other relatives in that week. My mother would insist that I stop playing with my precious new toys and that I could not bring them with me to our outing.Though I never complained, I longed for the new Playdoh set, favorite doll, or latest family fun game while it seemed like forever that my parents talked and talked and talked to the relative we were visiting.

New Years Eve would arrive, and though my parents were not drinkers, it was the one time, perhaps that I would see each of them with a tiny glass of wine to toast the new year. I was given ginger ale or some other childlike substitute. The song Auld Lang Syne always brought a lump to my throat even then.

As the years passed, the special holiday week leading up to the new year was filled with new memories after my brother arrived. Then marriage would follow for me a few years later, and then my own child. I sit here now wondering where the time has flown to, for it feels like yesterday that I was the child.

With fresh hopes and dreams in mind, we each face the ticking of the clock, the countdown of the crystal ball on Times Square. Auld Lang Syne still will bring a tear to some of our eyes, and we, too, will become the memory for our own children and grandchildren.

A good friend had this to say when I told her how sad I felt about my parents not seeing the new year:
Your parents were such love birds. Just think. They will never have to begin another year separated from one another.....

Yes, I believe that.  And what of your own losses? What of the changes of life, the ups and downs of health issues, the fact that we all must leave our youth behind and memories that held our family together?  I believe they, too, go on . . .

Modern English version of Auld Lang Syne:

Should old acquaintances be forgotten,
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintances be forgotten,
And days of long ago!

Chorus:
For times gone by, my dear
For times gone by,
We will take a cup of kindness yet
For times gone by.

 Pictures from my youth. You'll notice the picture window that my dad hand painted.

 

Bonding over food

Is there any greater enjoyment than a good meal, especially one that reminds you of your youth, and simpler times? They call such things "comfort foods" and for very good reason. Today, my elderly Mom and I decided to make such foods.

With Mom's dementia and learning so much more about it, I've seen that the very strengths she once had, such as cooking and baking are traits that can withstand the test of time and memory especially if a loved one shares that passion as well.

I entered the warmth of my mother's kitchen today, (well, a little warmer than usual because with her condition, Mom is always very very cold. The heat was a blaring 74 degrees at the time.) to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, a well-worn recipe card in front of her, studying it as if the meaning of life was written upon it.

"What's that?" I asked Mom.

"My old recipe for Strufali," came the reply.

Strufali, for those of you who aren't Italian, are little fried dough balls, maybe an inch or so in diameter. Made almost like a pie dough, dropped into boiling oil, then after they are drained on paper towels, put into a pot of heated honey and turned over again and again. These little delectables had usually been made for New Years in my family in the past. My Nonna had made them, and Mom too, bringing to mind my youth and the above mentioned simpler times.

I made up my mind that I was going to be Mom's kitchen slave for the day. Rolling up my sleeves, I began measuring out the ingredients, after putting on a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup, stir-frying another cut up chicken breast, throwing together a meatloaf and oven roasted potatoes too. Did I mention I was a kitchen slave earlier? Indeed. But it was one of the most bonding, fun times with Mom in recent memory. I'd taken one of her favorite things, cooking and baking, and turned it into an afternoon of bonding together. Each time Mom would say, "Please, I want to help," I'd politely turn her down and say, "No, you're the master chef, and I'm your pupil." Now you have to understand, I think I'm a fairly good cook and baker myself, but to let my mother think she was teaching me precious gems of kitchen duties was priceless. Though she did help a little, and later would tell my brother she made the whole meal, it didn't bother me a bit.

What is it with us sometime when we feel we must take credit for everything, or we are completely slighted? It took nothing from me to let Mom think she made the whole delicious meal and the Italian dough balls as well. Her hand had certainly been in it, so in many ways, it was her cooking and baking. I've taken her ideas from many years, and have incorporated them into my own kitchen. Many of the things I make come lovingly from little old scraps of paper, splotches of food encrusted into them as I study Mom's handwriting from years ago. I don't deviate from much of it, though my mother was one of those "pinch of this, dash of that" types too.

When the Strufali were finished yesterday, and we dug into the tasty, honey-coated treats, the look on my mother's face was priceless. A smile, eyes closed, a moan of ecstasy when she bit into one. And when Dad walked into the kitchen and tried his own, the compliment of "these are the best ones ever," was like music to my ears.

What a good day, a bonding day, a day of love and understanding. A day to treasure as her memory may fade, her moods worsen, or God forbid, she forgets any of us some day.

I hope to have more days like this. Days where a mother and daughter can giggle like schoolgirls, talk about old times, work side by side, and share the love and stories that all have come out of an Italian kitchen and bonding over comfort food.

Recipe for Strufali from Grace Massa Langlois, in an article on La Mia Vita Dolce from 2010.

Cicerchiata-Struffoli, Italian Honey Balls

• 6 large eggs
• 375 g (3 cups) plain (all purpose) flour
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• Canola or vegetable oil for deep frying
• 710 ml (3 cups) honey
• 75 g (½ cup) candied fruit, optional
• 50 g (1/3 cup) slivered almonds, optional
• Candy sprinkles, optional
• Vegetable cooking spray (if shaping cicerchiata into a wreath)

1. Crack eggs into a small bowl, cover and allow eggs to come to room temperature, 30 minutes.
2. Add salt to eggs; lightly beat together with a fork.
3. Place flour on a clean work surface or in a large bowl.  Make a well in the centre.
4. Pour egg mixture into centre of well.  With the tips of your fingers or with a fork gradually draw the flour into the egg mixture.  Continue until all or most of the flour is incorporated.
5. Use your hands to gather the dough together.  Knead the dough until smooth and no longer sticky, 5 to 7 minutes.
6. Shape dough into a ball, cover with an overturned bowl, kitchen towel or wrap in plastic.  Let dough rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.
7. Fill a large, heavy-bottomed sauté pan with 5-cm (2 inches) of oil.  Attach a thermometer and heat oil over medium heat to between 185° C and 190° C (365° Fand 370° F). (If you don’t have a thermometer, drop a 2.5-cm (1-inch) cube of bread into hot oil.  If it takes about 1 minute to brown all sides of the cube and the cube floats to the top the oil has reached the appropriate temperature for deep-frying.)
8. Prepare 2 baking sheets line one baking sheet with non-stick baking paper (for cut pieces of dough) and line the other baking sheet with 3 to 4 layers of paper towels (to absorb excess oil).
9. Knead rested dough for a few minutes.
10. Cut dough into 12 equal pieces.  Work with one piece of dough at a time, keeping remaining dough covered.  Using the palms of your hands roll each piece into a rope 1¼-cm (½-inch) thick.  Cut the rope into 6 1/3-mm or 12¾ mm (¼-inch or ½-inch) pieces. Transfer pieces to prepared baking sheet (lined with non-stick baking paper); cover dough pieces with a kitchen towel.  (Cicerchiata puff out quite a bit when frying.  If I am preparing a wreath I prefer to cut the dough into smaller pieces.  You may want to fry a small batch before cutting all the dough to see which size you prefer.)
11. Cook dough pieces in small batches (do not overcrowd pan), stirring occasionally with a slotted spoon, until lightly golden on all sides, 1½ to 3 minutes (depending on size).
12. Transfer cicerchiata to baking sheet (lined with paper towels) with a slotted spoon.
13. When all dough is fried allow cicerchiata to come to room temperature.  Transfer cicerchiata to a large bowl.
14. Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan bring honey to a simmer over low heat. Simmer at low heat, stirring occasionally, until honey is melted.
15. Gradually pour honey (reserving 59 ml or ¼-cup if shaping into a wreath) over cicerchiata stirring with a wooden spoon until well incorporated.
16. If using candied fruit, nuts or sprinkles (or all three), sprinkle over top of cicerchiata and stir to well combine.  (If shaping into a wreath, reserve a portion of the candied fruit, nuts and sprinkles to decorate wreath.)
17. To serve, spoon into a bowl, pile onto a serving dish or shape into a wreath.

Christmas visitor

     My mother told a story once about a Christmas Eve when she was a young girl.  It was the 1940's when money was tight due to the war.  In those times, children didn't receive the amazing bounty of gifts we do today.  They were lucky to have an old stocking filled with some hard candy, nuts, maybe even an orange or other piece of fruit.  But they were special times, warm and cozy.  Families gathered for their meager meals. Prayers were said around tables thanking God for his goodness.  Stories, laughter and songs were shared.
     It was on such a Christmas Eve night that while cleaning up after a family meal, a knock sounded at the front door of my mother's aunt's house.  My mother and a  young cousin went to see who it was. A strange, disheveled fellow stood upon the porch, barely dressed in enough warm clothing for the snowy night.  He asked if perhaps their family would be able to spare some food for him.  The children ran to their mothers who were washing dishes from the evening meal, explaining about the man and his odd request.
     My aunt packed a bag of food for him, knowing she was perhaps giving away some of the meal they could have had themselves in the upcoming days.  But they had big hearts, these poor Italian people and would give the last of what they had to help another.
     The stranger left after he took the package of food from my great-aunt, and the women folk went back to the kitchen to finish washing dishes.
     My mother and her young cousin were very curious where such a person would go on such a cold, snowy night.  But as they went out onto the front porch and looked in every direction, the man was nowhere to be seen.  The strangest part was, there wasn't one footprint in the snow which had fallen earlier, not one.
     They talked about this for years in our family of the strange Christmas Eve visitor.  This story has been handed down several generations now with always the same outcome.  None of us have ever questioned that it really happened.  And we all are pretty sure who the visitor might have been...
     Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.  Hebrews 13:2

http://www.amazon.com/My-Mothers-Kitchen-Christmas-ebook/dp/B00A8OJUGI/ref=sr_1_7?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1365980927&sr=1-7&keywords=karen+malena

 

Ellis Island

Ellis Island, gateway to a new life

Posted: 05 Oct 2012 08:35 PM PDT

Karen Malena is today’s Adventurista 
What was it like for newcomers passing through Ellis Island?
I wondered this, and more, about the brave souls who left the old world to pass through ports of entry like Ellis to begin a new life for themselves.
Did you know you can find the names of the actual ship that carried your loved ones to Ellis Island? I found my great-grandfather’s ship, the Verona, and a sketch of what it had looked like back in the day, along with the names of other passengers who travelled with him.

Ellis Island, circa 1918 (photo courtesy of the Library of Congress)

In the early 1900’s, European immigrants travelled to America seeking new and better opportunities for their families. They would board a huge ship, and those who couldn’t afford to pay the fare for the upper decks were relegated to an area just below the main deck called “steerage,” an area originally designed to be a cargo hold.The conditions were crowded, with hundreds of people crammed into cramped quarters.  Nighttime was especially uncomfortable with tiny, closely-packed palettes for beds.
When they arrived at Ellis Island, New York, the poor immigrants were ushered into a processing center which daily herded thousands through for screening. Inspectors questioned them first, and then they were poked and prodded by doctors and nurses looking for diseases or handicaps.  This process took about four hours, and then they were free to leave.  If they didn’t receive approval, they were sent back to their place of origin.
In the thirty five years of operation, 1892-1954, Ellis processed eight million immigrants. In 1897, a fire destroyed many of the records. 1907 saw the most, when 1,004,756 people passed through the portal. Estimates are that over a hundred million Americans can trace their ancestry through Ellis.
Italian immigrants settled in the Pittsburgh and Philadelphia areas. They worked as  carpenters, brick-layers, shoe makers and clothiers.  Many found jobs in the newly fabricated steel mills.  As soon as they saved enough money for passage, and could arrange for accommodations, their families left behind in the old country joined them, processing through the same ports of entry.
Besides searching the records from Ellis Island, you can type a loved one’s name into the Google search engine. I recently searched for my grandfather’s history and found lots of details our family had forgotten.
Ancestry.com often has free trials so you can get a taste of how easy it is to search.  The more information you have, such as spouse’s and children’s names, and where they were born, the more information you’ll turn up.

My grandfather Pietro Biancuci, who emigrated from Italy through Ellis Island

While I searched, I noticed that someone had corrected some misspelling of our family’s last name, and had left their email address.  I wrote her, and a new friendship was forged. We laughed and cried together over dear loved ones, long gone.
My long lost, now found, relative gave me the name of another site.  Family Search lets you search for free.
One of the search engines, Find a Grave, revealed the  final resting place of my great-grandfather, Pietro. I found it, and as I stood there, tears coursing down my face over the end of my quest, I gave thanks for being born into a family who had such a strong patriarch, brave enough to leave the old world, pass through Ellis Island, and begin a new life in America.

My grandmother’s wedding party, with her father, my great grandfather, Pietro, standing directly behind her. (photograph property of the author)

With the power of the internet, and because of the meticulous records, your search for your ancestors might turn up even more than mine did, and I promise you’ll enjoy the adventure. I’d love to hear about what you turn up.
Ancestry.com
Find a Grave
Norway-Heritage Across the Sea
Family Search

Karen Malena

Karen Malena has several compelling stories about the search for her ancestors available on Amazon and Goodreads. A devoted mother, daughter and wife, she hopes to convey the ups and downs of true-to-life situations in her writing. Coming from an Italian family has given her passion, and a love of reading has given her the desire for creativity. Karen is a member of Ligonier Valley Writers, and Pittsburgh East Scribes.When she’s not tracking down distant relatives, she works in the dental field, where she developed a compassion  for people of all walks and ages.
Contact her at scoutfinch15003@yahoo.com. Visit Karen’s Facebook page, and learn more about her books.
 This post is a Coffee Break Escape – 7 Minute Adventures Exploring the World Together To contribu

A figure larger than life

   



  One faded black and white photo and my life would change.......
   
     Sifting through old photographs one day with my mom, I felt drawn to one of a young man in dirty overalls, haunting eyes, and beautiful hands.  When she told me this was her grandfather, Pietro, and she never knew him, I hungered to know more about him.
      He came to this country in the early 1900's looking for work and a new way of life for his wife and four children.  My great-grandfather, Pietro paved the way for us, and brought a legacy to me that I will never forget.
     A quiet, gentle man, he was a carpenter by trade.  He was born in Patrica, Italy in the late 1800's.  He came to this country when he was twenty years old, seeking a good life for his family.
     I think back to being twenty years old.  Thoughts of fun, dating, parties, selfish ambitions.  Yet this simple man, at the same age already had so many responsibilities.  Poverty beckoned at the door in his hometown. Who knows how tough it had been trying to feed a wife and four children?
   Many already had made the decision to strike out to America for a new life and new opportunities.  It couldn't have been easy leaving behind loved ones, not knowing if you would ever see them again, yet hopeful that you would.
     What was the boat journey like?  An unending, long, nauseating trip with at least nine hundred others.  Was he fearful, hopeful?
     And when he first got to Ellis Island, what thoughts were on his mind? Did he kiss the ground, so grateful to see land again?  Was there anyone waiting for him, a brother perhaps?
     Again, I think of myself.  I was lucky to be able to drive to another town when I was the same age.  For I was a fearful, scared rabbit back in the day.  Afraid to venture outside of the confines of my comfortable, small world.
      Yet this man, who couldn't read, write, or speak the strange language of English, risked it all for a chance, a dream, a hope.
     I sit here now, thinking back on my own life.  I have come so far in such a short time.  Once afraid of my own shadow, I now venture into strange, new places.  Once so timid I could barely speak to others, I am meeting new, exciting people and sharing stories of my own with them.
     Could it be perhaps this patriarch, my great-grandfather, Pietro, this figure larger than life, has inspired me to be courageous, to seek so much more in this beautiful world?  I believe so.  And I am grateful to him for paving the way for my family and I as we travel this wonderful journey together.

     Thank you, Pietro.  Grazie.

A Quiet Man

Lately I have been thinking about my Dad's father.   He passed away when I was seventeen, and although I had known him all that time, I haven't appreciated something wonderful about this quiet man.

I called him Nono, the Italian word for grandfather.  I remember him as someone who sang Italian songs softly, and told the story of The Three Billy Goats Gruff.  I would beg for this story until he would acquiesce, telling it the same way over and over, making his voice sound mean when it came to the part about the troll under the bridge.  I would giggle with delight, only to ask for it one more time.

He was soft spoken, and like most Italian men in those days, drank wine.  He would disappear into his basement and wine cellar, emerging a little worse for wear much later.  I never saw him truly mean, just a bit indifferent.

 Sunday mealtime at my grandparent's house, Nono would be the last one sitting there eating.  He sat at the head of the table, glass of wine before him, telling everyone to eat slowly, slowly.  My cousins and I would race for first place to see who finished their meals the quickest, hoping to get the coveted role of dish washer instead of the lesser role of dish dryer. 

But Nono would still be sitting there, long after the others had cleared the table and gone on to other things people do on a lazy Sunday afternoon, still chewing slowly until he finished every last bite.

Later, he would be sitting in his living room, eyes closed, and lips moving silently.  My mother asked him one time what he was doing.  His answer: "Praying for our family and future generations."

I never realized just how powerful that statement really is.  Praying for future generations.  When I was little, in my own world, there were no thoughts of who would come after me.  Now, with my son twenty- five years old, and my new little niece, four months old, I see just what Nono was doing.  Praying for them.  Praying for their future families as well.

How truly awesome that type of prayer is.  We each have our daily prayers, intercessory, thanksgiving, praise, guidance, help.  But think about it.  We have the power to pray for great- grandchildren we may never know and subsequently, their families, etc.  We have the freedom to ask of our Heavenly Father to touch the lives of those who come after us with His favor and goodness.  The chance for us to pray that they all come to know Him and accept His son as savior.

Next time you are praying, think about those you may not know yet.  Think about your sons, daughters, nieces, nephews and cousins.  Say a little prayer for them and their future generations.  It will bless you in a way which can only be how God truly wanted it to be.  Totally selfless and honoring Him.

Thank you Nono for teaching me in your quiet way.  Until we meet again someday.

Little Italian lady

     It's been a long time since I thought of her.  The little, chubby Italian woman I proudly called Nonna.  Her head of white hair, curly from the permanent wave she always had done at the beauty parlor.  When I was younger, she flipped her hair tightly into a bun.  As she got older, she wanted  a more modern look.  She gave up the old house dresses and we saw her wear pants for the first time.
     She loved being photographed.  She would wear her full set of dentures for the camera, slipping the lower one out soon afterward.  She usually stood near one of her amazing rose bushes or some type of flowering plant.  All the memories I have of her in print have some sort of  colorful flower next to her.
     When I see pictures of her from Italy, when she was only eighteen years old, I see a dark beauty with haunting eyes.  A knowing smirk on her face, as if she had a secret which she wouldn't share.  Several small children surrounding her, my father, aunt and uncle.  Her whole life before her.
     She was a rock when I was younger.  When things were unstable in my own life.  She was always there, getting me ready for school when I had to stay with her for a while.  She didn't understand everything, and one day in school I opened my lunch to the strangest concoction.   On huge, fat, Italian bread, she had spread peanut butter, and folded chipped ham into it as well.  Arrrgh.  What on earth?  My little stomach was growling with hunger, so I dug into a sandwich that I would begin to eat daily.
     She baked orange box cakes and glazed them with a thin powder sugar glaze.  We would wonder where she hid them, when I spied her opening up a drawer in the kitchen one day and saw the cake in there.  Never again would she be able to hide them from me.
     You would not want to eat her steak.  The term shoe leather has new meaning.  But the meals of homemade pasta....now that was something we all looked forward to.
     I can still smell her Sunday dinners as if it was yesterday.  I can see her digging in her garden out back never tiring.  Canning countless jars of tomatoes in the cellar.
     Nonna, you were the best.  I still miss you and think of you.