The registry indicates that my grandfather traveled under the first name of Egisto. His port of departure was Genoa, Liguria, Italy. My grandfather immigrated to America in 1909 at the age of 26 stating that he was visiting his uncle Catozzie at 400 Bay Street, San Francisco. He arrived at Ellis Island on March 19, 1909 and received his certificate of naturalization in the United States on June 16, 1944 at the age of 61. At the time of his immigration, grandpa was described as having dark hair, brown eyes, and a stature of 5 feet, 6 inches. The ship’s manifest identified my grandfather’s marital status as ‘married.’
My paternal grandmother was born in February 1806. Why my grandmother, who called herself Adunia in Italy but changed her name to Antonetta in America, did not voyage with grandfather at that time is another story. I will only say that she immigrated to the United States some five years later in 1914 when, as it was told to me, grandfather demanded that she span the Atlantic soon or he would find a new life partner. Five other married men from Carrara, Italy traveled with my grandfather. Curiously, they also traveled without their spouses—well, that’s also another story.
Grandpa Edgar was said to be a kind man, spry in his old age and full of youth. I never met him, of course, but I saw my elderly grandfather laughing and running swiftly in several vintage black and white 8 MM home movies. Grandpa Edgar developed emphysema and other respiratory problems, which were attributed to the dust from his carvings that progressively hardened in his lungs over the years. He was bedridden for several years and weakened steadily until his death at age 67. His sculptures adorn many museums and buildings throughout the United States. Among his works are a bust of Abraham Lincoln, which stands in the Nancy Hanks Lincoln Memorial, and a bust of our state’s ex-governor at a state university. Grandpa also sculpted statuary in the state’s federal building and local high school. I was unaware of my parents’ struggle with their bipolar feelings of happiness and sadness as these two events collided horridly. I was safely protected in my mother’s womb, as my grandfather died on August 30th, several months before my birth. Perhaps coming along at the time that I did eased or distracted the ache of my parents and grandmother. I do not know because my family never discussed this tragedy.
My mother recently gave me a photograph snapped shortly after my birth. It was an old black and white photo that you knew with immediate confidence was taken with an original Brownie camera. In the photo, a nurse draped in hospital white held somberly my 19¼ inch frame and 7-pound, 11¼-ounce body. The nurse wore a white gown, white cap and white surgical mask across her mouth. She appeared as sterile as her uniform. I was wrapped in a white cloth and looked quite bored. The occasion apparently did not impact on me as a particularly invigorating one. I was giving the new world in which I found myself a big, wide yawn as my little fingers covered what they could of my mouth. The photo documented that good manners are as much instinctual as they are learned. God only knew what I thought about being held by this masked stranger, but I guessed that Tonto must not have been far away! I was a cute baby, and obviously destined to grow up and do great things… at least that was my subjective take of the photograph.
My earliest recollections begin at about age three years. My older sister came before me and my younger brother was born after me just like clockwork. Yes, I can hear you again with that ‘hmm… the middle child…” Diplomatic? Manipulative? Chip on the shoulder? Tired of being left out of things? Why doesn’t anybody listen to me? Why doesn’t anyone understand me? It is said that one can escape the effects of birth order. Even if I cannot, I am in good company with other middle children: Dwight Eisenhower, Jack Kennedy, George Bush, and Tony Blair. Perhaps I missed my real calling and should have gone into politics! But I digress…
I remember that our father drove to work early in the morning. We often accompanied him since my mother liked shopping downtown… or perhaps she liked escaping the boundaries of our home to which she was confined 24/7 with us three munchkins. At that time, women were not career minded and homemaking with its many care-taking responsibilities was the singular career of “choice,” especially for European women. “Keep them barefoot and pregnant” was not just an idle idiom. It was certain that we three musketeers shattered our mother’s nerves now and then, maybe even more often than that. We unquestionably frazzled each other’s nerves and resolved our differences rather bluntly. The physical approach to conflict resolution is not uncommon among young children as an initial response and our behavior was no exception.
Unfortunately, my father began work at the state’s highway department several hours before the customary time for store openings. The impact of these early risings stayed with me as I am still cursed with rising with or before the roosters, and crowing just as loudly because of it. The downtown ritual was unbending. My father dropped off mother and her brood in front of a little church. The church was built in the early 1900s and neatly tucked away on a circular, brick road that identified the center of the city; hence, ‘The Circle.’ The church doors were opened 24/7 back in those days. Vandalism against a church, of all things, was unheard of at the time. Churches were the center of miracles, not the victims of sin. I was raised Roman Catholic and always thought it ironic that God’s home is now opened only certain hours of the day. It is like a realtor purchased the hallowed property and prayer is by appointment only, or 2 to 4 on Sundays as always!
I admired tremendously my mother for taking care of three mildly hyperactive preschoolers in a confined place, holy or not, for two solid hours. I do not recall specifically what we did and I am sure God will remind us at some point, but I can only imagine we were neither religious zealots nor prayerful. We probably ran amuck through the church, touching things that were considered holy and screaming loudly enough to wake up the saintly dead. God must still shutter to this day when we make ourselves known in his presence. I understand His memory goes back a long time!
We eventually made our way to the stores as sleepy downtown became alive. Mom never missed going to the city market where the staples of life were fresh and emitting an aroma I can still recall by memory. My mother is an Italian immigrant who always looked forward to this rather European experience as the market was stocked primarily by Italian vendors. The farmers’ market was a sight to behold for a young child and the sights and smells were as breathtaking as any carnival. Everything was fresh and the pasta was homemade. Meat, fish, pasta, fruits, vegetables, cookies, candies and other sweets filled the stands. Chickens were slaughtered and plucked on the spot. We laughed as they persisted with their contorted dance without their heads—after all, we were preschoolers.
A multi-layered sugar wafer cookie was our favorite treat at the city market and mother seldom disappointed us. We were admonished to “be good” to receive our treats. Mom was an expert at applying contingencies to our behavior long before such techniques were formalized in psychology textbooks. And best of all, the layered sugar wafers cost only about 25 cents a pound. Mother knew how to stretch a dollar. What a cheap token behavior management program our mother created and implemented!
We walked from store-to-store following our mother like imprinted ducklings. Mother did more window-shopping than buying. Men riding three-wheeled bicycles hawked ice cream and other novelties. Blind men and men maimed in war having lost their legs were often seen sitting on boards with roller wheels pushing themselves along sidewalks and across streets. They often sold pencils and brooms to help support themselves and their families. To wee little ones, downtown seemed to have an endless number of stores, and like the state fair, we would not be able to visit each and every one of them. One store had a horseshoe shaped walkthrough with a large scale located at the center of its curve. We all took turns weighing ourselves for it was free and in those days free meant free— even our mother did so when we were not looking. The ‘five and dime’ store was a favorite of our family’s, not only because goods were incredibly