Grandma's reaction to the new world that she encountered back in the Old World sounds pretty typical for a child of six: "I didn't like the food," she said. And that's not all she objected to.
"I was used to drinking coffee and milk." But in Italy, there wasn't any coffee to be had. From our modern vantage point, living in the bountiful USA, it's hard to believe there was no coffee in Italy in those days. But the more I learn about my ancestor Pasquale Orzo's life in Calabria, the more I realize how little people there had to eat.
If people drank warm beverages at all in the morning in the 1900s, it was most likely chicory, derived from chicory root, which was roasted, ground and brewed. Ironically, the other possibility is that my Orzo ancestors may have drunk orzo, otherwise known as barley wheat. Called caffe d'orzo, the grain was, like chicory, roasted and ground before it was brewed.
These and other interesting details emerged during a wonderful conversation I had on August 29, 2024, with my Aunt Bette (nee Ricci) Foeller, who was the youngest of my grandmother Albina's five children. My Dad, Ric Ricci, was Aunt Bette's
Below, me holding a photo of my Dad, Ric Ricci, who served in the U.S. Army during World War II.
For as long as I can remember, Aunt Bette has made her home in Illinois, near Normal, where her now-deceased husband, George Foeller, had a long and very distinguished career at Illinois State University as Director of Bands and Trombone instructor. Uncle George was also the originator of the Big Red Marching Band at the University. He will be formally inducted into the Marching Band Hall of Fame on Saturday, October 19, 2024, at Illinois State, where he retired in 1990 after 30 years with the University.
My conversation with Aunt Bette (which I recorded) focused on some extraordinary stories that I learned directly from my Grandma Albina Ricci; I tooks notes during our conversation, which took place nearly 45 years ago, on seven small pieces of paper.
The first thing Grandma described to me was how her father, Pasquale, at 28 years of age, fell in love with her mother, Caterina Amendola. Grandma told me that Caterina was 15 at the time: "He saw her one day, combing her long long, dark brown hair, almost black, almost to her hips. He was fascinated by her! They were married within six months," in January, 1898, in a beautiful seaside church named for San Giovanni, perched on a cliff in San Lucido, Italy.
Last October, in 2023, my husband Richard Kirsch and I had the great privilege of standing in that church in San Lucido where
Even though the sun was setting into the Mediterranean in the western sky,
But things didn't go well at all for her father. After ten months in Paola,
Pasquale abandoned the idea of becoming a farmer because he couldn't acquire land. Grandma didn't say it, but I am convinced that the reason Pasquale was unable to buy land in Paola was because people in that town were deeply prejudiced against him: after all, he was born to a woman who was unmarried -- and in that time and place in history, being a "bastardo" was extraordinarily shameful for my great grandfather and his entire family. Indeed, that heavy burden shame followed him and his six daughters -- including my Grandma Albina-- for the rest of their lives.
We know about Pasquale's birth mother thanks to some extraordinary sleuthing by my cousin, Donna Ricci -- her father Bob was my Dad's older brother. In an event that sounds like it came from a movie, Donna discovered a single photograph in an old trunk bequeathed to her by Grandma Albina's younger sister, Lisetta. On the back of the photo, a woman named Filomena (Pera) Scrivano wrote in 1919, in Italian, addressing her beloved son, Pasquale. It was that photo, and extensive genealogical research by my cousin Donna, that led her in 2014 to write a highly detailed narrative about the Orzo family lineage. It was because of that narrative that I came to write my novel, Finding Filomena, which tells a redeeming story about Filomena. Because of her last name, Scrivano, I turn my great great grandmother into a writer, and I tell the tale of how she comes to fall deeply in love with a wealthy man from Tuscany. Their child is my great grandfather, Pasquale Orzo.
Speaking to me in 1980, Grandma never breathed a word about the fact her father was illegitimate; she and her sisters were so deeply ashamed of their father's status they managed to keep it a secret their whole lives. But amazingly, Grandma did provide an important hint to me about what went on with her father: on one page of my notes, off to the left side, I wrote down very clearly that her father had been fed by a "wet nurse."
Once he gave up on being a farmer in Italy, Pasquale returned to the states, but he left behind his wife, Caterina, along with Grandma Albina and her three younger sisters -- at least one or two of whom must have still been in diapers. They all moved in with Caterina's father, Giuseppe, and his new wife, Madelena. Giuseppi's first wife, Alvira -- Caterina's mother -- had passed away.
I imagine it was mighty difficult for Madelena to welcome into her small home her husband's daughter, along with four children under the age of seven. But it was Grandma who seems to have suffered the most because of the situation. Referring to Madelena, Grandma told me, "She didn't treat me good!" To make matters worse, Grandma's mother, Caterina, blamed Grandma for not getting along with the -- ok, I'll say it, the EVIL -- stepmother.
There were other problems. Grandma told me: "We four kids got measles, mumps and all the childhood diseases."
Eventually, Caterina and the children had to leave her father's house; it wasn't easy to find another place to live: "We got an apartment because my mother had a friend who knew of a place." But this place wasn't an apartment: "It was one big room, for four children and our mother. It was stucco."
It was miserable, particularly because as the oldest child, Grandma was expected to help chase after the younger children; sometimes that also meant she had to scramble to find them food.
Speaking about her mother, Grandma said Caterina was extremely mild-mannered, in contrast to Pasquale, who had a notorious temper. Grandma said her mother was bashful, and she was mortified, too, specifically, about sex. Caterina wasn't prepared at all to have sex with her 28-year old husband, Grandma said. Her mother wasn't prepared for childbirth, either. Still 16 when she delivered her first baby, Caterina's labor lasted an exhausting three days and three nights.
The child, Adelina, or Lela, apparently was born with a congenital defect. She passed away at the age of five, her death a source of great heartbreak to her parents. Unfortunately, that wasn't the end of the heartbreak Pasquale and Caterina suffered over children passing. Out of the ten children they had, four passed at a very young age.
When he came back to Bristol after giving up on farming in Italy, Grandma said Pasquale worked as a mason. He built the steeple of the Lutheran church in town. He also eventually built the family a home at 295 Park Street in Bristol; eventually that home was passed down to subsequent generations.
Back in Bristol, Gaetano went to work in a factory called New Departure. Soon, though, according to Grandma Albina, Gaetano's wife back in Italy wrote to ask her husband to return to Italy to get her. Once there, however, Gaetano's wife convinced him to go to Brazil rather than to the US. Eventually, a very sad Caterina received a letter from her brother, telling her that he had settled in Rio de Janeiro, and was working as a fruit seller.
Caterina, Grandma recalled, was brokenhearted. She missed her brother terribly.
Now I understand why Grandma and her sisters traveled (by prop plane) in the 1950s and 60s to visit our relatives in Rio de Janeiro. Apparently, one of those relatives edited a magazine in Rio. I would be very curious to know what it was called!
Great grandma Caterina was 69 when she died; Grandma Albina's sister, Lisetta, quit her nursing job to take care of her mother after Caterina was diagnosed with a heart condition. In those days, there wasn't much to be done about a heart problem.
It was during this period that Aunt Bette, Grandma's youngest child, used to visit her grandmother, who she calls "Nonna Caterina." Bette, born in 1934, attended Saint Anthony's Catholic School, the elementary school attached to Grandma Albina's parish. I attended this school, too, until third grade, when my Dad and Mom made the bold decision to move us out of the Ricci family orbit in Bristol "far away" to Poughkeepsie, New York, so Dad could take advantage of a wonderful career opportunity, a job as a Customer Engineer with IBM. Working in Poughkeepsie, I am proud to say, Dad's career in the booming computer industry flourished.
Back to Aunt Bette's tale: "I was about eight years old then, and after school, I would go to Nonna Caterina's house on Upson Street and wait for my parents, who were working at Ingraham's, the clock factory in Bristol."
"I got to know Great Grandma Caterina very well. She was a very sweet and affectionate woman, and she was so lovely, with that long, long flowing brown hair."
"It was very very nice for me to be with Nonna. One thing I remember very clearly is Nonna combing her hair in front of the window. Then she would braid her hair and use those amber pins to secure a bun in back. She would be sure to have the window open too, and so she would pick basil from the window box and stick the twig of basil into her hair. When I think of Nonna, I always think of the fragrance of sweet basil. She was a very, very lovely person."
I asked Aunt Bette if she knew that Nonna Caterina had a weak heart.
"Well, when I was with her, she didn't seem sick. She would putter around, but then, I never saw her do anything too strenuous or physically taxing."
Curiously, Aunt Bette has no memory of Nonna Caterina dying in November of 1951, about a year before I was born in November of 1952.
"In those days," Aunt Bette recalled, "adults protected children from death or any mention or discussion of it."
"Do you remember her being in bed?"
"No, because I wasn't allowed to be in her company when she was sick. And by that time, I was old enough so that I didn't have to go to Nonna Caterina's house anymore after school. I went to the Girls Club, so I missed seeing her. But I learned how to do so many things, one of the things I learned how to do was sew."
"Oh Aunt Bette, I remember going to the Girls Club too!"
Aunt Bette was born in 1934, I was born in 1952, so she was 18 years old when I was born. I tell her that it was a huge age difference in those days; but today, she is 90 and I am 71, and I feel like I am closer to her in age and experience than I am to so many family members younger than me.
"I certainly feel closer to you in experinence than I do to my children. I've entered into the ancestor range...actually I tell people that I feel like I am 'an ancestor in training.' I don't mind it, either." I laugh.
I recalled for Aunt Bette what my dad used to say to me as he got to be in his mid-80s. I'd say "Dad, I can't deal with you and Mom dying..." I tell Aunt Bette that as a child, I found it very very difficult to think about death. It was especially a problem for me during summer vacations when I had a lot of time on my hands to ponder, and to worry.
"I'd wait for Dad to come home from work during those long summer days and I'd go into Mom and Dad's bedroom and start crying, and carrying on. I'd say 'I don't want you to ever die.'"
Naturally, Mom and Dad would try to soothe me, saying "Oh honey, now don't be worrying about that. We are going to live a long, long time."
When Dad was well into his eighties, I was in my early 60s, and I would say once again to him that I was struggling with the idea of him and Mom dying. "I don't know how to let you go Dad. You or Mom!" What I didn't say to him, but didn't have to say, was that I was troubled thinking about my own mortality.
Dad could be such a bear sometimes -- displaying outbursts of what we called fondly the "Orzo" temper -- but in this case, he was instead very, very sweet to me. "Oh, Sparky, (his favorite nickname for me was Sparky, or "Spargegela," in Italian) when you get there, you'll be ready."
I told this to Aunt Bette: "Dad was amazing..I really appreciate now what an incredible dad he was. And my mom, she was so amazing too."
At that very moment, I had to stop the interview!
"Oh my God there are two Baltimore orioles here at the orange feeder, Aunt Bette, oh my heavens, excuse me, Aunt Bette, I just have to take a photo. There, I just took one, now I have to go closer..." Could that be? Were these two Baltimore Orioles my mom and dad visiting me?
Aunt Bette asks: "Do you feed the orioles grape jelly?"
"Oh yes, yes we do, and we even found a bottle of Welch's that is made of plastic, you squirt it right into the orange Oriole feeder."
I pause to send her the photos and the phone connection disappears. And then it's back:
"You know Aunt Bette, my sister Holly and I have talked about the fact that Grandma had a really really rough time of it growing up. She had a father who was enraged over his circumstances. And she was very bright. She had great unrealized potential."
Ironically, though, she didn't want my very bright Dad to go to college; she told him, "your dad has worked at Ingraham's all his life, if it was good enough for him, why isn't it good enough for you?"
At the end of the conversation, I tell Aunt Bette that all in all, while Grandma certainly had her shortcomings, "I've become much much more forgiving toward her, after reading through these seven pages of notes."
Aunt Bette laughs, that husky laugh of hers. I recall how Aunt Bette used to smoke as a young woman; she gave up the habit when it became so clear cigarettes are extremely dangerous to one's health.
"Let's talk again," I say, and I tell her how much I've enjoyed sharing information with her while writing Finding Filomena.
"Oh yes," she agrees. "It's been so much fun for me too!"
"Well, so, that's it for today Aunt Bette. I'm so glad that we had this chance to talk. I really wanted you to know what it was Grandma told me so long ago."
Indeed, I have "known" for more than four decades all kinds of things about my grandmother and her family. Why did it take me such a long long time to realize what my grandma had said to me? I wish I could answer that question but I can't. It is what it is. Thankfully, though, as I am finishing writing Finding Filomena, I finally have brought forth the stories from those seven magical, red magic-markered pages in the orange file.
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