How Seven Pieces of Paper from an Old Orange File Threw My Novel -- and my Grandma Albina Ricci's Life -- Into a New Light!

How could seven pieces of paper, each only five by eight inches, suddenly become so important to me and to the novel that I'm writing about my 19th-century ancestor, Great Great Grandma Filomena Scrivano? Why did it take me almost 45 years to look at them? And why did the memories recorded on these tiny sheets end up squeezing my heart, making me feel so much more sympathy for Filomena's granddaughter -- my very own grandmother, Albina Orzo Ricci?

Looking at these yellowed sheets, you would disregard them, understandably, as "Trash!" The pages are covered in scrawl, my own, all of it in red magic marker. Perhaps the most amazing thing about these scraps of paper is that I managed to ignore them for more than four decades. I stored them quite casually in an orange paper file marked "ORZO, Pasquale."

Pasquale Orzo was Grandma Albina's father and my great grandfather. It wasn't until Grandma Albina and all five of her "Orzo" sisters died that the secret shrouding Pasquale's birth was finally revealed to us.

My great grandparents, Pasquale and Caterina Orzo, and their six daughters. My grandmother, Albina Orzo, is second from the right, standing beside her mother.

******

OK, wind the clock back 45 years. My husband Richard Kirsch and I got married in 1978 and immediately moved to a high-rise in Hyde Park on the south side of Chicago. Rich was studying for his MBA at the University of Chicago. I followed my dream and became a reporter for the Chicago Sun-Times covering all kinds of fascinating stories, and specializing in covering environmental news -- I broke numerous stories about the hazards of the nuclear power industry.

Occasionally when we were back East to visit family, Rich and I would drive a couple of hours to see Grandma Albina and Grandpa Angelo in their cozy house at 218 Crown Street in Bristol, the city where I was born. I have a crystal clear vision of their house, I will never ever forget it.

Grandpa had a Victrola -- stored within a handsome mahogany cabinet-- in the dining room. Grandma's big wooden rocking chair sat in one corner of the kitchen, smack up next to the stove and beneath the wooden clothes drying rack attached to the ceiling. Grandma and Grandpa and I always watched Lawrence Welk on TV whenever I was overnight there on a Saturday -- Grandma adored him. In the upstairs bedroom, where my Dad and his brother Bob grew up, I can see clear as day the khaki-colored wallpaper that sported World War II fighter planes flying this way and that. At the other end of the upstairs hall was the walk-in attic with a gazillion boxes and trunks with clothes and hats and furs and one odd thing after another to snoop through.

It was on one of Rich's and my visits -- about 1980 or '81 -- that I sat down one day with Grandma Albina at the white enamel kitchen table she owned as long as I knew her. I was clueless at the time, but Grandma began spilling her guts to me, telling me stories about her childhood that only today I realize helped to shape who she was, and why, for example, she was so incredibly religious. What is astonishing to me is that Grandma never told these stories to anyone else, not even her own daughter, my Aunt Bette -- who has been reading each and every version of my book and helping me to see what my great grandparents Pasquale and Caterina were like.

As Grandma spilled her guts to me about her parents, Pasquale Orzo and Caterina Amendola, I was clueless. I was about 28 years old, and never gave a thought to any of the (many) people -- including Bis Nonno Pasquale, and Bis Nonna Caterina, who died before I was born.

Being the good reporter I was trained to be, however, I dutifully wrote down every single word Grandma said, in red magic marker pen, on those seven skimpy pieces of paper that she probably had taken out of a kitchen drawer. I covered the pages with diagrams and arrows too -- pointing this way and that -- as I tried my darndest to follow what she was saying about her father, Pasquale Orzo, and her mother, Caterina. She kept referring to a place called Paola, a seaside town in southern Italy where Pasquale was born. Apparently she had lived there at some point; she told me that there is a Saint Francis of Paola, much like there is a Saint Francis of Assisi.

GRANDMA ALBINA LAUGHING HER BIG LAUGH -- at our wedding, 9/2/78

Her stories meant absolutely nothing to me and so, after returning to my hectic life in Chicago, I promptly forgot all about what Grandma had said. But I save everything, so I created the orange Pasquale Orzo file and tucked the seven pages inside.

What Grandma HAD LEFT OUT OF HER TALK WITH ME -- because she and her sisters never breathed a word to anyone except of course to each other -- was that her childhood was miserable because Filimona was not married when Pasquale was born. He was "ILLEGITIMATE" -- I use quotes for this detestable word because I challenge its validity. I do the same thing with the ridiculous term, "out of wedlock." These and other words served only to shame my ancestors. Their trauma was so deep that my ancestors never recovered; sadly, they passed it on to their children -- Grandma and her five wonderful sisters -- who turned around and handed it on to my Dad's generation. The shame landed squarely on me and my siblings and my many cousins.

I decided to write "Finding Filomena"

in large part to undo (to the extent it's possible) this destructive legacy of shame and even, self-loathing and fierce anger. As I learn more about him, I understand that Pasquale had a very short fuse, and a mean temper, perhaps because of all the intense humiliation to which he was subjected, beginning when he was a child. Even his last name, ORZO -- the most inconsequential form of pasta -- was given to him by a municipal or church official with the intention, I firmly believe, to humiliate him his entire life.

By "RE" writing Filomena's life story, I have tried to empower my great grandmother by giving her a new history, or in this case, HERstory. Filomena thrives, and finds love and redemption, in my book, in spite of the fact she lives in an era and a nation that was and continues to be highly patriarchal, a culture that has held women back in every way possible.

My ancestor Filomena's last name, Scrivano, ironically, translates as "scribe." Lately I have begun to wonder if by writing this book, I am Filomena's scribe, or, whether she is actually the scribe who is working inside me! It gets complicated, this business of writing a book, especially when you are looking deep into the past into the lives of those responsible for creating you.

It was only a few weeks ago -- August 28, 2024 -- that I finally took those well worn pieces of paper out of the orange file, where I stuffed them after that crucial talk I had with Grandma. Heaven knows what prompted me to pull them out of the file! But I did, and once in hand, I decided to spend a few minutes trying to make sense of them -- no matter that I wrote the notes down, they've always looked like a bunch of scrawl that would simply be impossible to read and decipher.

As I sat in my living room pouring over the pages, occupying the grey sofa where I have written most of the novel, I had the overwhelming (and rather eerie) feeling that Grandma Albina was actually sitting right next to me on the couch. Maybe she was crocheting another afghan -- she managed to make at least five or six dozen in her lifetime, each grandchild getting at least one. (OK, truth be told, I got...more than one.)

Suddenly I could see Grandma's olive skin, her forehead creased in the way it did when she threw her head back and laughed her biggest laugh, her eyes clouded behind her eyeglasses (there's a great photo from my wedding where she's laughing like that.) I could also see my Grandma as she got irritated (Grandma, I'm afraid, inherited what we call the Orzo temper, taking after Pasquale. Numerous others, including my Dad and both my sisters, admit to having it.) Grandma could get really worked up over just about anything, especially if someone -- including her mild-mannered husband and her three rebellious children -- defied her wishes. Complaining in a kind of increasingly shrill tone, Grandma would declare something particularly unfair by shouting out: "Now that really gets my nanny goat!" Sometimes she was funny; other times I'm afraid, she wasn't funny at all.

Despite her foibles, I loved Grandma Albina so incredily much. She wrote letters constantly; during World War II she wrote to her two beloved sons, my Dad and Uncle Bob, who were both overseas seeing combat, every single day. She wrote to me in college constantly and yes, I wrote back; sometimes I think it's because of Grandma (oh yes, and my Dad) that I ended up a writer. Grandma loved to read too. She told me time and again that her favorite novel of all time was Anna Karenina -- "I loved this love story," she said.

She was a fantastic Grandmother, always thinking of us, loving us to the moon and back. She was interested in what each of us was doing, where we were traveling (because she and Grandpa traveled all over the world.) She took us shopping, she took us to the movies, and she bought us the best Christmas and birthday presents. I can still see the tiny white wooden table with black wrought iron legs that she presented me on my fifth birthday.

I was incredibly fortunate when it came to grandparents. Grandma Albina is one of the two most wonderful grandmothers a kid could have. She, long with my Mom's mom, Grandma Mich (for Michelina) were grandmothers who taught me through and through what it means to be a devoted grandma myself. Today I am ecstatic to be Gma to three amazing "grands," two -- Ronen and Dani -- who live in Boston, and the other little "mountain" man, Monte, in Denver.

The very next morning after I read those seven pages, I texted Aunt Bette to say that we needed to speak right away. I wanted to make sure that she, of all people, knew the stories contained in those seven pages. A few days later, I called her in Illinois and recorded a 45-minute conversation in which I slowly and carefully relayed to Aunt Bette, exactly what Grandma had said to me so many decades before. I told her about the discrimination that Pasquale endured, but most importantly, I let her know what had happened to her mother, my Grandma Albina, to make her childhood just miserable.

I think my Aunt Bette was shocked; she had never heard any of these stories. Grandma never told her how she had suffered as a child. Sadly, Grandma and Aunt Bette clashed fiercely when my aunt turned her back on the Catholic Church. Grandma told her that she felt "betrayed." I haven't asked, but I'm almost certain that they had not mended their relationship when Grandma passed away in December of 1987 at the age of 84.

The information in those seven pages, which I relayed to my aunt, is essential, I believe, to understanding why Grandma leaned so heavily on her religion. The irony was lost on her: she was blindly devoted to the Catholic Church, that very same church that took her father away from his birth mother Filomena Scrivano, simply because Filomena wasn't married. That same Church labeled Pasquale "illegitimate," ensuring that he would be a second- or third-class citizen for the rest of his life, and that shame would shadow all of his children as well.

In addition to explaining how her tall, irascible father came to marry her petite, sweet-tempered mother, Grandma also told me that day in 1980 about a particularly traumatic period of her childhood. The details of Grandma's misery -- which lasted about a year -- are spelled out in the seven small pages that are covered, fittingly, in blood red marker.

In the spring of 1910, just as Grandma Albina turned seven years old, she and her parents and three younger sisters left the USA to return to Italy, to their father's hometown of Paola. Grandma told me that her father wanted to try to become a farmer. After only about a month, however, Pasquale gave up his dream of trying to buy land in Paola -- I suspect he met with intense discrimination at home because he was endlessly branded "illegitimate." He left Caterina and the children behind, and that's when life turned downright scary for Grandma Albina.

The family moved in with Caterina's father, Giuseppe Amendola. But he had remarried -- his new wife, Madeline, wasn't thrilled to have a brood of four young kids she didn't know move into her home. She particularly seemed to hate Grandma Albina, who was the oldest, but still just an innocent child.

Like all first-born children, Grandma was expected to look after her three younger sisters, who were babies. Frequently, my grandmother found herself scrambling for food. Even worse, she and her mother and siblings apparently had to leave Giuseppe's house because Grandma describes having to search everywhere for shelter in Paola; they ended up in a one-room hovel.

Thankfully, Pasquale found work back in the United States as a mason, building at least one church spire. He also worked as a carpenter, and eventually built the family a home at 295 Park Street in Bristol. His wife and daughters returned from Italy about a year later. They sailed on the SS Luisiana, arriving at Ellis Island on May 6, 1911. This information comes from my cousin Donna Ricci, who has done an extraordinary amount of work researching Orzo family genealogy. Besides examining birth, marriage and death records for Pasquale and his family, Donna also looked at dozens of ship manifests. The manifest for the SS Luisiana on May 6, 1911, shows that Caterina sailed with the children using her maiden name, Amendola, because she was accompanied by her beloved brother, Gaetano.

********

Grandma Albina was actually the second of ten children born to Pasquale and Caterina Orzo. Their first daughter, Adelina Natalina Orzo (known as Lela), was born in December, 1898, apparently with some kind of birth defect. She died at age five, bringing unimaginable grief to her parents. But that was just the beginning of the horror. In 1922, daughters Nicoletta and Lucy died within a week of each other. The cause of death for both girls was whooping cough (pertussis) and pneumonia. I cannot fathom the grief that accompanied this double tragedy. I cannot let my mind go there. And yet, even more heartbreak was in store for Pasquale, Caterina and his family.

They had one son, Francis,

a sweet little boy born in September of 1921. On a summer day in August of 1929, when Francis was seven, he was playing with my Dad, who was three, and Dad's older brother Bob, age four. Pasquale and other family members sat a few feet away on the front porch of 295 Park Street. According to my cousin Donna, who heard it directly from her father, Bob Ricci, Francis told Bob that he would go across the street to pick him some chokecherries. He walked between two parked cars, turned and told Bob to wait for him there. As Francis backed into the street, a car struck and killed him while Pasquale and the family watched in horror. Dad was too young to remember anything, but my dear Uncle Bob apparently was traumatized for life. In 2013, Bob and Donna visited 295 Park Street together; he recalled with great sadness that after Francis died, he and his grandfather Pasquale "stared at the [blood]stain in the road for what seemed like months."

His only son's death proved to be a deep knife to Pasquale's heart. Bis Nonno suffered a stroke not longer afterward, from which he only partially emerged. He was bedridden for the next ten years, cared for by Caterina and her daughters, and at times, by his grandchildren. Dad recalls his grandfather sitting in a chair, drooling, unable to speak. Pasquale Orzo died in 1940, at the age of 70. Which was exactly the age I was in 2022 when I began to turn all of my attention to writing about "les antenati" -- my many Italian ancestors, specifically Bis Nonno Pasquale.

Aunt Bette Foeller (nee Elizabeth Ricci) and her cousin, Phyllis Ingellis, on their Confirmation Day. When my husband and I visited Paola a year ago, in October of 2023, I hadn't looked at these seven remarkable pages of notes. It wasn't until one evening a few weeks ago, for reasons I cannot explain, that I rather casually took them out of the orange file. I had finished writing the inner story of "Finding Filomena," and it left me wondering about Pasquale's life. The reporter in me wanted to know in more detail how his unfortunate birth circumstances clouded his life and the lives of his descendants. I had decided to interview a few of my cousins, too, specifically the children of my Grandmother's sister, Mary Ingellis.

Aunt Bette surveying her garden in Hudson, Illinois, with her father, my grandfather, Angelo Ricci - who grew a sumptuous garden back in Bristol, Connecticut. She has read every draft of my new novel, "Finding Filomena," the story of our ancestor, Filomena Scrivano. ******

That day in 1980 that Grandma spoke to me, she seemed old. But she was only in her late seventies -- not much older than I am today. What I wouldn't understand until I became a GRANDMA myself is that without actually telling me, Grandma gave me in effect, ancestral "jewels," extraordinary details of how her father met and fell deeply in love with her mother, Caterina Amendola, a soft-spoken woman with the longest and most beautiful hair that for her whole life, she wound around and around into a bun at the back of her head.

While I don't remember having the conversation with Grandma, I recall the kitchen perfectly. Albina Orzo Ricci's kitchen spilled over with the fragrance her very special (warm) loaves of just baked bread resting on top of the stove. It was the place she made buttery round Italian cookies with pastel icing and sprinkles, for Easter, along with yummy cream puffs and the traditional "lamb" cake -- she made a simple white cake and divided the batter into two pans, each shaped like half a lamb. Once baked, the two halves were frosted together and on the outside it was heavily sprinkled with white coconut. Thus, the Easter lamb!

Grandma also made the most divine spaghetti sauce. Her eggplant Parmesan was such that I can still recall 50 years later eating it warm, and then, eating it cold between two slices of that fabulous Italian bread. Perhaps the piece de resistance for me was Grandma Albina's "minestra" -- she cooked it for me every summer of my childhood when I would stay with her a few days.

Into her minestra Grandma dropped carrots, onions, tomatoes, parsley and very tender (Italian) flat string beans and of course, zucchini, or in her dialect, "cogootz." All of these veggies were grown with immense love and pride by my mild-mannered Grandfather, Angelo Ricci, in his mammoth vegetable garden. Besides growing boatloads of veggies, Grandpa also grew all kinds of flowers; the ones I remember best are the bountiful roses growing on split-rail fences and wooden lattices and the purple irises -- some of that very same stock now grow at my house and at my younger sister Karen's house in Massachusetts.

*****

The fact that Great Great Grandma Filomena Scrivano was unmarried when she gave birth to Pasquale Orzo on November 3, 1870 seems so incredibly inconsequential from my modern perspective. But living as she did in the small seaside town of Paola, in Calabria, the southern-most province of Italy, Filomena was squeezed. Like all Catholic countries in those days, Italy adhered closely to strict religious laws that shaped civic laws, all of which were imposed to basically punish unmarried women. Ah, but there wasn't a single word of reprimand for the men who created these pregnancies. Things have changed, but really, how much have they changed?

By decree of the all powerful Catholic church, beginning in the 16th century, all unwed women had to give their babies up to so-called "ozpizias," often decrepit and filthy foundling homes where babies were fed by wet nurses who passed deadly diseases from one infant to another. Most of these poor infants -- an estimated 93 percent in my Great Grandfather's birth year (1870) and region (Cosenza) -- died before their first birthdays!

So how exactly did Bis Nonno Pasquale manage to survive this gauntlet? For that you must read my book! I began doing "research" for this book nearly five years ago, when the pandemic hit in March of 2020 (there was no connection, at least none I can identify.) I started mulling over family stories that I had heard growing up, from Mom and Dad, and from my grandparents, about the ancestors, or in italiano, "les antenati."

Simultaneously, I started "craving" the soft mellifulous sound of the Italian language. My yearning to hear and to speak and finally, to write Italian has grown and grown over the past four years. Today I am writing in Italian (a little) and listening to Italian music. And I am planning to return to Naples next year, and visit Paola again, hopefully in early May, 2025, in time for the huge festival in Paola that celebrates "the other Saint Francis," not the one we all know about, from Assisi, but instead, the meek but beatific saint who grew up in Paola and fasted in the caves on the hillside in the 1500s.

********

Why did it take me until I was 70 years old to begin caring about my ancestors? I don't know the answer to that important question. Even though both my parents are Italian, and my mom and her parents (Claude and Michelina Rotondo) were fluent and spoke Italian constantly as I sat at their dining room table for endless numbers of meals, I was never interested in learning the ancestor's language (and it wasn't available in school, either.) Instead I enjoyed learning Spanish, and then French, in high school and college.

But something strange started up in the Spring of 2020 and my longtime writing buddy, Peggy Woods, was witness to all of it. Almost overnight, I found myself feeling a deep fascination with Italian.

And when I turned 70 two years later, on November 29, 2022, the intensity of my fascination grew sharply. That's when our daughter Lindsay Kirsch Kaatz, and her husband Geoff, Coloradans who love hiking, had their first baby, on November 26, 2022, meaning grandbaby number three (Monte) and I share the same Thanksgiving birthday weekend. Lindsay and Geoff decided to name their firstborn Monte, (Italian for mountain) in part because Linds wanted to honor her family. She says they were driving along one day and she got a glimpse of the awesome Front Range of the Rockies, and boom, the name Monte ...was just...there.

*****

Great Great Grandma (Bis bis Nonna)Filomena gave birth to Pasquale Orzo in 1870, and exactly a century later, in September, 1970, I entered Brown University as a (full scholarship-funded) freshman. As I was growing up, my mom would often say to me, in a kind almost teasing way, "Ah tu se fortunata!" "You are lucky!" All those years, I never really grasped what she meant. I was lucky...in what way exactly? Lucky to go to college? "But everybody goes to college, Ma? Don't they?"

It's only now, looking back, and especially considering what intense hardships my grandparents and great grandparents endured, on my behalf, on behalf of all of their children and grandchildren, that I really understand how fortunate I am.

Like all immigrants in every age, my ancestors did what they had to do in order to survive. In order to eat. In order to make lives for their families. In order that their descendants would get ahead. It's a very American, and an old-fashioned story, and yet, it's also a brand new story, for every immigrant today who yearns to step onto U.S. soil to make her/his fortune.

*********

I'm diverging here because honestly after finishing "Finding Filomena," I'm feeling "steered" by the Universe? les antenati? to write about my Mom's side of the family. When her mother, Grandma Mish and Mish's sister, Gina, and their mother, Clementina Ciucci, came to America, they left the Abruzzi -- a beautiful mountainous region northeast of Rome -- in November of 1918, and sail sailed out of Naples on the Olympia, the sister ship to the Titanic. The journey to America was supposed to take about a week, except that it was the middle of World War I. The ship ended up in Gibralter for ten days, during which time Grandma and her famiy ate nothing but bread and grapes.

They didn't arrive in Boston for two months -- by then it was the middle of winter, frigid January. The man who was to become my Grandpa Claude took them to Hartford, CT to a well-known department store named GFox where they bought winter coats. Like all immigrants, my ancestors did whatever it took to give their children food to eat, a roof over their heads and a better life. A chance at success. Two of my mother's brothers, Grandma Mish's boys, got PhDs; Claude Rotondo Jr in Engineering and Delio J. Rotondo, in Education; both had highly successful careers. My Uncle Paul Ricci -- Dad's younger brother -- taught philosophy for years in the California State College system. Countless other relatives have achieved great things.

I have the great good fortune to live in the USA, such a bountifully rich and free country, only because my ancestors took risks, and sacrificed dearly on behalf of me and the rest of my family. Sono cosi grato, antenati. Siamo cosi fortunata. I am very grateful. What a privilege it is to be able to write this book, to tell Bis Bis Nonna Filomena and Bis Nonno Pasquale's stories, to pay homage to him and to his wife, Bis Nonna Caterina, and the myriad other "antenati" who came long before I was born -- oh there are so many people I have never met, people I want to thank.

Lately, I feel like I know them on a much deeper level. My cousins Bill and Pat Ingellis, and their sister, Sandra Druhan-Morse -- who as a high school student used babysit for me and my brother Ric and her brother Bill and oh what terrorists we were! These dear cousins -- children of my Grandma Albina's sister, Aunt Mary Ingellis. My cousins have so kindly sent dozens of amazing photos -- and shared amazing memories with me by phone and email. All of this will enliven the "Finding Filomena" ebook, which is coming out soon.

And then there all of my own photos, spanning four generations of my family:

Every time I look at these old photos, which I treasure, I sink into a reverie. I feel so deeply connected to all of them...in a distinctly ethereal way. And I especially feel les antenati, every time I write in, or speak Italian.

Io amo scrivere in italiano!

I love writing in Italian!

I also have begun to say (out loud) some of my mother's favorite Italian sayings -- what doozies they are. When I hear myself saying them, feel the words rolling around in my mouth, I feel Mom! She is beside me, she is inside me, a great great loving spirit. I feel her arms around me, holding me, as if I am resting on an everlasting cloud. She is always smiling. She is always gently telling me that everything is just

perfetto!

Yes, Mom, I feel you and Dad and my grandparents and all of les antenati and I am happy and at peace, knowing that one day I too will have the privilege of becoming an ancestor in our loving family.

Letter to Antonello Zaccaria: "MILLE GRAZIE for Your Crucial Help in Finding Filomena!"

Buona serra Antonello! From my international weather forecast, I see it is evening and about 27 degrees Celsius in Paola right now! Oh, I bet it has been a beautiful day there beside the turquoise sea.

Here in Massachusetts, it is currently just about the same temperature, but we have a mix of sun and clouds. It is 2:08 in the afternoon on Sunday, August 25th, 2024 or as you express it, 25-8-2024. I am busy busy busy getting my manuscript, “Finding Filomena,” together! I just this minute translated the title into Italian — using Google -- yes, sadly I have to rely on Google, but sono cosi grato that a decent translator exists!

I am at this very moment in the timeless present, and I am typing the title of the book -- in italiano 🇨🇮 -- on the first page of the manuscript, beneath the words "Finding Filomena." It seems only fitting that I inform you first Antonello, because without you, I’m not sure this book would exist, it most certainly wouldn't exist in its present form! Who would have thought when you and Richard and I met on that very rainy Saturday morning last October in the parking lot of the Sanctuario di San Francesco di Paola, that you would play such a key role in the life of this book!

To think, I found you in such a random off-hand fashion, after the other Italian tourism guide was unable to meet us at the last minute. Ah, but I do believe that the Universe (I refer to "her" as Cara Divina) has our ancestors' best interests in mind; I feel a kind of divine energy at my back, helping to push me along with this book.

My husband and I liked you the moment we met you, Antonello, although it was a bit difficult to talk as we were all three of us under ombrelli!Oh but we were so happy to learn that even though you look to be about the age of our son Noah, who is 35 years old,

you have plenty of experience. Not only were you born and raised just a few kilometers from Paola (in your beloved seaside town of Amantea), you also gained a much deeper understanding of the region when you worked as a local reporter. And then you got certified as a guida turistica -- by the state of Italy. Your company, Core Calabria,

is fabulous, and your new website, with that handsome photo of you, is going to attract tourists, i.e. young women, in droves! L O L ! I told you I like to tease people, just like my namesake, Claudio Rotondo (my mother's papa!) used to when I was a child.

Seriously, though, Antonello, what is/was most amazing about you is what you told us over lunch in that gorgeous little town of San Lucido where my great grandparents got married in January 1898. We were dining on ensalada parmesana e capuccino) and you casually mentioned that one of your favorite pastimes is assisting people with family genealogy! I opened my mouth to speak -- Dio Mio, and Madonna Mia, -- but nothing came out except, "wow, that's great!" Inside though I was speaking to my cousin Donna Ricci back in the states: "Cousin, we have hit the jackpot for sure!"

And yet, even though you seemed perfect for the job of tracking down Filomena, I still wasn’t altogether convinced you would be able to do it. I mean, how would you possibly track down our elusive Bis Bis Nonna when all you had to go on was a shred of information -- three or four handwritten lines on the back of the ONLY photo we have of Filomena, supplied of course by cousin Donna. No, it wasn't much of a clue at all: these words you can barely see here basically translate as: "To my dear son, Pasquale, Filomena Scrivano (Pera), 23 October, 1919."

That's all you had to go on! Miraculously, though, after only three months of intensive searching (for which you refused to take even un centisimo!) you found her, Antonello! OMG I remember that Thursday morning! It was January 25th, exactly seven months ago today. I was sashaying down Sixth Avenue in Denver, Colorado, killing time while my dog Poco was being groomed. It was a bluebird day -- that's shorthand in Colorado for pure blue skies, no clouds allowed -- and I was headed for Cheseman Park, figuring I'd hang out there, when I happened to casually glance at my Inbox. HOLY MADONNA, there it was -- your email!

"Hello Claudia 🙂🖐🏾 and Donna

it is me, Antonello Zaccaria from Calabria

I want to share my happiness this afternoon...

I'm in the center of Paola

I think I've found death certificate of Filomena Pera ...... OUR Filomena😍🥰

She married Leonardo Scrivano.

She died in 1927 in the seaside area of Paola. I Read the document today.

I'll send u more mail to explain all I understood...

And I'm gonna send a picture 📸 of what I have seen."

I screamed with joy, and immediately dialed your cell phone in Amantea. I don't recall what I said to you, something like, "I am hysterically happy" -- no, I probably did NOT use the word hysterically, as that might have confused you as to my state of mind. Let's just say that I was somewhere out in the stratosphere all day long!

I do remember dancing on the sidewalk and then calling my cousin Donna (our fathers were brothers) up in Kennebunkport, Maine. She and I agreed that you, Antonello, are definitely UN MIRACULO, a miracle for sure, as well as a gift from God, un dono di Dio. How long and hard you must have looked. I know the search was something you cared about deeply, and I know you devoted yourself to it. All your hard work paid off -- as did your decision to look in one last room, one last the corner, in one last (and improbable) dusty file drawer!

Because of you, Antonello, WE NOW HAVE CONCRETE EVIDENCE THAT OUR BIS BIS NONNA FILOMENA SCRIVANO actually lived -- and died!

For Donna, who has been on the Filomena trail for more than a decade, this meant that her long search for Filomena was not in vain. As I explained to you, Donna and her husband Dave made the trip to Paola back in 2014. They presented themselves at the municipal office in Paola and my cousin politely asked for our Great Grandfather Pasquale Orzo's birth certificate. Dammit, but didn't those asinine women in the stupid municipal office give my cousin nothing but agita! and the old Italian version of runaround (hey, Antonello, how do you translate runaround into Italian??)

Even though the women clearly were in possession of the birth certificate, because Donna could see it on the desk, they simply refused to give it to her. And then they had the audacity to point at our great grandfather's last name, Orzo, and LAUGH at it! Oh dear God I wish those women heartburn of the very worst sort -- bruciore di stomaco della peggior specie! These pathetic women were certainly as evil-minded as the original beasts who in the very same municipal office way back in 1870 annointed our ancestor with the demeaning name ORZO, the very least important sort of pasta there is!

Enough ranting and raving, scatenarsi e delirare! I want to say that the last year and a half writing this book has been nothing short of un miraculo for me personally. I fully expected to write a story about my great great grandmother that would provide some much-desired “answers” to questions that have been flying around in our family for decades. I really wasn't too worried about writing it. Having published four novels, I was pretty confident that I could come up with some kind of love story about Filomena that family members might enjoy, a story that would also, importantly, give my great great grandmother back her stature. More than anything, I wanted to restore my ancestors' dignity. Because as you well know, Antonello, Filomena had her baby way back in 1870 in SOUTHERN Italy, for heaven's sake. That's 154 years ago, and yes, Pasquale was born outside of marriage -- the term is out of wedlock or — fuori dal matrimonio. Dear GOD and Mary how I loathe those deadly words! The shame that was historically associated with this sin is unfathomable to us moderns. I wonder, Antonello, is that true of young people in Italy too today? Do they readily accept the idea that a woman may decide to have a baby without being married?

Whatever is true today, illegitimacy was undeniably the source of almost intolerable shame back then, and not only shame. For centuries, under the ironclad rule of the Catholic Church in Italy (as well as in Spain, France, Portugal and Belgium), women who delivered babies outside of marriage were forced to GIVE UP their babies to church officials who then placed these precious infants in decrepit “ozpizias” literally hospices where they were fed by wet nurses who passed diseases from one baby to another.

I am going to pause here Antonello, because I need some air. Honestly, I cannot go forward at this moment thinking about what happened to all of those hundreds of thousands of infants. It makes me physically ill and I feel like I can't breathe properly.

I've told you what happened to these hundreds of thousands of tiny souls, all of them up in heaven as angels for sure. I will resume my letter after I've had un caffe or perhaps a stroll through Mother Nature, una passeggiata nella

Madre Natura!

It is this feminine (some would say feminist) energy in the Universe that has been missing for most of history. It is this feminine energy, embodied in women, and also in the Virgin Mary, that is so popular with millions and millions of indigenous peoples around the world. It was the MADONNA figure that the Roman Catholic patriarchy, all of them men, tried to wipe out UNSUCCESSFULLY around the world. Indigenous cultures have clung to their madonnas. Which from my point of view, is a good, no, a great thing. It is this very energy that is coming into its own right NOW, right here, in the U.S.of A. In our (knock 'em dead KAMALA HARRIS!) election coming this November. Yes, we are praying around the clock that the opposition candidate, a Republican who will remain nameless, will disappear after he is handily defeated once and for all.

OKAY, time I am got off my soapbox. Time to take un passeggiata in Mother Nature, my dear friend, mio caro amico, Antonello!

HAWK, HAWK TAWK TO ME!!

August 20, 2024 Come closer, HAWK, fly up and out of the field, tell me why you have been crying incessantly since early July? What are you trying to tell me? Why oh why are you crying so much over and over and over again, why are you crying so loud?

I hear you first thing in the morning while I am meditating, kneeling in front of the open door of my studio, the one that faces the meadow. I am trying to focus on breathing, on clearing my mind. I am trying not to let my attention stray out to the beautiful green field, crowned with delicate Queen Anne’s lace and fluffy yellow ragweed, where soft brown deer wander, where red fox seek their prey, where bobcats and bears occasionally appear. I need to focus, and yet, your haunting cry sears my mind, lands and resonates deeply in my chest. Please come out of the bountiful wetland, where you seem to have settled, and let me know something, anything, what are you trying to say?!

********

It was the 7th of July, 2024, a Sunday in a month that was to prove thoroughly REMARKABLE and LIFE-CHANGING, I first heard you. I paused meditating. I wrote in my journal, “I hear a hawk,” which is always a thrill. How many times hawks have visited me

branch overhead,

in the past, landing on a branch I look up to in meditation. Seeing a hawk, or hawks, who knows how many, came to be such a regular occurrence a few years back, that I came to expect it.

Ah, but that dear branch didn’t last. As of this past spring, the branch snapped -- it hangs from the tree now, looking like a sorry, drooping limb.

The day I set off for Boston, Tuesday, July 9, 2024, on a Greyhound, to help care for my beloved grandchildren, Ronen, 10, and his sister, Dani, 4, I noted HAWK's arrival again: “Red-shouldered HAWK you keep crying and crying, do you miss me before I even leave for Boston? What are you trying to tell me?” Perhaps her cry was a warning, I wondered? Ah, but that sounded ominous. Looking back now, from the perspective of August 23, 2024, I now realize that the HAWK WAS BEARING GOOD – even AMAZING news!?

*******

July 16, 2024 8:33 a.m. “Red-shouldered hawk, you are crying again, please please just tawk to me please just tawk to me PLEASE!” Then I wrote down the word SACRED and then, SAC(RED)-shouldered hawk.

I decided to text my college roommate, Cathie Murray, who lives in Rockland, Maine. Cathie is very well educated in the natural world.

“Good morning Cathie! So I was just meditating for a long time and a red-shouldered hawk was crying and crying. Do you think that’s because the hawk is in stress? Do you have any ideas or suggestions as to why the hawk would continue to cry?”

She answered: “Thanks for asking about the hawk. I’m guessing it is a young one being very insistent about food. This time of year, young hawks leave the nest but are still totally dependent on the parents for food for quite a while. WaaaaH!”

A few days later, I wrote to Cathie again: “That hawk has been crying all week, Cath. Finally, we saw him (or her or they or whatever) sitting in a willow tree in the middle of the meadow. The hawk seems to like the third willow tree, consistently – and has visited it every single day this week!” She sent me back on-line information about why

“Juvenile Hawks Cry Wolf.”

Later, I texted Cathie about the hawk’s flight patterns – “sometimes the hawk is making circles over the meadow,” and its landing pattern: “This afternoon after my writing group ended, I saw the red-shouldered hawk sitting on a low branch of the third willow tree.”

On Sunday, July 21, 2024, a day that will go down in HERstory (and MYstory too) as it turns out, I wrote Cathie first thing, saying “you are on my mind once again this morning because this time I opened the front door and the red-shouldered hawk was over to the right in the pine tree, only 25 yards from me standing at the front door. The sound of his/her/their crying was SO incredibly loud that I called out to the hawk "Please HAWK, please TAWK! What do you want to tell me?”

Oh wow was I excited by the HAWK coming so close! When I went to sit down for meditation, I decided to don the exquisite red prayer shawl decorated in black symbols

that my sister-in-law Jo Kirsch -- an extraordinary yoga teacher up in Vermont -- gave me for my seventieth birthday. I told Cathie: “I didn’t know what to do with that red shawl until today!”

So it wasn't until now, on August 23, 2024, that things came into sharp focus. Only now, as I am looking back over my journal for the last few weeks, I am piecing together the events of July, and in particular that day when the HAWK practically walked up to my front door. Only NOW do I understand why the HAWK was TAWKing, what she was saying, or trying to say, so desperately.

My life changed in July. So did the lives of millions of other Americans. It changed because on that HERstoric Sunday, President Joe Biden did the most selfless and the incredibly patriotic thing: he graciously stepped out of the 2024 race for President allowing Kamala Harris to slip in. (In my Substack columns, I call her CALM a La!)

But before that happened, something really strange, really hard to explain, happened to me in the middle of the night.

About four am on that Sunday morning, I woke up out of a dead sleep and pulled out the tiny black notebook I keep for just such nocturnal musings. Without thinking, without even looking at the page, I wrote down a haiku

(probably because my dear friend Sharon sends me a daily haiku.) They are kind of infectious, those haikus, once you start writing them, you start thinking in haiku format, turning everything haiku-like.

On that very early morning I opened the little black book and in red pen I wrote across two pages:

CALM a LA Harris

maybe our next President

Blood, bullets may fly

I fiddled with the last line:

Blood, bullets, might fly

and then

Please God, no blood fly

and then just

BALLOTS not BULLETS!

On and on through the next two pages I wrote, playing with different third lines. I gave the poem a title, “Harris Haiku,” and drew a heart around it. By then I was exhausted, so I fell back to sleep. I didn’t think much about the Harris haiku until just after Rich and I finished brunch the next day, SUNDAY JULY 21st. I said to my husband, political activist Richard Kirsch, “hey honey I wrote a haiku about Kamala Harris in the middle of the night.” My husband is a terrific writer and particularly clever with haikus, so he took it up and produced the final draft:

CALM a La Harris

Maybe — our next President?

God, no bullets fly

We immediately texted the haiku to our son, Noah, a commercial solar energy consultant out in Colorado – he just loves politics. What he wrote back simultaneously was this:

“HE’s OUT!” Biden had, at the very same moment we sent the haiku, announced that he would step out of the race. I got up off the couch. Stunned. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out except a squeak (or was it a hawk-like squawk?) and then a cry of joy! The synchronicity of writing that poem on the very day the election went topsy turvy set my head spinning, and it hasn’t stopped since!

You might say that on that historic/HERstoric day in July, I quite suddenly and without any warning, turned back into the writer I used to be at the start of my writing career. All I know is that I started writing every day during that thrilling week that followed – as Kamala raked in a slew of campaign contributions, and earned endorsements all around. Once again, 40 years after retiring from daily journalism, I wrote “on deadline.” I “filed” a Substack story every day (in my previously unused Substack column called "Here, NOW!".

I’m no longer writing for Substack every day, but I am thinking like a journalist again, identifying story ideas that might work as blogposts. It’s so much fun write quickly, the way I used to in my newspaper days, before I quit daily journalism to raise my three children. It’s also wonderful to feel so hopeful and excited about this incredible election.

Moreover, it has become clear to me today, as I am writing this, that like the fledgling HAWK who was having difficulty separating from the nest, squawking the whole time as she has found her independence, I too have separated from the “nest” that for four decades –- my daughter Jocelyn

"HEART EXPLOSION," painted for my beloved JOCELYN, hanging in her office at the SOUTH BOSTON COMMUNITY HEALTH CENTER, where she is Pediatric Nurse Practitioner, caring for many, many patients, as well as Chief Operating Officer. During the pandemic, Jocelyn supervised a team of nurses and health aides who vaccinated more than 35,000 patients against COVID.

turns 40 in October -- I made a priority for my children. I am no longer the woman who, for such a long time after the nest went empty, was paralyzed by the need for my children’s approval and emotional support.

Finally, I can stand back, and look at Jocelyn and her siblings, Lindsay and Noah, and say, God Bless you all, I love you to pieces, but I don’t need to “nest” you anymore. I recognize that you are adult children and you have successfully fledged! And now, thank God, so too I have fledged!

God knows I’m not sure how this realization happened in one fell swoop. Perhaps it has been coming for a long time, and I just didn't realize it.

Something else happened: I decided to do a deep clean of my office/art studio, which I haven’t done in many, many years.

Looking into really old file cabinets, I found countless stories that I had written for the Chicago Sun-Times and for The Wall Street Journal (as well as many other newspapers and magazines.) Honestly, I had forgotten all about this work. When I looked at it again, it hit me: some of these articles should really appear on my website. I contacted the talented young woman who helps me with the site and she said, “By all means, it will enliven your website if you were to include as many of these stories as you like, because in the digital world, there is no limit.”

Well, actually, there is a limit. I have no intention of flooding the website, but I will include, say, a dozen or so of my best stories, including the ones that won me prizes and a nomination for a Pulitzer (along with the other reporters at the Sun-Times who helped investigate illegal toxic waste dumping in Illinois back in the early 1980s.) Ancient history, all of it, but it’s my ancient history (or HERstory) so it certainly belongs in the website.

Meanwhile, I decided that I will publish, as an ebook, the novel “Finding Filomena,” a fictional memoir about my great great grandmother, Filomena Scrivano. Fi’s story – which I keep referring to as the inner story – needs another chapter (or two). As for the outer narrative that I have been writing to weave around Filomena’s tale, for now, I’m happy not writing it, or maybe writing it. I've decided that I'm not going to worry about it. Just as I sometimes let unfinished paintings “season” (or simmer) in my studio, I’m content just to let it be whatever it is, for now.

August 23, 2024 “I hear you HAWK. Loud and clear! Thank you thank you for tawking to me! Yes, I’m putting on the red-shouldered shawl again, which I do whenever I hear you. And I am lighting the red candle. I am HERE NOW, this morning, listening to you, as you keep crying, crying, I HEAR YOU, you, red-shouldered HAWK, HAWK, keep TAWKing!”

And please, dear HAWK, fly fly fly and take up the cry wherever you can and with all the HAWKS (and doves and any birds you meet), tell all of them to join the cry: ELECT CALM a LA HARRIS and TIM WALZ IN NOVEMBER!

Celebrating My Wonderful DAD -- Ric Ricci -- What a Life He Had!!

As today is August 15, 2024, the fifth anniversary of my Dad's becoming an OFFICIAL ANCESTOR, it's time we celebrate his amazing life. Of course, we can't tell Dad's story without bringing in his extraordinary wife, our mother, Dena -- we called her Dee. Mom became an OFFICIAL ANCESTOR on October 17, 2014 -- going on a decade. It doesn't make sense perhaps, but I miss her more today than ever!

Here are the famous pair, standing on the porch of their Pittsfield, MA, "retirement" house. That house -- which Dad painstakingly redecorated -- is forever seared into my memory. Close my eyes and I can see all the Rose of Sharon (pink, purple, white) that Dad planted -- it always bloomed in profusion in late summer against the back porch. Inside the house, I see the cheerful living room, with the gorgeous pink stiped wallpaper and the flowered sofa -- where we would squeeze in together on Christmas Eve -- to that blue and white kitchen, where Mom made miracles happen every day! In this photo, I choose to think that perhaps Mom and Dad are waving to us from the GREAT BEYOND!

Dad wasn't born into money or privilege, but he sure was born into a lot of love! His parents, Albina Orzo Ricci, and Angelo Ricci,

were crazy about each other -- so much so that when Grandpa Angelo's mother -- a snob named Augusta Baldini Ricci who hailed from Rome -- rejected my dear Grandma Albina (because her Orzo family was dirt poor, and worse, they hailed from Calabria in southern Italy) --

my grandparents decided in October of 1921 to ELOPE!

According to my Aunt Bette, the youngest of my grandparents' five children, Angelo and Albina were overtly affectionate with one another throughout their 66-year marriage. But Grandma Albina was given to fits of anger, especially when her "honey husband" won the cardgames they played together at night. Aunt Bette says that Grandma wasn't terrific at keeping track of the cards, while Grandpa Angelo was. Every time he laid down four aces or some other winning hand, crushing the card game, Grandma would get furious -- and sometimes she would hit my poor grandfather!

My Dad was son number two, born on July 25, 1926, in Bristol, Connecticut, two years after his older brother Bob; the two brothers fought fiercely growing up. Indeeed, Aunt Bette -- who turned 90 last May (here she is with her dad, my Grandpa Angelo)

recalls that her older brothers' fights got so physical so fast, that she was terrified they might strike her as they hit each other. So frightened was young Bette that she ran into the coat closet to hide.

"I still remember the smell of my mother's black Persian wool coat," she says. She remained in the closet until it was safe to come out. Unfortunately, the anger that ran through Dad's family -- his mother and his brother Bob had notoriously furied tempers -- sometimes landed squarely in the laps of my brother and sisters and me. As much as I adored Dad, his explosive temper could, even at the end of his life, scare the bejesus out of me.

Nonetheless, my dad's obituary -- which he composed himself in the last days before he passed -- makes a point of saying that he "grew up surrounded by a large and loving family. Ric had an idyllic and adventurous boyhood, playing in the woods behind his parents' house on Crown Street, and generally raising hell with his brother and cousins." Dad told us a few stories about precisely how he raised hell and all I can say is that it's a good thing he lived to tell them!

Despite the fact that my grandparents had a limited amount of education, Dad demonstrated his intellectual potential early. At age 14, he won first prize in an essay contest sponsored by The Bristol Courant, a competition that provided 48 newspaper boys with a TRIP TO WASHINGTON, D.C. for FDR's third inauguration in 1941! Dad won the contest after selling a record number of new subscriptions to The Courant! As I read his essay today, goosebumps shivered up and down my arms and tears flooded my eyes!

Entitled "The Chance of a Lifetime," Dad's essay recounted getting up at 4 a.m. on Sunday morning, January 19, 1941, "after a night of restlessness and anxiety, [as] I was ready to go on a trip to Washington, D.C. to see the Inauguration of President Roosevelt. A most historical one for never before has a President taken the oath of office for three terms."

The boys boarded buses in nearby Hartford, Connecticut, stopped briefly in New York City for church services, and then "sped through Philadelphia and Baltimore," arriving in DC on Sunday afternoon, the "realization of a dream!" The first thing Dad did when he arrived in DC was "immediately mail cards to my folks and friends at home." The cards featured all the places he was scheduled to visit on his once-in-a-lifetime trip to the nation's capital.

Monday, January 20, 1941 was FDR's third Inauguration Day. The boys did some sightseeing, during which Dad aimed his camera in every direction. Nothing escaped him: he even noted that the streets of Washington, D.C. were "like a wheel with the spokes representing the avenues of our states. The axis of the wheel is the nation's Capitol Building."

As the buses carrying the newspaper boys drove up Pennsylvania Avenue on Inauguration Day, crowds of people were filling the grandstands. The Bristol Courant had reserved a bank of prime seats for their delivery boys -- and their excitement spilled over as FDR approached!

At first all they could see was President Roosevelt's official car.

"Then, at last, we could see him, the President of our country, Franklin Delano Roosevelt." FDR delivered a brief inaugural speech, and according to Dad's essay, the President addressed the woes of the nation. "A marvelous and thrilling parade soon followed, with soldiers on foot, cavalrymen on their horses army tanks and machine gunds mounted on trucks." Airplane formations "clouded the sky, adding to the display."

On the last day of the trip, the boys visited Mount Vernon on a "beautiful site facing the Potomac River. Down an old brick path off on a side of the home is the tomb where lies the Father of our country." And then the epitome of his trip: "I visited the Lincoln Memorial and with my hand I touched the most lifelike statue of

... Abraham Lincoln, sculptured by Daniel French. I had seen it in pictures many times, and now there it was before me!"

Dad concluded his winning essay in gratitude: "Many thanks to those who made such a trip possible for a 14-year old newspaper boy."

Dad retained his love of travel and adventure until the very end of his life. In July of 2017, at the age of 91, he boarded a plane at Bradley International Airport with his daughter, Karen, and Karen's husband, Dale, to fly to Denver, Colorado, for the wedding of his fourth granddaughter, my own daughter, Lindsay Ann Ricci Kirsch,

to her amazing husband, Geoffry Kaatz.

In 2016, having lost our sweet Mom less than a year before, Dad bravely flew to Los Angeles, where he proceeded to drive with my sister Karen and her husband to a wedding destination in the beautiful golden hills above Santa Barbara, California. That trip celebrated the wedding

of Dad's oldest granddaugher, my wonderful niece, Hollywood movie producer Sarah Jean Donohue, to William DiCenzo, another amazing young man.

I will never forget that balmy September night when Dad, at age 90, finally arrived at the somewhat remote wedding location near Solvang, California. I was incredibly nervous all day, worrying that Dad would disintegrate before he reached us. I got continual updates from my sisters, who accompanied dad on the long flight from Hartford to Los Angeles, and then, on the lengthy drive up to the wedding resort. It was after midnight when Dad finally emerged from my sister's rented car. He walked very slowly, without a cane, up the sidewalk to where I was waiting for him at the front door of the hotel. He was quite dishevelled; his shirt had come untucked from his pants, and he looked like a little boy who was too tired to know where he was exactly.

But Dad was smiling so brightly that he lit up the night sky. He was so thrilled and proud that he was able to join the family for Sarah and Billy's wedding. (Excuse me, but I have to stop writing for a moment, as now I am crying because I miss my adventurous Dad -- with his boundless energy and enthusiasm -- so much!)

Dad had an insatiable curiosity and a sharp mind. He was an amateur scientist, always devouring Popular Science magazines. With zero money and no experience, Dad built the first house

I lived in -- a three-bedroom "hip roof" ranch, on Sherbrooke Street, on top of a mountain in Bristol. He built the house the year I was born, in direct defiance of his mother -- Grandma Albina -- who famously predicted that Dad was foolish to undertake the project. She told him he would fail. Not a chance! Dad financed the house relying on building loans -- the bank approved a sum of money to first pour the foundation, then inspected the work before awarding a subsequent sums of money to cover subsequent phases of building.

He wired the Sherbrooke Street house

himself and did such a good job that he ended up helping several others, including my mother's brothers in Connecticut, to wire their houses. To the end of his days, Dad was fascinated with electricity (as well as an endless number of other topics, including solar energy, electric vehicles, comets, gardening, space travel, the secrets of the Universe, and the reason why the dinosaurs went extinct.) You name it, Dad was interested.

What follows here is a very detailed diagram that I found just yesterday in my "Dad folder." For whatever reason, he sketched this electricty schemata

in 2011 for my parents' Pittsfield, MA, home. Heaven knows why he needed such a sketch! He was always busy building one thing or another, or planning a new project. A talented carpenter, he spent many happy hours as a "mole" (Mom's word for him) in his woodworking shop in the basement. The wooden furniture and little toys and

Christmas ornaments he created are treasured by everybody who owns them. At the end of his life, when he could no longer work with wood, he became known as the "Cardboard King" at Daybrook Village in Holyoke, MA, creating nifty boxes and other items out of Amazon packing boxes my sister Holly sent to his apartment.

Among the sweetest things that Dad did toward the end of his life was buy each of his granddaughters and his daughters tiny ceramic birds! Mine is a goldfinch, which makes sense, as that was my husband's favorite bird when he was growing up. One more major piece of evidence that Dad would have been an extraordinary engineer: after we moved into our second home in 1960, in Pleasant Valley, New York (because Dad had taken a job as a Customer Engineer at IBM in Poughkeepside) it soon became apparent that our well wasn't deep enough to provide adequate water. We ran out of water continually -- until finally, Dad decided to design and build (with his own two hands) a CISTERN, the likes of which I've never seen except, say, as part of the Roman aqueducts!

Dad figured out how to route rainwater into the cavernous cinderblock cistern (which he buried underground.) From that point on, Mom washed all of our clothes in the cistern's water; the rainwater in the cistern also flushed the toilets in our house. Thanks to Dad's ingenuity, we never ran out of water again!

Everyone who knew Dad agreed that besides being smart and curious (and a total perfectionist) he was also an all-around charming man -- he had a great smile and was very good at making conversation even with total strangers. People frequently told him that he resembled Mario Cuomo, and he didn't mind that comparison, even though he was a lifelong Republican. Somebody once joked that Dad could talk the ear off a brass monkey -- Mom frequently reminded us of this, especially when he won an argument! He was also a wonderful writer and at one point in his career at IBM he worked as an Engineering Technical Writer, producing maintenance and repair manuals for computer systems.

Had Grandma Albina been a more sophisticated woman, Dad most certainly would have gone to college. But Grandma could see absolutely no reason for Dad to go to college; she and Grandpa Angelo worked at the Ingraham clock factory in Bristol, for decades, so why wouldn't Dad do the same thing? In the long run, what Dad did was anticipate the computer age! He went to work for IBM in 1957 as a Customer Service Engineer, helping to maintain and repair some of IBM's largest mainframes. In the mid-1980s, Dad helped us buy our first IBM personal computer.

Before he landed in his career at IBM, Dad attended electronics technical schools in Chicago and Detroit. Back in Bristol, he worked for WBIS, Bristol's new AM radio station, designing and building several pieces of specialized equipment for the station. I was always fascinated by my Dad's work at the radio station as I grew up; besides being Chief Engineer, he was also chief cook and bottle washer. During a huge flood in 1955, Dad escorted the Mayor of Bristol through town in a boat so the Mayor could survey the flood damage and broadcast messages to reassure the people of Bristol. It's no wonder that I wanted to follow in Dad's footsteps -- when I got to college in 1970, I immediately started working at the campus radio station, WBRU-FM, in Providence, Rhode Island.

Drafted into the U.S. Army in 1944, when he turned 18, Dad was part of the 94th Infantry Division, attached to General George Patton's Third Army during the Rhineland campaign in Germany. Once the war ended, Dad became a miltary policeman; ever the adventurer, he applied for security detail in northern Africa, where, sporting a thin black mustache,

he spent 23 months driving Army bigshots around in jeeps! Discharged in Casablanca, Morocco, he was assigned to security duty at an unpopulated American Army base in Dakar, Senegal, in West Africa.

In fairness to my dear Grandma Albina, what she lacked in imagination for her son's future, she made up in being an amazing and extraordinary letter writer. My sister Holly has assembled a gigantic white notebook in which she lovingly placed in plastic sleeves the countless letters that Dad and his mom wrote back-and-forth during his years in the Army. Here is one I particularly love, from Dad, dated October 30, 1946. It's from Casablanca.

"Yes, Mom, I'm finally coming home after two years of wandering. And to be truthful, I can't wait." Dad goes on to tell his mother that he's been writing "a lot of hooey" to her in recent letters; the truth was he had "gotten fed up with" his job in Dakar and left and he was now headed for Paris where he figured "it will take me a good month or more just to get out" because so many soldiers were trying to get home. "What I may do is go to Bremerhaven, Germany, and catch a boat. Either way, is at government expense." He told her to expect him back in Connecticut within six weeks; he warned her that this would be his last letter to her from abroad, "So until you hear from me again, don't fret if I don't write."

As I reflect back, it occurs to me now that I definitely inherited what Mom always called my "long leg," or in Italian, "samba longa," that is, my wanderlust, from Dad. At one point, Mom told me she had, count them, 21 different addresses for me, in all kinds of places I lived, from Rhode Island, Maine, Boston, Oslo, Norway, California and Chicago.

Among the things Mom and Dad left for me were letters that I wrote to them when Rich and I were travelling for two months in 1978. I am so incredibly grateful that they saved the onionskin sheafs from England and Italy and especially, from Israel. As I reread these letters I'd written 45 years ago, I was delighted to relive those adventures.

Dad brought home some gorgeous souvenirs from Africa, including money from Morocco,

-- as well as two beautiful leather purses, both of which he promptly gave to my mom after he met her a few years later. Dad always said that "the best and most important decision he ever made was to ask the 'love of his life,' Dena Rotondo, to marry him in 1949." Mom was an extraordinary woman, a homemaker, and later a wonderful stained glass artist. Unequaled as a cook, she made pot roast that was so tender and delicious you didn't need a knife. Her homemade breads and cinnamon buns and all kinds of desserts were legendary: I still dream about her apple and blueberry pies and try as I might, I can't reproduce them. My husband still talks about her cream puffs, which she made at Easter. My dad claimed that he fell in love with Mom's cream puffs (at a church bazaar) before he met her!

Dad was devastated when Mom passed quite suddenly on October 17, 2015, only a week after she received a deadly diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. He missed her warmth and loving companionship terribly, and he was further saddened by the realization that we children -- my brother Rick, me, and my sisters Karen and Holly -- had overnight lost our supremely loving and devoted mother. Dad sold their Pittsfield house a few months later and moved into an assisted living facility in Holyoke, MA, near my sister Karen, who as an RN attended to all of Dad's health care needs (until late September of 2018 when she suffered a terrible stroke.)

My sister's stroke broke my Dad's heart. Even though Karen has regained much of her mobility and virtually all of her speech, Dad had lost his caretaker. He was devastated, and angry at a world that would do something so cruel to his beloved daughter Karen. Within a few months after her stroke, Dad began to decline, basically because he had started to lose his will to live. It was awfully sad for us kids. Dad entered the Hospice of the Fisher Home in Amherst, MA early in August of 2019. The Fisher Home was such a peaceful facility and Dad received great care.

I took my last photo of Dad on the day that my granddaughter, Dani Marcella Guggenheim, was born: August 6, 2019. I pointed the camera at him and said, “Dad, I’m going to take your photo now, so pretend you’re holding our darling little Dani in your arms.” Which he did; half sitting up in bed, he cradled his well-weathered hands together.

On August 9th, 2019, three days after Dani came roaring into the world (her mother, our daughter Jocelyn, was only in the hospital 18 minutes!) my husband and I drove to Boston to meet our sweet little Dee, who was named for my mom, Dena. From the moment little Dee was born, we treasured her. Leaving Boston that evening, we stopped at the hospice in Amherst. Later that night, in my journal, I wrote: "I just saw Dad; the skin of his face is pulled tight and parched. His cheek was cool to my hand. I leaned over and kissed him and said, "Dad, I love you very much," and he whispered back, "That's very sweet of you." Maybe he called me "Sparky," his favorite knickname for me, but perhaps I just imagined that! "I shook Dad gently and tried to show him the first photos of Dani that I had taken only a few hours earlier in Boston. Sadly, Dad started to get upset; he actually began to cry and the nurse said that often happens when patients are close to the end. I suppose it makes sense; there was Dad, all of his energy poised on leaving the world, and there I was, trying to interest him in photos that pointed to the future, to his second great grandchild. (Dani's older brother, Ronen Dante Guggenheim, was born on February 12, 2014.)

The next thing I remember is that I leaned over and, bawling, I said, 'Dad I love you and I forgive you for everything you ever did to me!"

And that was it. I left the hospice in Amherst and my husband and I drove home; I was feeling a crazy mixture of ecstasy over Dani's birth, and crushing sadness over Dad's looming death.

He was up and down over the next week. In my journal I wrote:

"August 10, 2019, 6:25 p.m. Dad asked for pizza. He rallied and is in a good mood. Glad that daughter Lindsay gets to see him that way. I wonder why there are such ups and downs in Dad's appetite and moods. I guess dying is a gradual process." Yes, indeed, dying can take what feels like forever.

"August 11, 2019, 10:31 a.m. A gorgeous morning. I am staying PRESENT. Rich and I will canoe today and we plan to see Dani again on Tuesday, August 13th, for her naming ceremony. Doing yoga in the garden this morning, I see all the day lilies are past and most of the bee balm too. I see clearly that everything in the world is fleeting. But moments that are still feel timeless and eternal. 10:34 a.m."

"August 15, 2019, Dad passed about 1:15 a.m. Holly called me right away; she was so incredibly calm. She had left Dad's room a few minutes before but she returned just in time! She told me, 'I stepped back in the room just as everything started to quicken.'"

"Oh Dad, may you rest in peace with Mom and all of our ancestors. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!"

One last thing: the night Dad passed, Holly phoned me just before 1:30 in the morning. I woke up right away and I was staring out the dark window at the brightest and fullest white moon imaginable!

Holly told me that she felt an extraordinary number of "presences" in the room when Dad passed. As if the ancestors were all there waiting to greet him! I sure hope so.

Note: In this photo of the Baldini family above, my Grandpa Angelo is sitting on the floor at the left hand side. His fearsome-looking mother, Augusta Baldini Ricci, is at the very center of the photograph, with a white scarf around her neck. The Baldini women in this photo are wearing rather sophisticated satin dresses and jewelry; yes, they do look well-off. My dear Aunt Bette told me that Augusta Baldini's family owned a cheese store; the Ricci family was in some other business, meaning they too were fairly well off, at least compared to my Grandma Albina's family, who came from the starkly poor region of Calabria in southern Italy. One very curious thing about this photo: my Grandpa Angelo's father, Giovanni Ricci, is nowhere to be seen. I sure do wonder why!

ADDITIONAL FAMILY PHOTOS!

My niece Lauren Marie Donohue's marriage to the terrific Jay Scott, September 20, 2015

Lauren and Jay made my parents' day! And they were such a handsome couple!!

Dad and I had more than our share of arguments over the years, mostly about politics, starting when I was 12 years old, in 1964, when Barry Goldwater ran for President. Dad and I subsequently bashed heads over Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, and George W. Bush. Oh and naturally, we did intense battle over the War in Vietnam and later, the Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill mess. But when Dad turned 85, in 2011, I called a truce; I told him, "Dad, I refuse to argue with you anymore, I love you and I just want to enjoy your company from here on!" I remember so clearly, we were sitting in Mom's immaculate kitchen, at the little breakfast table, he on one side of me, Mom on the other. Dad was shocked. He didn't challenge me but he was clearly very disappointed, because he was still brimming with intellectual fervor, and well, he just loved to do verbal battle. I include this photo to show the other side of Dad, how deeply he loved his family. I also want to recall that when I was studying for my doctoral degree in English (creative writing) from SUNY Albany in the mid-1990s, Dad (and Mom) were super supportive; Dad in particular loved to hear me pontificate over narrative theory, even though it was FEMINIST narrative theory that I was feeding him. Dad and Mom gave me a set of Oxford English dictionaries when I earned my Ph.D. and these huge books hold a treasured place on my bookshelf.

Dad was always up for a YANKEES game, as long as his NEW YORK team won! Holly loves the Yankees too.

Dad morphed into an AMAZING "PA RIC!" He sure enjoyed his grandson, Noah Jon Ricci Kirsch

We celebrated Dad's 75th birthday in July, 2001, at our farmhouse in Austerlitz, NY. Dad never knew this, but our naughty dog, a "chowbrador" named Bear, tore into Dad's gorgeous chocolate birthday cake when no one was looking! Thank God that my mother-in-law, ABIGAIL KIRSCH, was a guest -- she picked up a knife and smiling serenely, quickly "reconfigured" the cake -- no one ever knew (until now :)!

The amazing family that Mom and Dad spawned gathered in July, 2022, in my sister Holly's backyard in Easthampton, MA, where we have so many great barbecues in the summer, with S'MORES galore. And on Christmas Eve, we come to Holly's for a feast!