In a small town in the Avellino province of Italy, a young man decided it was time for a change. The land of the free called to him. With nothing to his name, he sailed out of Naples on May 25th 1951, across the ocean on a vessel ironically named the Atlantic, and landed in New York, New York. He remembered that as the ship passed the Statue of Liberty, people on deck ran to the railings for a better view, excited about what the arrival into their new homeland would bring. As their ocean voyage came to an end, the rest of their lives began.

Sixty-nine years plus one day since that young man left his Italian home, he passed away peacefully in his sleep surrounded by the family he had created. He cultivated a life so fruitful that even his garden was jealous. He married a girl from the city and had three boys. My brothers and I are the only grandchildren. Whenever Grandma and Poppy would drive from New York I knew two things: 1. They would be bringing bagels, and, 2. Poppy and I would play until I literally couldn’t stand up any longer. I remember thinking how silly it was that he could play hours longer than my parents…

Summer in Long Island

With the warm weather here, I’m feeling particularly nostalgic about going to New York in the summer.

Summer meant figs. Poppy’s fig tree was the biggest I’ve ever seen. Usually in the winter it was wrapped up tight in tarp with a bucket over the top to protect it from dying in the winter. Seeing it flourish in summer was something to look forward to. I never ate figs when I was young but I loved to pick them off of the tree. I loved to climb the ladder to the top and grab as many as I could. My mother liked to eat them so I was always happy to bring her a fresh bowlful from the garden.

Thankfully the beaches were close-by because we spent a good amount of time there. Again, Poppy was full of energy so all we did was swim, build sand castles and chase seagulls. I remember he went for walks and disappeared for hours at a time. One day one of my parents and I took a walk down the beach. After some time walking I happened to see Poppy’s head out of the corner of my eye laying on the sand. I felt shocked for a minute because the rest of his body was missing and it hadn’t occurred to me that he had buried himself! He had arthritis and burying in the hot sand felt good. What did I know?

After the beach, we’d go home and eat outside in the screened-in patio. The air felt cool to our skin since we were all sun-kissed and tan. The table had bench style seating with a big lazy-suzan in the middle. Dinner was nothing but exceptional and I filled up on Italian bread. The crickets began to chirp as the sun went down and as it got darker outside the fireflies came out. Brother Marc and I flailed our arms trying to snatch them out of the air. Poppy ran around the yard with us and quickly but gracefully scooped “lightening bugs” into a jar with his hands for my brother and I to enjoy for a little while before letting them go (I’m sorry to say that occasionally there were lightening bug casualties. RIP).

Cent’ann

Thinking back on these memories now, I realize how lucky I am to have had someone like him in my life. He loved his family and wanted nothing but an easier and better life for all of us. When I was younger I didn’t fully know how to appreciate the wholesomeness of what a close Italian family provided. I sometimes felt embarrassed by the things my family did that were different. For example, when I was in elementary school I was the only one to take lentil soup in a clunky thermos for lunch. Everyone else ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I had my parents start making me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, knowing full well I wouldn’t eat them, but I wanted to have the same lunch as everyone else. You’ll never catch me dead picking PB&J over lentil soup now, yeah righttt!

My family history is rooted in Italian immigration. I grew up celebrating the culture and traditions based on what had been passed down through generations. Winemaking, tomato jarring, curing soppressata, killing rabbits with your bare hands (omg, I never did this but have heard ALL about it), filling the bathtub with live eels for Christmas Eve dinner (this is also over, thank god), the list goes on. A lot of the tradition revolved around food and togetherness. Since they all were poor immigrants, all they had were each other. They worked hard and had to build their lives from nothing. I think the greatest lesson that’s been passed down is that it doesn’t take money to be rich, just strong, loving families and friendships.