Concettina Died and Other Stories of the East Side

CONCETTINA DIED AND OTHER STORIES OF THE EAST SIDE

Marco Zaza 1

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Concettina Died

CONCETTINA DIED AND OTHER S TORIES OF THE E AS T SIDE

Marco Zaza

La Zaza Vita Editions, New York

This book is dedicated to all the Zazas, LoBassos, Vicarels, and Catullos, and to everyone we knew on the East Side, and especially to three beloved family members who are no longer with us—Mama, Martha, and Palma.

Concettina Died and Other Stories of the East Side, by Marco Zaza Published by La Zaza Vita Editions, New York Designed and edited by David Zaza Printed by Blurb Copyright Š Marco Zaza 2011 First edition

CONTENTS Introduction.......................................................................................................... 9 Riding the Broom at Zaza Hall....................................................................... 11 Bruschetta at the Catullos.................................................................................13 East Side “Tough Guys”................................................................................... 15 Mama’s Figs........................................................................................................ 17 Yankee Lake Picnics.......................................................................................... 19 Remembering the Parker Street Spring..........................................................23 Concettina Died................................................................................................. 24 The Unknowing Co-Conspirator.................................................................... 25 You and Your Town.......................................................................................... 29 You’re In the Army Now!................................................................................. 31 In Italy................................................................................................................. 35 Dinner for the Goldbergs................................................................................. 38 Mama’s Airplane Trip...................................................................................... 41 Papa’s Letter....................................................................................................... 42 Winter Wonderland........................................................................................... 45 Beginning a New Life: Pasqualina Bellapianta Zaza................................... 49 Beginning a New Life: Mary DeGennaro LoBasso..................................... 53 Enduring Friendship / Parallel Lives, Part 1................................................ 57 Enduring Friendship / Parallel Lives, Part 2................................................ 59 Beginning a New Life: Gaetano Zaza............................................................ 63 Immigration Laws?............................................................................................ 67 Beginning a New Life: Corrado LoBasso...................................................... 69 Birthday Story.................................................................................................... 73 Traditions............................................................................................................ 75 Editor’s Acknowledgments............................................................................... 79

Growing up on the East Side of Youngstown, Ohio, mid 1940s

Introduction Over the years, whenever our family was gathered around our favorite meeting place—the dining table!—I would tell stories about my childhood and teen years, growing up on the East Side of Youngstown, Ohio. My children never knew my parents and were always eager to hear more tales about them and our neighborhood.

In time, my son used his very persuavive manner to cajole me into writing the stories down to be posted one-at-a-time in a dedicated section of his blog. They are recollections of fond memories that, by now collecting them here, I hope will not be lost forever when I am gone.

I hope that some of the pleasure and the sense of the past that I get from telling them is contained in these brief retellings.

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Top and bottom left: My sister Martha’s wedding at Zaza Hall, September 24, 1949; right: me and my brother Nick, with Papa, early 1940s

Riding the Broom at Zaza Hall A few days ago I had a phone call from my brother Nick. After we caught up on the latest news, we started to reminisce about our younger days on the East Side of Youngstown, which reminded me of something that happened when we were very little boys.

Our father owned a dance hall, located in the same building as the apartment we lived in. It was a large, open space, used for parties and wedding receptions. And it was a great place for us young boys and girls to run and play and have fun. One game we played involved one of us sitting on the bristle end of a very large push broom, and the other of us would pull the rider around the smooth wooden floor, as fast as we could.

Nick, who always was the boss, decided that our sister Palma and I would both have to pull him around on the broom. (This gave more speed to the rider!) As we were swinging the broom around, Nick fell off, bumping along the wooden floor, and started screaming, as though in pain.... because he had picked up a splinter from the floor.

When I asked Nick on the phone if he remembered that day, he laughed and said, “Yeah—and I got a splinter in my ass!”

As usual, older sister Martha came to the rescue, removed the splinter, and said she wouldn’t tell our parents. (The game we were playing wasn’t allowed.) Naturally, I never took a ride on that broom again!

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My best pal, Joe Catullo, 1946 14

Bruschetta with the Catullos I recently finished reading Under the Tuscan Sun and I had such warm feelings thinking about the wonderful way Frances Mayes laid out her adventure in Italy. I was transported into that wonderful world of sun and antiquity.

While reading, I was especially interested in Mayes’s description of bruschetta, which is basically toasted, crusty bread, which is then topped with many various things.

When I was in grade school, my morning routine was to forego any breakfast at home. Only a large mug of coffee, very sweet and very light—then tear up the street (one block) to my best friend Joe Catullo’s house. Invariably, he was never quite ready to go, so I was invited into his parents’ kitchen. Picture a big square table, spindle-back chairs, and kitchen cabinets with glass-pane doors up to an eleven-foot ceiling. Matteo, Joe’s father, was always seated in the chair that faced the back door through which I entered, and he always had an old-fashioned toaster—a sort of pyramid with hinged doors on each side, that toasted the bread first on one side and then the other—sitting in front of him. “You wanna soma toasta?” he would ask. Always, I answered “Yes!”

This started a ritual which never varied. Joe’s mother would take a large, round loaf of bread, hold it against her breast, and with a long, sharp knife, cut a one-inch slab of the tasty staff of life. The slab was cut in half and handed to Matteo, who then toasted it to perfection, and then called for the butter. The butter was never kept in the refrigerator, but rather on a shelf behind the glass cabinet doors. It was always very deep yellow, and very soft and spreadable. When the domed butter dish was presented to him, he then spread a thick layer of the nutty stuff on the warm crusty toast. I ate it without ever stopping to say a word, until it was gone. Now that was bruschetta!

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Joe and me, a couple of years after the “rat” incident, 1956 16

East Side “Tough Guys” When I was growing up, we East Side boys were known for our loyalty to one another, and we were also known as ‘tough guys.’

One warm summer day, when we were teenagers, my best pal Joe and I offered to babysit my two nieces, so that my sister Martha could run a few afternoon errands. Motivation for the offer to babysit was the fact that my sister’s house had a television set (remember, we’re talking the early fifties), and neither one of our homes had one. As soon as Martha left, we turned on the TV, and left the two little nieces to their own devices, in the kitchen.

All of a sudden, we hear screams from the girls! It seems a mouse ran across the kitchen f loor and behind the refrigerator. Diane and Linda were screaming non-stop, so we lifted them up onto the kitchen table, where they would be safe from the ‘rat’ ( Joe’s description). The ‘tough guys’ Joe and I were arguing about who would shove the broom along side the refrigerator, and who would try to pound the poor mouse, if it ran out, with a shoe. Suddenly, the mouse ran out, causing both of us to jump back, and setting off new screams from the girls. Now the mouse was behind the stove. The brave saviors of little girls decided to pull the stove away from the wall, but when we did, the mouse was gone.

Martha walked in, to find her girls standing on the kitchen table, chairs shoved to the side, her stove in the middle of the room, and two very excited babysitters, never so happy to see an adult. We never caught the mouse, and we were never asked to babysit again!

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My nieces Diane and Linda Vicarel beside Mama’s fig tree, 1954 18

Mama’s Figs Our home in Wilmington, North Carolina has a very small, fenced-in back yard, where we have planted two fig trees in the hope of enjoying the sweet fruit in the future. Well, today, as I walked around our little yard I discovered both fig trees already have fruit (green, of course, but very real).

This triggered a memory of my parents’ home in Youngstown, Ohio, where they seemed to get fruit trees of every sort to grow. Most favorite of these were the three huge fig trees located at the bottom of a terraced slope which had rows of colorful gladiolas planted by my brother-in-law Joe (Martha’s husband). These trees were very special to my father, and he did many things to protect them from the harsh winter climate of northern Ohio. When they were mere twigs, he wrapped them with black roofing paper; as they grew, he would dig a trench along side of each tree, and gently bend the supple trunk into the trench, securing it with u-shaped pins, cover the tree with fall leaves, and cover the leaves with dirt. When the trees could no longer be bent to the ground, he came up with the idea to build a collapsible shack (for easy spring removal) to surround the trees, including running electricity for an electric heater. The end result was Pa’s fig trees gave an abundance of fruit around the end of July or early August.

Each mid-summer morning, Mama would pick fresh, sweet figs, gathering her apron into a drawstring sack, and fill it with the figs. Then she would take the gravel path that led from our house to Martha and Joe’s house, calling softly to her little granddaughters in Italian-laced broken English, “Dianucce, Lindicioda, looka what Gremma hava for you.”

The girls always jumped with glee to hear that sweet voice and know that the delicious fruit was on its way.

Martha always wanted to wash the figs before the girls ate them, but Mama insisted they eat them fresh-picked—natural—from the tree.

Mama always won the argument.

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My brother Jerry at Yankee Lake, in bandages, c.1950 20

Yankee Lake Picnics Summertime in my childhood meant big family-and-friends picnics, and the favored spot was under an enormous old oak tree at Yankee Lake Park. The picnics were planned for days in advance by Ma, Comare Lucia, Comare Louisa, Comare Chiarina, and various other Italian-Americans that made up our extended family. The women cooked for two days prior to the picnic, each preparing her signature dish, and often trying to outdo one another.

On the day of the picnic, Pa, who owned a large truck, would load tables, chairs, tubs of ice (from Louie the Ice Man’s place), full of old soda bottles now filled with his homemade wine (no alcoholic beverages were allowed at Yankee Lake), iced coffee, soda pop for the kids, watermelon and other summer fruits.

I remember two distinct events that happened at one of the outings around 1950 or ‘51.

My brother Jerry, age 7 or 8, and I, rode with my sister and brotherin-law, Martha and Joe. We were each given some small article to carry to the table, and told to walk to the picnic area. Jerry didn’t know the meaning of the word walk, and immediately took off running across the field to the table under the oak. As Martha, Joe and I watched him run, he suddenly fell backward as if he had run into a wall. He jumped back up and began running around, holding his forehead, his mouth forming the word “oh,” but no sound was coming out. We rushed to him trying to get him to tell us what had happened, but he was in too much pain to talk.

Joe, who was the only family member who could remain calm when called for, laid him down, and examined him. Of course the culprit was not an invisible wall; Jerry had run head-on into a wasp or bee, as the lump on his forehead and the stinger in the center, which was quite visible, showed.

Fortunately, he was not allergic to the bee venom, and after ice packs and much consolation from Ma (who reminded him that she told him

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not to run around so much) and the other ladies, he was his old running, jumping and playing self again. A funny memory now, but it was scary to me as I watched it unfold.

For these picnics the men wanted macaroni with all the trimmings, meaning meatballs, braccioles, pork, and chunks of beef, which the women prepared at home. The macaroni however, would be cooked at the picnic site. A fire was built under a low grate, and an enormous pot of water was brought to boil. When the macaroni was cooked, it was poured into a very large, metal colander.

At one of these picnics, as the women began to pour the water into the colander, the handles promptly broke off, sending the pasta to the ground. The shocked women made a quick recovery, forming a circle around the fire pit, gathered up the pasta, put it back into the pot, and rinsed it with fresh water. The men, who were busy arguing and solving the problems of the world, never noticed. As they ate the delicious macaroni and sauce, they raised their pop bottles in honor of their wives, whom, they said, had made the best macaroni ever.

The women erupted into gales of laughter, and raised their pop bottles in agreement.

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Relaxing at Yakee Lake in the late 1940s/early 1950s. Top left: my sister Palma, our friend Therese Simone, and friend; top right and bottom left: my brother Jerry; bottom right: me laughing, behind my brother Nick and niece Diane 23

Marie LoBasso, around the age when I first met her, early 1950s 24

Remembering the Parker Street Spring Temperatures this week in North Carolina have been hovering between 90 and 98 degrees Fahrenheit, and we are constantly seeking the cool comfort of air conditioning and a cold drink.

Back in the late forties and early fifties, summers in Youngstown, as I recall, were just as hot, and “air conditioning” was an ancient electric fan that managed to push the hot air around, giving us a false impression that we were cooling off. Windows were cracked open throughout the house, in hopes that a small breeze would help to cool things, and the shades were pulled down low, keeping our house in eerie semi-darkness. My brothers and I were constantly arguing about whose turn it was to stand in front of the oscillating fan, thus denying all others the cooling rush of air. Of course, the pushing and yelling only lasted as long as it took Mama to intervene and forbid any of us to come within yards of the fan.

At some point we would inevitably start to pester Mama for a cold drink, hoping she would make some Kool Aid, or even better, offer to open a bottle of Golden Age soda pop, in one of many delicious flavors. However, Kool-Aid (which required the addition of sugar) and soda pop were reserved for special times, or company.

And Mama always came up with the same solution for our summer thirst: “Here’s two empty gallon jugs for each of you. Don’t run, walk slowly, and go to the top of the hill, to the natural water spring, have a nice long drink, and then fill the gallons with the cold water, so that we can all enjoy it.”

This natural spring—right in the middle of industrial Youngstown, Ohio—was on Parker Street Hill, in a wooded area, and the water was perfectly clear and ice cold. As a matter of fact, when I was 12 or 13, my father’s cousin Dominic came to visit, bringing with him two nieces a few years younger than me. I took the older of the two for a walk up to the spring. The little girl’s name? Marie LoBasso—now my wife of almost 50 years! And Marie remembers that I did carry an empty jug so I could bring back some spring water for my mother.

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Concettina Died One summer morning when I was only 6 or 7 years old, it seemed as though every one of my mother’s lady friends came calling on her, not all at once, but throughout the morning. Each one had the same horrific news to tell: “Concettina died this morning!” Each time this news was reported, my mother and the friend crossed themselves and clucked that Concettina was too young to die, and how now her beautiful vegetable garden would surely go to seed and disappear.

How could this have happened, they all wondered. The woman was not ill, and only yesterday she was working in her garden. Well, it seems that the garden itself was her undoing! While pounding in a tomato stake, Concettina got a very large splinter in her arm or hand, and before nightfall was hospitalized, and by morning she was dead.

No one ever really explained what happened, but a good guess is that “lockjaw” set in (a.k.a. tetanus).

As a child overhearing this, the event instilled in me a rather unreasonable fear of splinters. I walked around for weeks doing everything I could to avoid getting a splinter. My brother Nick wasn’t so careful—but luckily his splinter didn’t prove fatal.

When I first told this story to my children, they were not truly convinced that this wasn’t a bit of exaggeration (which I admit I am prone to), but I know that the story is true—and I have a second source who can verify it! Concettina lived on Lansing Avenue, and so did Alice Vicarel Marchione. Ask her what she remembers about Concettina. The last time I saw Alice (the weekend we moved from Ohio to North Carolina) I asked her if she remembered Concettina. Alice replied, “Oh yes—she died from a splinter!”

And although I couldn’t, Alice could even tell you Concettina’s last name—Frazzini!

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The Unknowing Co-Conspirator In August of 2010, my dear sister Palma died after a long and courageous fight with diabetes. Attending the very simple funeral she had requested, my mind wandered back to two events that took place many years ago.

In July of 1949, I was just eleven years old. Palma, who was 18, invited a young man to our house, so that he could ask my father’s permission to marry her. This came as a complete surprise to Mama and Papa, who strictly forbade my sisters to date at that age. Also, Martha, our oldest sister, was engaged to be married the very next September, and according to an old Italian tradition, daughters must be married off in chronological order, eldest to youngest. So, being the epitome of the Italian father, Papa quickly dismissed the young man, asking him to never darken the doorway of his home again! And so Joseph Frank, the would-be suitor, left, and a weeping Palma was sent to her room. The crisis had been met and dealt with.

The very next week, while the family and some friends celebrated Papa’s birthday, Palma called me up to her room, and asked me to carry some paper bags of old clothing to the basement. I made two such trips, and anxiously went back to birthday party, for fear I’d miss out on cake.

Meanwhile, my sister Martha and her fiancée returned home from a matinee movie, and joined in the party. Mama, missing Palma’s presence, asked Martha to go upstairs and bring her down to join in singing Happy Birthday. What Martha found when she went to their bedroom was a note from Palma, saying how she could not live without “her Joe,” and so they were eloping that day. The bags of old clothes I had carried to the basement were actually Palma’s clothes. She could not risk using a suitcase, for fear of being caught.

She used me and the cellar exit to make her escape! The celebration was over.

The newly weds, fearful of Papa’s anger, and whatever real or imagined retribution they thought him capable of, left Youngstown and made a home in Kane, Pennsylvania, a good three-to-four hours away.

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I missed my sister, who was always ready to give me treats (she liked to make fudge, which never set, so we ate it with a spoon), or help me entertain myself.

By autumn, I had not seen Palma for several months, and then one day I looked up from my desk at school, and there she was, peeking in the window of my classroom door. I was so excited to see her, and I jumped out of my seat. The teacher asked me to sit down, and I remember saying, ”but that’s my sister, and I want to see her.” Mrs. Schrader went out to the hall, heard Palma’s story, and allowed me to go out and see my sister. What a happy reunion. But once again, Palma asked me to keep a secret and not tell the family that she was in town.

Once again we were co-conspirators!

Months later, on December 24, Mama received a phone call from Palma from Pennsylvania. In tears, Palma told Mama that there had been a fire in their apartment, and although they managed to save most of their furniture, they were basically homeless. When Papa heard this, he told them to hold tight, that he would be there as soon as possible. So on Christmas Eve, in a snowstorm, Papa drove his truck into the hills of Pennsylvania, and brought Palma, Joe, and their belongings home to Youngstown. Mama got the gift of a lifetime—her family was together again!

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The Zazas, with Palma conspicuously absent, 1949 from left to right: me, Nick, Papa, Mama, Jerry, Martha

Mama and me on my high school graduation, 1956 30

You and Your Town After high school graduation, my parents, who were busting their buttons because I was the first in the family to go to college, decided they would drive me to Athens, Ohio, where I would start classes at Ohio University. The journey was about four hours, and took us through winding country roads, and it seemed, through every small township and village in southern Ohio.

In one of these villages, a traffic jam had Papa’s car at a dead standstill. It was a two lane street, through the middle of that village, with the opposite traffic directly across from our car. September can be very hot in southern Ohio, so all the car windows were rolled down (no air conditioning in 1956). Papa, who had little patience when he thought the fates were acting against him, cursed in his native Italian, and was generally beside himself over the delay. In the car directly opposite ours, traveling in the opposite direction, a rather elderly little lady sat behind her wheel, patiently waiting to move forward. I seem to remember she looked at us, and smiled. Papa smiled back, and in his broken English, said to her, “eh ladee, thisa yu town?” She, probably expecting some nice word about her village, answered, “Yes, yes it is.”

Then with all his frustration ready to be unleashed, Papa leaned out his window and yelled to her, “Wella, poo! Go to hella you eh you town!”

Unable to believe what had just taken place, I slid as far down into the back seat as I possibly could, hoping for the traffic to begin moving soon. And that’s how my college days began!

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Me in uniform, with my parents, 1959 32

You’re in the Army Now! In 1958, after leaving Ohio University—actually I was asked to leave due to poor grades—I enlisted in the Army for a three year hitch, which was a better alternative than living with this disappointment and the wrath of my father. But my fears were alleviated, as before I left all was forgiven and everyone thought military service was a good idea.

There are two memories of the early days of my time in the service which are indelibly impressed in my mind: one comical, and one sad, but both rooted in cultural misunderstanding.

After basic training, I was sent to Fort Sam Houston, Texas for X-Ray technician training. Upon my arrival, I immediately wanted to call home to let my parents know I had arrived safe and sound. Money was short, so I made the call collect (I still remember my mother’s phone number: Riverside 71810). The call resulted in the following short conversation between the operator and my mother: Operator:

I have a collect call from Marco for anyone at this number.

Mama:

Marco no home, Marco ina Texa.

Followed by an abrupt hang-up on the homefront!

I asked the operator to please try again, which she did, and which garnered the same response:

Marco no home, Marco ina Texa. Followed by another hang-up.

I asked the operator to please try again, and if possible to let my mother hear my voice. The operator didn’t think she could do that, but agreed to try again. As soon as Mama answered the phone, I began speaking over the operator’s voice, and Mama heard me. She only said “okay” to the operator, and immediately began telling me that someone

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had called twice for me, but she told them I was “ina Texa.” The operator let the call go through, I didn’t try to explain what had transpired, and Mama and I had a nice conversation.

After my training was over, I was sent to Illesheim, Germany, assigned to the 536th General Dispensary as an X-Ray technician. That is where I met my good friend (to this very day), Tony Piana. Tony quickly introduced me to the three local watering holes, or Gasthauses (guest houses), in the tiny village. This was still only twelve or thirteen years after the Second World War, and Americans were using German bases to house our troops, so many German nationals were not very happy to have us there, feeling that we were corrupting their young women, and gloating over the outcome of the war.

One night as we sat in one of the gasthauses, with Tony enjoying his beloved German beer, and me sipping some very good German wine, I was approached by a slightly drunken German man, pointing his finger at me, and yelling, “Juden raus!” Well I had enough German in college to understand this—he thought I was Jewish, and he was telling me in no uncertain terms to get out! I was horrified at this, and of course, frightened. Sadly, the upshot was that Tony punched the man, and we left as quickly as possible.

I never had another bad experience like that for the remainder of my tour of duty in Germany. In fact, the next fifteen months were some of the best of my life, up to that time.

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With Anthony Piana, Rothenberg, Germany, November 1959

With my uncle and aunt, Antonio and Rosina Bellapianta, 1960 36

In Italy In 1960 I was in the army, stationed in Ansbach, Germany, and I decided to take some leave time and go to Molfetta, Italy, the birthplace of both my parents, and home to two uncles, one aunt, cousins by the dozens, and most importantly, my paternal grandmother!

I traveled to Italy by train from Ansbach to Milano, where I boarded the Milano-Lecce Express. The express traveled the length of Italy along the coast of the Adriatic Sea, south to the tip of the peninsula.

Molfetta was situated on a seaport just at the top of the heel of the boot, but the train did not stop there. Instead, I had to go on to the capital city of the province, Bari, and then take a bus back to Molfetta, about fifteen miles.

As soon as I saw signs indicating the city limits of Molfetta, I decided to get off the bus and walk into town. I should say at this point that I told no one that I was coming, so I had to find my relatives on my own. The only thing I knew was that my father’s sister, Zia Teresa, owned an outdoor cafe called Cafe Zaza. I walked for about fifteen or twenty minutes, when I decided I would ask the next person I met for directions to the cafe. A portly gentleman, wearing a navy blue suit jacket and a gray fedora hat was approaching me, and as he drew nearer, I was amazed to feel that I recognized him. My mother always showed us pictures of our family in Italy, so it wasn’t so strange that I knew this man. I was a little nervous, but I decided to talk to him, and in my best Italian, I called out “Zio Antonio!” The man was startled and drew back, placing his hands on his hips, and responded “Chi se tu...” or who are you? “I’m Marco from America,” I responded.

With that said, my Uncle Antonio embraced me in a huge bear hug, tears streaming down both our faces—mine because I had found my uncle, his for reasons that became clear a little later.

He could not believe I recognized him, and kept saying over and over, “il figlio di Pasqualina” (“Pasqualina’s son”). He took me to his house, calling out to his wife, my Zia Rosina, “Look who I have

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brought home! It’s Marco!” Upon seeing me, she first was hesitant to approach me, then she began to cry, calling me by name, then almost fainting. Entering the main room of their small home, I saw something that made me understand this overly emotional greeting: an altar with votive candles burning on either side of a framed photograph of a young man, who resembled me quite a bit. He was their son, also named Marco, who had been killed in World War II! After all the tears and hugs, I also met their son Elario and daughter Anna, my first cousins. Later I was to meet their other sons, Stefano and Vito Antonio, but when asked what I wanted to do first, I said I wanted to meet my Grandmother.

It was a short walk to my Grandmother’s home. He knocked on her door, and when she answered, I saw a tiny old woman, dressed in black (mourning her husband who had died in 1949), with thick bifocal glasses, and—lo and behold—my father’s face. “Guess who I have brought to you,” my uncle said, and my grandmother peered at my face for a few seconds, then said matter-of-factly, “Gaetano’s son.”(!) Then she grabbed me and hugged me, asking how I got there, and if I was Nicola (my brother) or Marco.

The next seven days were a f lurry of activity, meeting my Zia Teresa, my Zio Sergio, at least a dozen cousins, and sitting down to one huge meal after another. It was party time in Molfetta.

A couple of years ago, when my own family traveled to Italy for the first time, my daughter Stephanie remarked that her “DNA was vibrating and whirling about me.” I remember feeling that way myself when I returned to Molfetta a second time before I left Germany.

That time I stayed for thirty days. My grandmother hooked her arm through mine and insisted I sit with her. The month was September, and the weather was warm. So as a dutiful grandson I sat with her and tried to ignore the hot foot I was forced to receive as my 94-year-old

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grandmother warmed her own feet with a coal-filled brazier. But the intense heat was nothing—my comfort came from being with my family, my people whom I had not known just months earlier.

When I returned to civilian life in 1961, my mother showed me a letter from her brother, my Zio Antonio, in which he apologized for the smeared ink, caused by his tears of joy while writing to her about our chance meeting.

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Dinner for the Goldbergs My mother was a wonderful cook, not a trained chef of course, but rather in the way she prepared all our food with love and care. She could take even the most basic ingredients, such as beans, and turn them into delicious meals, like beans and greens, served up with her delicious homemade bread and followed by her canned peaches, pears, or plums for dessert.

My father was a great eater, who bragged to one and all about his wife’s cooking. On the spur of the moment, he would ask for some special dish that Mama prepared , and she somehow always was able to come through with it.

Papa was always inviting friends or business associates to dinner with little or no advance notice to Mama. As much as this infuriated her, she never failed to prepare terrific dinners for these guests.

One of Papa’s ventures in business was to import wine grapes from California to where we lived, Youngstown, Ohio. Car loads of wine grapes arrived every fall and were parked at the rail line sidings on Front Street. My father and several other competitors sold Zinfandel, Muscat, Grenache, and other wine grapes to the many Italian, Polish and other ethnic citizens in our town. The agent in California for shipping these grapes was a former Youngstown friend of Papa’s, Isadore Goldberg, nicknamed Izzy, whom Papa in his broken English called Itsy. The rest of the Goldberg family remained in Youngstown. When Izzy returned to Ohio for a visit, Papa invited Izzy and his wife, and Izzy’s brother Jack and his wife Elaine, for one of those impromptu dinners. I recall the hustle around our house as Mama prepared a very Italian feast. First course was wedding soup, followed by pasta with Mama’s wonderful tomato sauce with meatballs, braccioli, and sausage, then roasted chicken. Later there would be salad, cheese and fruit. All of this delicious food was accompanied by Papa’s wine, made from grapes sent by Izzy.

Last night, my friend Tony Piana, from Little River, South Carolina, called me from a restaurant where he and his family were dining. He

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had noticed a celebration going on at another table, and had overheard a toast for a 65th wedding anniversary, so he went over to congratulate the elderly couple. When they told him they were married in Youngstown, Ohio he asked if they knew the Zaza family. Well, it turns out that the anniversary couple was Jack and Elaine Goldberg (now both 84 years old). Tony put Jack on the phone, and he and I had a wonderful conversation. His closing sentence to me was, “Elaine and I, to this day, still recall your beautiful mother, the great cook she was, and the wonderful meal she prepared!�

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Mama’s Airplane Trip When my mother was 28 years old, she came to America from Italy, with her 3-year-old daughter, in steerage class, on a ship named the Vulcania.

She had ocean sickness for the entire trip.

Twenty-six years later, at the age of 54, she made her first trip back to Italy. Afraid to fly, she wanted to travel by ocean liner, but Papa, who could not accompany her, and who remembered how sick she had been on that trip many years ago, laid down the rules: either Mama flies via Alitalia Airlines, or she stays home!

Mama’s desire to revisit her hometown and to see her two surviving brothers was greater than her fear of flying. And she told the story of her first (and only) flight, like this: “I was afraid to stand up or move too much in my seat, for fear that I would rock the plane, like a row boat; so I sat stiffly upright for almost two hours. Then I began to squirm, because I needed to use the lavatory. Seated next to me was a very nice young man, who realized my discomfort and politely asked me if I was Italian. When I said yes, he began speaking to me in Italian, telling me about the plane we were in, and how nice it was to stroll down the aisle, and even to use the lavatory to refresh your face with cool water. Then he offered to walk with me if I wanted him to. I was a little fearful, but I accepted, and after a few steps down the aisle, I knew it was ok to walk in an airplane.”

How astute that young man was to recognize Mama’s need for the bathroom. But being a perfect gentleman (and Italian to boot), he knew exactly how to approach the subject without disrespecting an older, married woman.

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Papa’s Letter To friends and aquaintences, my father was a wonderful storyteller, who could make you laugh with his impersonations of those he found fault with. They also found him to be very cordial, generous and kind.

To us, his children, and our mother, he was all those things in the presence of those acquaintances, but we also knew he was the king of the roost, and the final say in all things concerning anything we wished to do. We knew him as the taskmaster who required us to report to him as soon as we got home from school, so that he could assign some dreadful chore or other for us to perform. He was never abusive physically but demanded respect and obedience. He did not shower his children with hugs or other words or signs of affection, altough we knew he loved us.

We hardly ever saw him be affectionate to Mama, but we knew he would never allow any harm to come to her.

I tell you all this, because after Mama’s death, among her few small possessions hidden in her dresser drawer, we found a letter written to her many years before. Yes, a love letter from Papa to her, when he courted her in Molfetta, Italy. The letter made us aware that this hardworking, demanding taskmaster was once also a young man, very much in love, and able to profess that love with words.

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February 11, 1920 My dear Pasqualina, I was fortunate to receive yesterday a letter from you filled with such sweet and wonderful words. I am so happy that you are writing to me, and I’m more than willing to approach first your father, as well as your brother Damiano and tell them what I feel in my soul. I’m very grateful for the good will that you show me. Thus, I hope that I will be welcomed into the bosom of your whole family.

We are hoping that my mother will recover as soon as possible so that she may come with me to visit your family.

Pasqualina, love me truly, just as I love you madly, and believe that some day we shall be together for all infinite eternity.

From the depth of my heart I send you my most sincere greetings.

Your beloved, Gaetano

Letter from Gaetano to Pasqualina, 1920 45

Nieces Diane and Linda playing in the snow near the Christmas tree lot, c.1956 46

Winter Wonderland My father was what was known as a “huckster.” He supported our family by selling whatever product happened to be available at any particular moment; melons and fruit in summer, grapes for making wine in the fall, and Christmas trees in the winter.

Setting up for the Christmas tree sales was not some haphazard event. About the middle of November, while the ground was still soft enough to pound very large stakes into it, we began laying out the rows of stakes around the entire lot surrounding our home. It was goodbye to Mama’s flower beds, as Papa paced off the exact distance between stakes, no matter where they fell. Older brother Nick was in charge of handling the large sledge hammer for driving the stakes, while my job was to hold the stake upright for him, hoping he would hit the stake and not me. Younger brother Jerry was a go-getter for whoever wanted something, but he always wanted to wield the sledge, and he probably could have done it if given the chance (hard labor and strength were never my strong suits).

After the stakes were in place, Papa then started to string electric lights, crisscrossing the entire front, sides, and back yards around our house. He used red, white, yellow, blue and green bulbs, and we all waited anxiously for him to say it was time to test them. When they worked, we would all cheer at the colorful sight.

About the first week of December, Papa and Nick drove to various tree farms, and came back with a truck load of pine and fir trees.

Sometimes Papa bought trees at the siding tracks on Front street, which came in carloads from northern United States, or even Canada. Then each tree was tied to a stake, so that the buyer could walk all around the tree to inspect it before buying. Prices ranged from $1.50 to $5.00, with what we called church trees selling for $15.00, or whatever Papa said it was worth (only Our Lady Of Mount Carmel, the Italian denomination Catholic church got a free “church” tree, and several small ones—everyone else had to pay!). Once, when a rather nasty woman insulted Papa by claiming the tree she wanted wasn’t worth the $1.50 he was asking for it,

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he dramatically raised the tree in hand and declared, “Iffa thisa tree no wort one dolla fify, itsa no worth nutting!” With that he flung it into the fire which was burning in a fifty gallon steel drum, and the tree quickly went up in flames. Stunned, the woman replied by proclaiming him to be “a crazy old man,” and brother Nick jumped right in, “Yeah, he’s crazy—you better leave!” She fled the lot quickly.

The snow, the trees, the colorful lights, the glowing fire in a steel drum keeping us warm and the wonderful Christmas music blaring from a 78-speed record player on loan from Ralph (Boogie) Vicarel—our East Side home became a magical winter wonderland. My brothers and I would throw snowballs, hide from each other among the trees, and even occasionally take care of customers. Invariably, sometime in the evening, our sister Martha would call for us to come and get large steaming mugs of hot chocolate and cookies that she prepared for us. Certainly, we were warming up for a very Merry Christmas!

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Jerry, with our Christmas tree and new toys, c.1949 49

Mama’s passport, with both herself and my sister Martha pictured, 1928

Beginning a New Life: Pasqualina Bellapianta Zaza Imagine starting on a journey to a new land, with a three-year-old daughter in hand—and waiting for you at the end of your journey, a husband you haven’t seen for four years. Add to that the fact that you had never been further away from home and family than the town cemetery, which was located at the end of your hometown’s border. You have never been on a train, or a boat, you speak only your native tongue, and you are leaving behind mother, father, brothers and sisters and all your friends.

That was my mother’s situation when she departed Molfetta, Italy at age 27, with my sister Marta, age 3, to join my father in the United States. To make matters worse, she was advised not to go by my Grandmother Zaza (Nonna), Papa’s mother, because Nonna knew that her son, although a good man, was diff icult, demanding and self ish, and might make Mama very unhappy. Nonna wanted her to stay in Molfetta, promising that she would take care of Mama and Marta. Mama wrote to Papa, telling him that she didn’t want to come America. Papa immediately wrote back, telling Mama that it was okay if she didn’t come, but if she chose to stay in Molfetta, he would no longer send money to support her and their daughter (what a guy!). So Mama went to her own father to seek advice. Grandfather Bellapianta (Nonno), although he did not want to see his daughter go so far away, told her she was a married woman, and her place was by her husband’s side, so she must obey him and go to him in the U.S. And so, reluctantly Mama and Marta left Molfetta, Italia, Provincia di Bari, in August 1928, boarded a train for Genoa, where they sailed to the United States of America, aboard the ship Vulcania. It was not a pleasant experience, as Mama was seasick for the entire trip. She often told us how young Marta sat by her bedside and tried to console her, and even acted as her contact to other passengers for assistance.

Of course, eventually they arrived at the Port Of New York, where they disembarked at the Brooklyn Navy Yards, and after a three day

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quarantine to make sure Mama’s illness was not something more than seasickness, Mama, Marta and Papa were reunited, and began their trip to Youngstown, Ohio. There they set up housekeeping, had four more children—Palma, Nick, myself, and Jerry—and despite Nonna Zaza’s warnings, built a very nice and comfortable life for themselves and their children.

Mama was taken from us at the far-too-young age of 68, when she passed away due to the complications of myasthenia gravis, in February 1968.

R PASQUALINA BELLAPIANTA ZAZA JULY 15, 1899–FEBRUARY 28, 1968

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Left: Gaetano Zaza married Pasqualina Bellapianta in Molfetta, Italy, January 21, 1921 Right: Papa and Mama, 1948

Mary’s passport, 1930

Beginning a New Life: Mary DeGennaro LoBasso My wife Marie’s mother, Mary DeGennaro LoBasso, came to the United States in 1930 at the age of 16, along with her two older siblings, Sergio and Antoinette.

When Mary was just 3 years old, and Sergio and Antoinette were 8 and 5 respectively, their mother, Maria Elena Raffanelli DeGennaro, moved to America and left them in Molfetta, Italy in the care of her mother. Maria Elena had been widowed after only nine years of marriage (to Franco DeGennaro), and decided to go to America to try for a better life for herself and her children. She had an uncle living in New York City, with whom she stayed, and the plan was to send for her children as soon as it was financially possible.

Creating a new life in a new country was difficult for a single woman, and within a year and a half Maria Elena re-married, to Mauro D’Alto, who owned an ice delivery business. With Mauro, she had two more children, Annunziata (Nancy) and Ignacio (Danny). It seemed there was never enough money to pay the necessary fare to bring her first family to the U.S. Only when word was received that her mother in Molfetta was gravely ill and could no longer care for the children, did Maria Elena go to her uncle to borrow the money to bring her children to America. By this time, Mary was 16 years old. The three DeGennaro children departed Italy June 25, 1930, from Naples, aboard the Italian ship Augustus. Nine days later they arrived at the Port of New York.

Upon beginning this new life, Sergio (Sam) and Antoinette went to work in order to earn money to repay their mother’s loan, and Mary was left to care for Nancy and Danny, and to take care of the home while all the adults went to work. Circumstances being what they were, it was understandable that the three DeGennaro children came to resent their younger siblings. They really did not know their mother, Sam and Antoinette were working but giving up their earnings, and Mary was left to care for two young children who were enjoying the parental love and family stability that she herself had never known. Besides taking

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care of her younger siblings, Mary was enrolled in school, but found the language barrier, school assignments and her duties at home more than she wanted to take on. After less than a year in school, Mary rebelled against this situation, and declared her intention to go to work. She allowed her mother a portion of her earnings to help the household, but she decided she would manage her own money, and not put it into a family pot for the parents to decide how it would be spent. This set the pattern for the rest of her life.

Mary married Corrado LoBasso in 1937, and would continue throughout her life to follow the same independent spirit that guided her in her youth—to work and to decide for herself how she would live. At times, to her husband and children, her methods could seem hard and unbending, but she had a good heart, and she managed their finances with a keen, caring eye toward security for their futures. This fiercely independent attitude about her life was years ahead of the age of women’s equality.

Mary and Corrado moved from Queens, N.Y. to Ohio in 1973 to be near Marie and I. In 1982, when she was 68, her husband of 45 years died.

At the age of 86, after living for seventeen years in Ohio, she moved to Wilmington, North Carolina to live with her other daughter, Irene and her husband Eugene. After a year and a half she moved into an independent retirement residence, where she lived for ten months on her own. At age 88, after a fall which caused a broken hip, and with complications from having surgery, she died peacefully, two years into the 21st century.

R MARY DEGENNARO LOBASSO JUNE 10, 1914–AUGUST 2, 2002

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Top left: Mary’s travel ticket, 1930; top right: Mary’s maternal grandparents, the Raffinellis, who raised her after Maria Elena’s immigration to the U.S. early 1920s; bottom: Family life in New York, left to right: Nancy, Maria Elena, Vivienne (Sam’s wife), Sam, Corrado, Antoinette, Mary, Willy (Antoinette’s husband), Danny; Queens, NY, 1957

The Zazas (left) and the Pianas (right), on our wedding day, September 1, 1962 58

Enduring Friendship / Parallel Lives, Part 1 A few years ago, after a recent move to New York City from Columbus, Ohio, my niece Adrienne emailed me, and she mentioned that she had run into friends from her college days at Ohio State University. Amazing how friendships endure even when life sends friends off into different parts of the world. And amazing how fate sometimes brings those friendships back together. Such is my friendship with Anthony Piana.

Anthony and I became fast friends while we were stationed in Illesheim, Germany, as peacetime medics—he as a dental assistant, and I as an X-ray technician. We had choice duty, since we were stationed at a base clinic, rather than a field unit. Anthony is a born leader, a smooth talker, and always managed to get everyone to see things his way. Born and raised in Queens, New York, he seemed more worldly than myself, with my small-city Ohio roots. Our common denominator was our Italian heritage, of which we were both extremely proud. We shared everything.

At month’s end, when we were broke, we bought and shared a loaf of bread to make mayonnaise or catsup sandwiches. We even bought a car together, a Fiat, from the German civilian dentist who worked in the clinic. In early 1961, Anthony was rotated back to the States for discharge and in April of that year I also was discharged. Each went home, he to New York, and I to Youngstown. We promised to keep in touch, and we were true to our word.

In October of 1961 a wonderful thing happened to me. I met the woman who would be the love of my life. Marie was from Queens, New York, and we met when her cousin, who was a friend of mine, was married in a small town near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It was love at first sight for me, and one month later I moved to New York to pursue my dream girl! How fortunate for me Marie felt the same about me, and we began our courtship. Of course, I contacted Anthony, and we resumed our friendship. He too was courting the love of his life, Judy, whom he’d loved since their teenage years. In March of 1962, Marie and I became engaged, and I called Anthony and asked him to come to

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Marie’s home so I could ask him to be in our wedding. When he came over, Judy was with him, and he seemed excited to tell me something also. He and Judy had also become engaged, and he wanted me to be in his wedding. I said of course, I would be honored, and extended my invitation for him to be in our wedding. After all the excitement, hugs, kisses, and congratulations, we learned that we both had planned September 1, 1962, 10:00 a.m. weddings—ours in Queens, and theirs in Rutland, Vermont, Judy’s hometown. We could not physically be a part of each other’s weddings, but our hearts were with one another on that wonderful day.

On the evening of our weddings, after our respective receptions we met by accident—amazingly—as we had both booked the same hotel at Idlewild Airport (now JFK). We actually were checking in at the same time, and although we tried to convince Tony and Judy to join us and our friends for a celebretory drink, they claimed they were tired and went off to their room. The next morning we went our separate ways toward our honeymoons.

As we all settled into married life back in New York, the four of us grew closer, enjoying visits and outings together, and sharing stories about our married lives. And of course Tony and I bored our wives to tears with our Army tales.

In 1964, Marie and I moved to a small town in Pennsylvania, leaving family and friends behind. Eventually we moved again, this time to Ohio where we raised our family. Although we kept in touch with Tony and Judy by phone calls on our mutual anniversary dates, and greeting cards at Christmas time, it would be more than thirty years before we would see them again.

But that’s another story about enduring friendship....

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Enduring Friendship / Parallel Lives, Part 2 In May of 2003 Marie retired, and in July of 2003 I retired. That October we relocated to Wilmington, North Carolina, to spend our retirement years in a warmer climate, and to be near the ocean. With the exception of one brief visit with Anthony alone as he passed through our town in Ohio while on a business trip, we had not seen Anthony and Judy for almost thirty-nine years.

Upon our move to Wilmington, Marie and I were renting an oceanfront apartment as we waited for our new home to be completed. And in order to minimize the possibility of not receiving our mail, we were temporarily using Marie’s sister’s address for our mail. And so our Christmas cards that year went out to all our friends with that return address. The Pianas sent us a card to our old Ohio address, and it was returned to them. In the meantime they received our card with the DaSilva return address. Anthony, assuming that we lived at that address, called information and asked for the phone number for Marco Zaza in Wilmington, NC. When told there was no listing in that name, he gave the operator the address on our card, and was told that address was listed to Eugene DaSilva, and gave Anthony the phone number.

When he called the DaSilva house, Anthony said he was trying to locate Marco Zaza, and my brother-in-law explained that we were staying in Carolina Beach and he gave Anthony our phone number at the rental.

When Tony called, Marie answered, and I guessed from Marie’s side of the conversation that it was him. I remember it was December 16, Marie’s birthday, and although I was perplexed as to how he figured out where we were, I assumed this was the yearly Christmas call. He explained to me how he knew we had moved, and how he obtained our phone number. Preparing to rub it in about the cold northern weather he and Judy were having in New York while Marie and I were walking on the beach, I asked about the weather up north. He replied it was pretty good, but changed the subject by asking me if I was sitting down, because he had some news to give me.

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He and Judy had also retired in July of 2003, and then had moved to Little River, South Carolina. They, too, had temporarily rented a beach-front apartment, and they had just moved into their new home in October. Little River happens to be exactly fifty-five miles from Wilmington. After all these years, we were about one hour’s drive away from each other. We were astounded! As we immediately started planning a get-together, we suddenly realized that as retired people, we could do it anytime. Anthony’s exact words were, “Why not today?” Marie and I couldn’t think of one good reason why we shouldn’t, and so we got in our car and headed for Little River.

The coincidental details of our parallel lives range from the big things, like our wedding and retirement dates, to the small. I was not surprised when we pulled into Anthony and Judy’s drive in our black Toyota Camry that afternoon in December 2003, to see a black Toyota Camry parked in their garage too. Our lives truly have run on a parallel course!

Our reunion was a joyous occasion, filled with hugs and tears of happiness to again be with our dear friends. And since that first reunion we have visited many times, and even celebrated our anniversaries together—a trip to Charleston one year, and a dinner together here in Wilmington another year. The early years of our lives, filled with child rearing, making ends meet, moving to disparate places, and the distance this put between us, had separated us. But the bonds of friendship we had formed in 1962 were strong indeed. And it seems we have picked up right where we had left off in 1964.

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The Zazas (top) and the Pianas (bottom), retired in the Carolinas, c. 2005 63

Left: Gaetano Zaza, c.1920 Right: Mama and Papa [with unknown god-daughter], Molfetta, Italy, mid 1920s 64

Beginning a New Life: Gaetano Zaza When he was 18 years old, my father, Gaetano Zaza, came to America with his uncle, Pantaleo Zaza. They departed Naples, Italy on the Princess Irene, February 20, 1913. His mission was to find work and to send money back to his family in Molfetta, Italy. Upon arriving in the United States, they settled in Hartford, Connecticut, where they probably found work as day laborers in construction.

After several years, Gaetano returned to Italy, where he was conscripted into the Italian Navy during World War I. A reluctant sailor, and a man who found taking orders from others very distasteful, he did the unthinkable, and deserted his ship and headed home to Molfetta, where his mother hid him from authorities in search of deserters. When the war ended, a general amnesty was issued to all deserters, and he was spared the dishonor of a court martial.

Now age 26, and engaged to be married, Gaetano decided to leave Italy again, promising his wife-to-be and her family that he would return in three years. And after traveling to France, he departed from Cherbourg on the ship Gothland on October 9, 1920. Upon arriving in America, he again made his home with his Uncle Pantaleo, who by now had relocated to Hoboken, New Jersey, and had brought his wife and children to the United States. After a short stint as a laborer building the subway system from Hoboken to Manhattan (also known as the tubes), he was fired for sneaking off and sleeping on the job! Unhappy in his situation, he contacted his maternal cousin in Youngstown, Ohio, Dominic DiNicola. His cousin assured him there was plenty of work in the Ohio steel mills, and urged him to move to Ohio, which he did.

Gaetano actually went to work in a steel mill, but was eventually fired for—guess what?—sneaking off and sleeping on the job! His cousin, who was a cement finisher, found him work as a day laborer in construction, so that he could save money in order to return to Italy as he had promised.

Gaetano returned to Italy, married his sweetheart, and after a short while decided to come back to America, leaving his pregnant wife, and 65

departing on 1924, from Port of Naples, Italy, on the ship Conte Verde.

Upon his arrival, he returned to Youngstown, where he established himself as a self-employed huckster, selling fruits and vegetables, as well as other types of food, such as cheeses, prosciutto, and salamis. He never again worked for anyone except himself. In 1928, he sent for his wife and their daughter, and permanently settled in this new life, raising four more children, and becoming a landowner, which was very important to Italian emigrants.

He lived in Youngstown until his death on February 21, 1988.

R GAETANO ZAZA JULY 17, 1894–FEBRUARY 21, 1988

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The three ships that carried Gaetano Zaza, from top to bottom: The Princess Irene, The Gothland, and The Conte Verde 67

Original ship manifest from Gaetano’s first trans-Atlantic trip, 1913 68

Immigration Laws?

With all the fuss about immigration and citizenship in the news, I was reminded of my father’s own immigration and citizenship story.

My father, Gaetano Zaza, came to America to visit in 1910, again in 1923, and then in 1924 to remain permanently. After being here for almost two years, and having settled in Youngstown, Ohio, he decided to obtain citizenship, and inquired from an influential Italian-American how to go about it—but without having to go to night school classes to study American Civics and History. This person, whose identity my father vaguely referred to as a low-ranking Mafia member, arranged a midnight meeting with the judge who presided over the naturalizations in the court room. My father’s only instructions were to bring with him two quarts of the best liquor he could find, and to present them to the judge.

The judge, who was himself an Italian-American, instructed my father thusly: “When you appear in court, you must repeat everything I say, exactly as I say it.” The dialogue on the appointed court day went like this: Judge:

Papa:

Judge:

Papa:

Who was the first president of the United States, George Washington?

Who wasa the forsta presidente ofa the United States, Giorgio Washintona.

What is the capital of the United States, Washington D.C.?

Whatsa the capitola ofa the United States, Washintona deezee.

After several more history questions, presented in the same format, the Judge banged his gavel, announced my father had passed his test, ordered him to raise his right hand, administered the oath, and declared Gaetano Zaza was now a naturalized citizen of the United States of America!

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Top: Corrado’s passport, 1930 Bottom: The small silk American flag given to Corrado upon becoming a U.S. citizen 70

Beginning a New Life: Corrado LoBasso or, How Corrado became Antonio became Corrado

In the 1920s, getting all the necessary papers to be allowed to immigrate to the United States included passing a physical examination. My father’s cousin, Antonio Zaza, was unable to make the cut because of some physical disability (unknown). But a passport had already been paid for, a little money set aside for the voyage, and so it was decided that someone was going to use this opportunity to go to America and start earning money to support the family back in Molfetta, Italy!

Antonio’s cousin, Corrado LoBasso already had a brother, Gennaro, in the United States. So since he would have somewhere to live, he was chosen to replace Antonio. Whatever passport doctoring was needed and how it was done was never revealed by those who told us about this switch, but it was accomplished. And Corrado came to America in 1920, as Antonio Zaza. These facts are hard to verify since there is no one alive to check with, and Ellis Island records were expunged when he was given citizenship. But we do know that Corrado did indeed enter the United States under an assumed name.

Corrado settled in Hoboken, New Jersey, living with his brother Gennaro, keeping a low profile and working at whatever was available for a young man of 16 or 17. Sometime in the mid 1920s, an amnesty was offered to immigrants who had entered the United States illegally, and Corrado presented himself to the authorities. He was granted a visa to stay in the U.S., eventually gaining American citizenship. His first order of business was to save enough money for a visit to Italy to see his mother and family. Unfortunately, he received word of his mother’s death in late 1929. But he was determined to return to Molfetta for a visit as soon as possible, and did so in early 1930, staying there until September 1930, according to the date of reentry to the U.S. on his passport.

During his stay in Italy, he was asked to accompany a young man and his two sisters to America, where they were to join their mother.

He agreed to do so, but then decided to stay in Molfetta longer and was

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not able to fulfill his promise. What he didn’t know was that seven years later, the younger of those two sisters would become his wife!

On January 17, 1937, Corrado married Mary DeGennaro. They had two daughters, Marie, in 1939, and Irene, in 1943. They raised their girls in Whitestone, New York, a suburb of Flushing. In 1962, Marie and I were married, and eventually moved to Ohio. Upon retiring, Corrado and Mary also moved to Ohio, where they lived together until his death in 1982 at age 77.

R CORRADO LOBASSO MARCH 26, 1905–APRIL 1, 1982

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Top: Corrado LoBasso in the 1920s; Bottom: Corrado with family, clockwise from top left: me, Marie, Stephanie, David, Mary and Corrado, c.1979 73

Family portrait with me as a baby, left to right: Martha, Nick, Palma, me, Mama and Papa, c.1939 74

Birthday Story In May 2007, having just celebrated my 69th birthday, I started thinking about my mother and the story she told me about the day I was born.

The year was 1938. My father owned a large truck which he used for whatever job could earn him some money. It seems that a family was moving to Baltimore, Maryland, and they offered Papa $50.00 to move their household belongings. That was an extravagant amount in 1938, and although Mama was due to give birth any day, he agreed to go.

Before leaving, he told Mama he had a dream that she gave birth to a son, and feeling this was good luck, he gave her $1.00 to play on the numbers game, referred to locally as “the bug.” The payoff if his number was drawn would net him $50.00.

Keep in mind the year, when I tell you that Mama was appalled that he would spend a whole dollar on gambling! However, she said she would place the bet with the local “Bug” lady, and so Papa went off to Baltimore.

Mama had second thoughts, and reasoned that with a dollar she could probably buy enough food for the family for at least two days. So she placed only a nickle bet on the number Papa had chosen, and put 95 cents into her small coin purse to use at the grocery store. She never made it to the store though, because she went into labor, and within hours was in the hospital, giving birth to a son (namely, me).

Papa came home, to learn that he had a new son, and that his number had been picked for that date, May 3, 1938. After visiting Mama and seeing his new son, he looked forward to collecting his big winnings.

Imagine how rich he felt, having earned $100.00 between the job and the bet! Mama said she trembled at the thought of having to tell him she had only placed a nickle bet, which paid off one dollar. She said Papa was angry, but not for long—he said a son was also good payoff!

Happy Birthday to my Frugal Mama!

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Top left: Zaza’s at their favorite activity, c.1958; top right: Marie with Joe Frank, Papa, Mama, and Palma, mid 1960s; bottom left : Diane and Linda celebrating Linda’s second birthday, 1954; bottom right: me in cap and gown, 1956 76

Traditions As the holiday season approaches, I start to reminisce about my childhood and how my parents celebrated the important fall and winter holidays.

Although we always celebrated Thanksgiving, for Mama and Papa, who came to the United States from Italy, where no such holiday existed, it was more of a festive day for family gathering and huge meals simply because they could do it. The Pilgrims were not a part of the festivities. Turkey was not a common food in southern Italy and Mama had no intention of roasting such an animal. Instead, we had pasta with meat sauce, followed by roasted capons, oven-roasted potatoes, salad, and then fruit and nuts.

When my sister Martha got married, the Thanksgiving holiday moved to her home, where, thanks to her sister-in-law’s recipes, we were introduced to turkey, bread stuffing, sweet potatoes (buttered and covered with brown sugar and marshmallows!) and a wonderful new dessert, pumpkin pie! Eventually, the festivities moved to our home, where the “American” traditional foods continued to be served. In recent years we have been celebrating at our daughter and son-in-law’s home in Atlanta. Stephanie, who inherited Aunt Martha’s and her mother’s cooking and baking skills, and Joe, who rapidly embraced our familial traditions, never disappoint as hosts.

Christmas for my parents was a different story from Thanksgiving. In Italy, the Nativity was celebrated by building a large crèche, surrounded by a village, filling a stocking with fruit and nuts and having wonderful elborate meals on Christmas Eve and again on Christmas Day. Our family continued those traditions in America, except the crèche was smaller and a Christmas tree was added. Christmas Eve dinner was meatless; Mama made fish soup made with whiting (merlutzi in Italian), fried calamari, tiny sardines which were fried weeks before and then pickled in vinegar, parsley and garlic, and broiled eel (capitone) topped with olive oil and bay leaves. Fritti—pockets of Mama’s homemade dough

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stuffed with mozzarella cheese mixed with beaten eggs, parsley and grated Parmesan, or stuffed with a mixture of onion and tomatoes laced with Italian herbs—were gently fried, then served with orange salad and a mixed green salad. We all waited anxiously for Mama to bring out the taralli, her wonderful crispy, wine and fennel flavored bread sticks shaped like pretzels, boiled and then baked until they were golden brown. These we ate with salad, fennel celery, or chunks of provolone cheese, and we also dunked them in wine. Fortunately, the recipe was passed down to my sisters, and eventually to me. I still make them to this day.

With slight variations, Marie and I have continued the Christmas Eve tradition, serving fish soup, or calamari sauce over spaghetti, Mama’s recipe for “fritti,” substituting shrimp scampi for eel, and baked fish instead of pickled sardines. Taralli, orange salad, friut and nuts are still part of the feast, followed by trays of delectable cookies from old recipes passed down from Martha, sweet taralli from Marie’s mother (and Marie’s favorites), and Peach Melba, which over the years has also become traditional.

Mama and Papa are gone, as are sisters Martha and Palma, and many other loved members of our families. But the traditions of these holidays are still with us, and every year as we celebrate the actual holidays, we also celebrate the wonderful memories associated with these traditions.

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Top left: my first communion, 1945; top right: Papa and Jerry, c.1945; bottom left: Martha and Mama with Linda, Cindy, Diane, and Jim, 1959; bottom right: Palma, Jerry, and Nick, c.1945 79

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Editor’s acknowledgments Pulling together all the wonderful pictures that accompany these stories was a task made much easier by a few main branches of the family. A million thanks to Joyce Zaza, Linda and Nick Srnec, and Diane Vicarel for providing new illustrations to old memories. Sue and Maria Catullo also went out of their way for me so we could make sure Dad’s close friendship with Joe Catullo is documented here as well. Finally, Marie Zaza was especially helpful with pictures and information, and proved particularly adept at keeping this project a surprise for my dad while getting me everything I needed. Thanks, Mom. The stories have all been edited from the original versions that appear on the Concettina Died website. It was an easy job because Marco’s voice comes through clearly in each of them. So even where I needed to add information for continuity or consistency, the sense of these being transcriptions of verbal retellings is still very strong. Thank you for sharing them with us all, Dad. David Zaza, New York, 2011 81

If I close my eyes I see our family sitting around Aunt Martha’s dining room table on a Friday night, everyone with dessert and coffee. Uncle Marc is telling a story and the rest of us have tears in our eyes we’re laughing so hard. I’m glad I can still hear his voice in these stories even if it’s not at Aunt Martha’s and even now if we are states apart on Friday nights!

—Adrienne Colla I love the “Bruschetta” story and could see “Mom” with the big knife slicing that bread. We had the pleasure of sitting at that table when Millie would have club at her house and also, eating the delicious homemade bread and rolls her Mom made. She was a sweet, nice, quiet lady everyone loved.

—Rita Vicarel I absolutely love these stories for the way they demonstrate the circles of our lives and how people come and go through those circles. Life is, indeed, beautiful. These stories help us remember that.

—Diane Vicarel

These are so great. It’s almost like sitting around the table at Aunt Martha’s again listening to these stories while everyone howled with laughter, eyes streaming.

—Stephanie Zaza I have heard the “Tough Guys” story several times sitting around the dinner table with the family. No matter how many times..... it’s always as funny as the first...

—Nick Srnec I love all of these! It’s like having you here, telling the stories we never tire of.

—Joyce Zaza