HARD WORK, TEARS, AND COURAGE

HARD WORK, TEARS, AND COURAGE

After their wedding in 1915, Grandma Frances and Grandpa Joe moved into an apartment in Brooklyn to begin life. Being an immigrant family of two, Grandpa Joe missed his garden and the working of the soil with his hands. Finding a small place on Long Island in a town called Rockville Center he moved to grow his family and maintain a garden. This is what he knew from the old country, it was what every Italian immigrant wanted and along with their faith and religious traditions made it happen. It was in Rockville Center that Dad and his younger siblings began their lives.

In 1919 when Grandpa Giuseppe passed from the Spanish Influenza my grandmother Francesca suddenly found her world totally upside down. No longer was the dream for two, but a nightmare for one. Facing her responsibilities of three young children she suddenly needed to find an affordable place to live. Having retreated to Rockville Center she found a shack and settled in for the harshness of her new life.

Being a woman who knew no fear and harboring a fighting spirit she managed to maintain the fruit and vegetable store when Grandpa Joe’s best friend Ralph stepped in. Ralph became the brawn of the operation and eventually married Francesca. This had to be a good man to marry a woman with three small children and take them on as his own. Being an immigrant and laborer in the early part of the 20th Century it was only natural for Ralph to apply his strengths where needed and there was an opportunity to fulfill his need to help his best friend’s family. As the years progressed Grandpa Ralph developed a daily routine as Grandma was growing the business, Grandpa Ralph managed to purchase a horse and wagon and with his little dog Ginger at his side, every morning he would hitch the horse to the wagon and go to the Hunts Point Market for the daily produce needed for sale at the fruit and vegetable store. The horse would stop at every red light and move forward when it was green! Ginger, the little dog sat and watched when anything that seemed out of the ordinary happened would bark, waking up Grandpa Ralph who was fast asleep behind the reins and under his fedora. When Grandpa returned to Brooklyn he would set up the fruits and vegetables and sell while Grandma Francesca found work sewing buttons on coats during the day and bringing home more of it at night to supplement the dream.

Two people who spoke very little English were daring the bigots to stop these two Italians from surviving and making a difference in their lives. ‘Dagoes’ and ‘Whops’ were remaking the American brand and destroying the prejudice that was rampant in America at the time... Suddenly, American culture was woven with a new thread, the Italian spirit. This spirit would not bend to the ugliness that was directed their way heads held high and shoulders burdened they proved time and again that Italians would be in America to stay.

Slowly the business started to grow, as Italian immigrants would gather at the vegetable and fruit stand to purchase and sometimes when needed, where credit would be extended sometimes with a little extra in the bag.

Grandma decided she now had enough to buy the building and rent three floors upstairs. But, grandma’s dream was not fulfilled just yet. Grandma was a cook, a great cook who could turn the simplest of ingredients into something to love and remember.

The neighbors now knew about Francesca and Rafael, and it wasn’t just the Italians who patronized their store. Local politicians who were gaining influence in the community got to know “Zia Francesca’ as she came to be known. People needed money or an extension of their loan grandma gave it to them if she felt they honestly needed it. Italian immigrants back in the early to mid-twenties were experiencing the depression long before it began. With this poverty came the great cuisine we pay for so dearly in restaurants to give substance and nourishment to their families. Peppers and eggs, pasta faggioli, potato and eggs, and penne primavera were simple low-cost dishes that became the stables of these poor Italian immigrants.

There was a child whose name now escapes me who seemed to be nobody’s child roaming the streets and surviving on very little. No one knew where he came from and where he was going. He seemed to tag along with my dad and his friends and grandma would often feed him. He was close to the vest and seemed to have a passion for life. Grandma would offer him shelter and feed him, but once he ate he would take off to parts unknown. One afternoon on a crowded street he stood in front of the store in the street calling for Zia Francesca to ask for work. Grandma would give him small jobs and he would then be paid a little money and some food. He spoke little English and could only converse in his native tongue, Italian. As he stood there looking into the store a trolley car came by and hit him squarely and into the street. He lay their listless and bleeding, and Grandma ran out of the store knelt down and held him in her arms as he passed away. Dad was grateful that in his final moments he was in the arms of someone who care about him as he expired.

Tomorrow: Dreams realized and fulfillment.

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