December 15th the best Christmas present this blogger could ever want came from Kristen Ross. Kristen posted a comment asking for help finding out more about her friend Nancy’s family. I e-mailed her, then she e-mailed me and soon we were chatting on the phone like old chums. The surnames in her pal’s family can also be found in my family! Rinaldi, Fusco, Mancini – wow – my bis-nonna was Mariantonia Rinaldi who had a brother Francesco. Nancy’s grandmom, Maria Rinaldi, was the daughter of Francesco Rinaldi ! Could this Californian’s family tree intersect with mine?
Those of you who grew up in or live in Pontelandolfo may know the family – if you do please leave a comment on the blog. Nancy’s dad – Domenic Mancini was born in the Minicariello section of Pontelandolfo. His dad was Antonio Mancini and mom was Maria Rinaldi. Antonio’s father is Angelo Mancini and his mother is Catterina Fusco. Maria Rindaldi’s father was Francesco Rinaldi and her mother was Antonia Rinaldi.
This is Kristen’s Story –
Kristen, Domenic & Nancy Mancini
Un Miracolo Di Natale
By Kristen Ross
Domenic Mancini was born on a small farm in Pontelandolfo, Italy. During World War II, nine year old Domenic was the first one in his family to discover that his father, Antonio, was killed in Bardia, East Africa. His mother’s inability to read meant that this little boy had to personally deliver the devastating news to the family. As I began to hear more about Domenic’s early childhood, I was deeply affected by the tragedy of it all…images of Domenic being held back by his Mother as the only father he knew left for lands and battles unknown, the longing of a little boy for an absentee father, and the courage he had to support his grief-stricken mother.
To compound the sadness of war, he never knew where his father was buried. He was told that Antonio was buried somewhere in Africa, but no one had been able to locate any information, and Domenic (now 82) had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might never be able to pay his respects to the father he lost and have closure.
After hearing him tearfully tell this story, I could not imagine what is was like to not know where his dad was after all these years. I was determined to do some research of my own. I felt the sense that nothing is impossible and nothing is ever lost, it just hasn’t been discovered.
Having taken only one Italian class, after traveling to Italy several times, I used my broken Italian to make numerous phone calls, emails, and research Italian websites. Having looked at almost two thousand names, a thousand war memorial sites, and spent countless hours of translating Italian handwriting from the 1940’s I was coming up with nothing. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack, an Italian haystack for that matter.
I needed un miracolo; a miracle. Every time I find myself helpless, I turn to something higher. I simply prayed for this right intention to manifest itself. For a father to be reunited with his son, even 72 years later, is still possible. Having lost my father too, I knew how much this would mean to Domenic to have some sense of unity, closure, full circle ect… I kept ricerca; searching.
Before I went to sleep that miraculous night, I checked one last Italian website. I typed in the letters of his last name and there he was. Antonio Mancini had been found. I started scrolling down to make sure I was actually seeing straight.
Luogo Sepoltura means Place of Burial. He was back home in Italy. From previous research that I had done, I knew the bodies of the Italian Soldiers who died overseas, were sent back to Italy in December of 1967 and placed in a beautiful memorial museum in Bari, off the coast of the Adriadic Sea. Dominick’s father has been honored there.
I called Nancy, and she quickly made the phone call to Domenic! He was in total shock and was filled with so much joy. He told us that this was the best gift he’d received in his entire life. As his voice teared up on the phone, he told us he would travel back to Italy to see his father. This summer, we will be traveling with him on this beautiful journey to witness this father and son reunion.
Unconditional Love is the best gift in the world.
This is the true meaning of Christmas to me.
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The Sacrario Militare dei Caduti d’Oltremare (Military Memorial to the Fallen Overseas) was opened on 10 December 1967 on the outskirts of Bari, on the way to Brindisi. The structure houses the remains of more than 70,000 Italians who died in foreign lands. These lands include Greece, Albania, Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia, Libya, Somalia, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Germany and the Mediterranean Sea, in the First and Second World Wars.
What’s a woman to do when the farmer down the road keeps dropping off pumpkins?
I know what your thinking – It’s December and Thanksgiving is long over. Why the devil are you getting pumpkins? I made the mistake of mentioning that I put left over Thanksgiving pumpkins to use by baking them, cleaning and gutting them and freezing the pumpkin to make soup, pie, pumpkin gnocchi etc. In the friendly world of farm country that means – hey, the chick down the street will take all your left over pumpkins! As my friend Jonathan said to me, “when life gives you a shitload of lemons – make lemonade.” Well, the pumpkins were multiplying and I decided to make pumpkin gnocchi!
Christmas is right around the corner so why not be a little daring – make pumpkin gnocchi for your primo piatto. No one will expect it.
Gnocchi, ready to be cooked. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I must tell you – after the grandkiddies go gaga from staring at electronic toys you can save the day by playing makin’ gnocchi – otherwise known as rolling and slicing snakes! Jack, a member of my extended family, came over one day and it was too cold to play outside. What saved the day? Makin’ gnocchi! His mom was our videographer – enjoy!
I don’t really have a tested recipe. Cooking in my house is like great improvised theater. So here is about what we did:
Cooked up a pumpkin. Got rid of the seeds. Sliced it and mashed up about a 1/2 cup.
Peeled and cooked potatoes and mashed up about 1 cup.
Mixed the potatoes and pumpkins together really well and tossed in 1/4 cup grated Parmesan Cheese, a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg.
Then we added about 1 1/2 cups of flour – enough flour to make it look like a dough.
We took handfuls of dough and made snakes. Cut the snakes into 1 inch pieces and put them on a linen towel to dry. You can score them with the tine of a fork if you want to be cutesy.
A big pot of salted water was put on the stove. When it was boiling I dumped in the gnocchi. They sunk. When they floated to the top they were done. How simple is this!
The sauce was just melted butter, sage and chopped pumpkin – with the necessary salt, pepper and more grated parm!
Bah, humbug said the Scrooge Midge as she stared at the masses of cars outside the mall and struggled to drive past it on the super crowded highway. Bah, Bah, BAH, HUMBUG said super angry Scrooge Midge when she saw all of the Black Friday news shots of herds of people trampling into the evil BOX STORES that plague the American landscape. How can Scrooge Midge get back in touch with the Christmas Spirit? How can Scrooge Midge get in touch with her inner Santa and put down that bottle of Scotch? She can go into the gift closet and start reminiscing about where she bought the baubles for her family and be proud that she thought about gift buying for Christmas when she was still in Pontelandolfo. Even prouder that she was shopping uber-local from people who live and work in a minuscule Italian village. Whoa – look at this –
I picked this up for my cousin – oops – if she reads this – Santa blew the surprise! It was less than $20 and is adorable.
Seeing the necklace made me think of Ornella Romano, the charming and creative owner of Oro Giovane. The first vision that popped into my head was Ornella sitting on the outdoor couch at Bar Elimar with her daughter Olga Addona under the blue morning sky, drinking cappuccinoS. I didn’t really know them well but smiled and said “buon giorno.” As I did every – oops Jack caught my lie – most mornings, I went to the bar, ordered a cappuccino, sat outside with my lap top, sipped the best cappuccino in the world, stared and did my writing. When I went to pay I discovered that my caffè had been paid for by Ornella! Grazie tante! Welcome to village life.
My talented cousin Carmela Fusco creates dolls dressed in historic traditional garb. Before I found Carmella and started a relationship that has spanned many years, I visited Pontelandolfo, wandered into a small shop and bought a doll for myself and one for my niece. Years later, I realized my first connection to Carmela was the doll!
Carmela’s doll proudly stands in my living room.
She sells them now at Ora Giovane and some years ago brought me there to meet the owners, Ornella and her husband Rossano Addona. During our visits, we often stop in and have bought some pieces, but never really spent time getting to know Ornella’s family. This trip was different. We would run into the family in the piazza listening to music, sipping a prosecco or taking the sun. Like many of the small business owners, they would sit outside their shop on nice days and talk to other shop owners, gossip with villagers and include outsiders like us in daily life.
Jewelers Olga Addona and Ornella Romana.
Olga Addona attended the goldsmith specialty high school available to students from the Province of Benevento. Can you imagine – a public school where talented art students can learn goldsmithing! Unfortunately, because Pontelandolfo is not on a regular bus or train line it is difficult for students to attend the school and there has been a huge drop in enrollment. Sadly, the school is closing this year. Hey Arts Folks – WHAT A GREAT OPPORTUNITY! Why not reopen it for artsy American adults! Charge a tuition! Bring some tourist dollars into town.
Sister Susan and I bought some faux bling and kibbitzed with Ornella & Olga.
I am passionate about shopping local – and yes I do shop locally in New Jersey. My meat comes from farms not factories, my meds are from a family owned pharmacy, etc. Shopping in Pontelandolfo is really like a walk back in time when Main Streets were thriving and everyone knew your name and if you acted like a wild child any adult would call your parents.
I truly enjoyed popping into Oro Giovane and foraging for fantastic gifts. The family owns two shops on the piazza – one is just jewelry, art and tchatchkes.
Cameos carved with the village’s crest.
The second shop has great purses and accessories. Santa – Babbo Natale – loves family owned shops, artisan studios and well – anything local in the USA and Italy. So will you when you visit my other hometown – Pontelandolfo!
Huzzah – I just remembered – NOW SANTA GETS TO WRAP ALL THIS SWAG!BUON NATALE!
Take a moment and imagine small town America before ugly strip malls and giant box stores polluted the landscape. See happy healthy people greeting their neighbors as they walk to those wonderful, small family owned shops.
Turn of the 20th century shopping in Pontelandolfo!
Clutching your mom’s hand you visit the butcher, who knows your name and gives you a big smile. You mom says she wants to have a pork roast for dinner – the butcher asks for how many people? “Just six” she says. The big walk-in fridge is opened and you see giant hanging slabs of meat – half a cow, a whole pig – is that goat?
Meat hooks at a butcher. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
He pulls down the pig carcass and brings it to the giant wooden shopping block. Like a sculptor wielding sharpened knives and a dancer moving to the crack of the cleaver, the butcher magically creates the perfect pork roast just for you. Wrapped in white butcher paper and tied with twine, the gift of good eating is ready to carry home. Hmmmm – no porcine growth hormones, no chemical enhancements just farm grown – the way nature intended it – meat.
Growing up in Flagtown, NJ – when the area was still rural/agrarian – I actually played in fields that held cows, pigs, chickens, goats, sheep and lots of piles of @#$%. My grandmother taught us how to butcher and clean poultry and game. Our little village even had a butcher shop. Aniello De Scala moved from Brooklyn to Flagtown long before I was born to open a small shop and get away from the Brooklyn mob (so his daughter told me). When I was a kid Aniello’s son George was the butcher. (One of the De Scala butcher blocks is currently feeling lonely in my garage.) Then the developments started eating up the farm land and “progress” brought us supermarkets. Small stores faded away…..
Living in Pontelandolfo is a return to a kinder and gentler way of living and eating. We are in carnivore heaven in Pontelandolfo – there are not one, not two but three butcher shops in our little village – great food means a lot to Pontelandolfesi. The shop I visited the most was Marcelleria, Cinque M.A.M. S.R.L., located at Via Falcone E Borsellino. (I have no clue what the initials mean – they’re all on the sign.) My cousin Carmella explained that this shop was a cooperative for the local farmers – a big plus for me.
Santina Guerrera, ace butcher and charming woman.
Santina Guerrera (h’mm is she related to me?) would greet me every time I went into her Macelleria with a big smile and once with a great question – “Hai intenzione di parlare un buon italiano oggi o cattivo italiano?” (Are you going to speak good Italian today or bad Italian?) I paused, shrugged my shoulders, smiled and repied “Sempre cattivo!” (Always bad.) Clean up your minds – this wasn’t about talking dirty but speaking Italian properly – something I still haven’t mastered. Santina would smile as I fuddled through my orders. The first time I wanted chicken for my extended family of eleven, I learned what an Italian meat portion was. I originally asked for 7 chicken breasts and four full thigh/legs. Santina looked at me and asked “how many are you cooking for?” When I said eleven she cut the order in half and got the cleaver out to separate thighs from legs and cut each breast in half. I thought, this won’t feed eleven. In the USA everybody gets 1/2 pound each! She was right, my Italian cousins eat small healthy portions.
Santina prepares beef and pork for grinding.
One day, I decided to make an “American” meal for my extended family. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and some green thing or another. I told Santina what I wanted to make – un grande polpettone – and couldn’t understand why she took huge hunks of meat out of the walk in fridge. Midge, you silly girl, she is going to grind it fresh!
She tossed a hunk of beef and a hunk of pork in the giant grinder and out came ground integrated meat. I started to drool on the counter. Of course everything I bought was beautifully wrapped up for me.
The other butcher I visited was Macelleria Perugini Franco on Via Falcone Borsellino, 4. Franco made incredible sausage. At first I had to figure out what days he was grinding meat and adding his magical spices – because until I got the schedule down there wouldn’t be any left! He made the sausage fresh. I just found an old receipt and it only cost me € 3,87 (about $5 for 4 servings of freshly made exceptional sausage.)
No matter where we are in the world, I try never to buy supermarket meat – schifoso – wrapped in plastic, pumped full of chemicals, grown in small crowded cages – gag me – chicken and beef that – well I better stop so I don’t ruin your appetite. When Jack and I are in Flagtown we buy most of our meat directly from local farmers – Farview Farm (http://www.farviewfarm.com) in Readington and Lima Farms (http://limafamilyfarms.com) in Hillsborough.
Carnivores of the world unite behind your local butcher and family farm! We are blessed to have ours in both of our home towns.
Time to tell Zia Caterina’ s tale of Eleanor and Franklin Delano Roosevelt –
It’s presidential!
Franklin D. Roosevelt and Eleanor Roosevelt in Warm Springs, Georgia – NARA – 195635 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
This is the tale of my dad’s older sister, Caterina Guerrera’s, journey on the rocky road to the American dream. You may remember my Aunt Cat from the earlier blog about my family’s Ellis Island experience – https://nonnasmulberrytree.com/2013/09/18/nonna-comes-to-america/.
Two-year old Caterina Guerrera was racing over the hills of Pontelandolfo talking as fast as the village’s babbling brooks. Then the world stopped. This peasant child was stricken with polio. Her mother put hot stones on her limbs, massaged and massaged. One of the reasons the family came to America was that my nonna, Maria Rosaria Solla, was afraid that Caterina would end up in an institution for the insane and deformed. Caterina was smart and fought hard and seven years later was able to board the ship in Naples for America.
Charcoal Drawing done in Italy. Maria Rosaria Solla, Savatore, Caterina, Francesco and Nicola Guerrera
When nine-year old Caterina entered her first American school she discovered just how quick a learner she was. In those days immigrant kids didn’t have the benefit of bi-lingual education or ESL – it was total immersion. On the happy little girl’s first day of school the teacher said something – Caterina looked at her and smiled – the other kids put their heads on their desks. Suddenly the teacher’s yard stick whacked Caterina on the back of the head. Aunt Cat figured out immediately what the English phrase “put your head down” meant.
Polio left her with a short right leg, “baby sized” arm and marked limp. Because of her jaunty walk – step and drag the dead leg, kids would call her 1 and 2 and. She swore to me it didn’t phase her – that they were just teasing. Bottom line, she remembered and replayed the story tape for me.
At that point in time, folks who were disabled were often hidden away. Well no one was hiding Caterina Guererra – “Guerrera” does mean female warrior. She was a fighter, often protecting herself and her younger brother, Salvatore, by tossing rocks squarely at all taunters. Eventually, the family moved to a small farm in the Flagtown, section of Hillsborough Township, New Jersey. A number of other Italian families had settled in Flagtown – this was the depression and members of this tight knit community helped each other.
Fifteen acres for nonna to farm with Catherine’s help.Grandma and Aunt Cat tend the garden to feed us all.
She graduated from Somerville High School in June of 1933 and then attended Drake College (business course – 6 months). Catherine wasn’t going to let anyone hold her back. After attending secretarial school and pounding the pavements looking for work, the only job she could get was in a sewing factory in Bound Brook – cleaning. With her shriveled right arm that hung like a dead branch and a right leg that didn’t work at all, she picked up dropped pieces of cloth so the ladies sewing wouldn’t have to take the time to bend down. Catherine took the train every day, angry that her active brain was mildewing in a sweatshop. There had to be something better – mannaggiathis was America!
The President during this period of American history was, Franklin D. Roosevelt, also a victim of polio – something he hid well. Roosevelt overcame his affliction and Catherine felt she would too. He had helped all kinds of folks during the great depression. Including her brother, Salvatore, who traveled across America improving our park lands with the the other poor young men of the Civilian Conservation Corp. The CCC was just one of the programs that were instituted under the “New Deal” moniker. The Works Progress Administration was one of my favorite programs. Jobless Americans built buildings, bridges, schools. More importantly artists, writers, musicians and theatre professionals were included in the WPA. WPA art can still be seen in public spaces around the country.
CCC Camp in Hackettstown, NJ 1935 – Uncle Sal is 6th from the left – front row!
“It is only in recent years that we have come to realize the true significance of the problem of our crippled children. There are so many more of them than we had any idea of. In many sections there are thousands who are not only receiving no help but whose very existence has been unknown to the doctors and health services.” Radio Address on President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s First Birthday Ball for Crippled Children January 30, 1934
Aunt Cat saw that Roosevelt also was instrumental in raising funds for polio treatment and creating the innovative use of hydrotherapy with polio patients in Warm Springs, Georgia. This plucky young lady sat down and penned a letter to the Roosevelts.
This is how my Aunt Cat told the story to me:
I wrote to Eleanor Roosevelt. My friend Libby (Elizabeth Quick) thought I was pazzo – why would the president’s wife listen to a “guinea” from Flagtown, NJ? My father and Mr. De Angelis started the Democratic Club here. All the Dutch farmers were Republican. I wrote 20 different letters and finally got it right. I sent it.
One day – I was giving Mary the horse some hay – and then a big black car pulled in the yard and sent the chickens running. This woman got out of the car and showed me some papers. She came from the state and she said that she was going to take me to see a doctor who could maybe help me walk better. My father was working and my mother was at Mrs. Gallo’s – Julie’s mother – I told my brother, Tony, to tell mama I was going to see a doctor and I got in the car. If someone could help me walk without dragging my leg like a mail sack than I was going. What I didn’t know was that the doctor was in Newark – in those days you only had Route 28 and it took 2 hours to get to Newark. She took me to Beth Israel Hospital – Dr. Henry H. Kessler himself saw me and asked me if I was strong. He said it would take 8 surgeries but he could make me walk better and my bad arm wouldn’t just hang like a dead branch. He laughed when I told him that I milked the goats and cows, plowed the field following Mary the horse and dragged my leg the ½ mile to the train stop to go work in the sewing factory – strong – I was strong. I was old enough to sign the papers and the next thing I knew I was in a huge room lined with beds – in those days you slept in a bed in a ward with 40 other beds. I wasn’t even afraid. Dr. Kessler had this way about him – he cared – like the Roosevelt’s. Dr. Kessler fixed my arm first. I had 9 surgeries. After the first surgery, Dr. Kessler asked the nurse why no one ever came to visit me. Even then he knew that you had to treat the whole person – not just be an orthopedic mechanic. He asked me if I had any family. I told him my family lived in Flagtown – which to him was like living in Appalachia. I had left with the social worker and never went home. I thought she told my mother.
Dr. Kessler asked me if I wanted to use the telephone and call them. You didn’t have a phone in the depression unless you were rich. So I wrote them a letter and told them where I was – the boys could read in English – as soon as they got the letter they came. Mama was furious that I would not let them take me home – but after all the surgery and I could walk she stopped being angry.
I have never voted for a Republican.They still are for the rich – look at Bush and the oil people. Bush wouldn’t send someone to help a girl with polio unless he could get something. What did Mr. Roosevelt get? A thank you letter from me, a girl whose father laid railroad ties and whose mother kept us eating by her garden and animals.
She was soon – well not that soon – I mean nine surgeries is a big deal – back in the fields, passing her driving test on the first try – her macho brothers couldn’t do that – and looking for work. Then a miracle happened – the federal government decided that a post office was to be set up in Flagtown. Whoever ran it wouldn’t get a salary but a commission on what postage was sold. (Damn, an entrepreneurial helping hand at no cost to the government – who’d have thought!) The whoever – thanks again to the helpful Roosevlet hand – was Catherine (AKA Caterina) Guerrera. At first she didn’t want to do it – a commission – who wants to work on commission. Her dad, Francesco convinced her to take the new position. In Italy it was an honor to be the postmaster.
On March 26, 1943, Frank C. Walker Postmaster General of the United States of America appointed Catherine Guerrera Postmaster at Flagtown in the County of Somerset, State of New Jersey. Originally she worked out of a shack near the rail road tracks. Then her entrepreneurial brain started twirling. Due to her personality, more people were buying stamps and the little postal stop was growing. Why not own the building? She got a parcel of ground from her dad and with her brothers help built a post office that she rented to the government. To this day my cousins rent the newer version to the postal service.
She also ran a small lending library and smaller general store out of the space.
She then marketed the hell out of that little rural post office and by the time she retired in 1980 – at a vital aged 69 – had built it up to a first-class post-office. (This designation is no longer used by the postal service.) The building also grew. From that one room rural oasis to a solid facility with an accompanying luncheonette and two apartments. She had a vision and watched it grow. Cha- ching!
From one room to many! That is my Aunt Cat.
Every story has a moment of sadness. Catherine Guerrera had been Post Master for forty years and hated that forced retirement. In 1984 – four years after retiring – the dreaded polio returned – post polio syndrome. I blamed the forced retirement – she was no longer lifting and chucking huge mail bags, standing and sorting mail, bending to talk to children. This time she had the resources to get the best of care at NYU’s Institute of Rehab Medicine under the guidance of Dr. Kristjan Ragnarsson. It took a while, but after a good number of months in New York learning how to deal with a wheel chair, take in the sights of the city from a little bit lower perspective and outfitted for new braces she was back to her “give ’em hell” self.
This great American Dream story demonstrates to all those non-believers – that a little bit of government assistance can jump start a life. And – for those of you who are died in the wool conservatives – her estate taxes more than paid off Uncle Sam for all his – I mean Roosevelt’s – help.
My fabulous Aunt Cat taught me that hard work, hope and being a Democrat was the American thing to do.
Yesterday, I posted an article about our experiences in Pontelandolfo buying medicines. It makes me want to scream at our legislators for allowing big pharma to decide how much to rape and pillage for profits. Thinking that maybe I was simply a wacko with a pharma conspiracy theory, I was soooo vindicated to read today’s New York Times. Since I don’t want you to think I’m a wacko, I had to post this story from the New York Times.
Here are some excerpts from the article:
With its high prescription prices, the United States spends far more per capita on medicines than other developed countries. Drugs account for 10 percent of the country’s $2.7 trillion annual health bill, even though the average American takes fewer prescription medicines than people in France or Canada, said Gerard Anderson, who studies medical pricing at the Bloomberg School of Public Health at Johns Hopkins University.
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Thanks in part to the $250 million last year spent on lobbying for pharmaceutical and health products — more than even the defense industry — the government allows such practices. (pay generic drug makers to stall release and don’t make things over the counter because folks won’t pay more than $20 OTC.) Lawmakers in Washington have forbidden Medicare, the largest government purchaser of health care, to negotiate drug prices. Unlike its counterparts in other countries, the United States Patient-Centered Outcomes Research Institute, which evaluates treatments for coverage by federal programs, is not allowed to consider cost comparisons or cost-effectiveness in its recommendations. And importation of prescription medicines from abroad is illegal, even personal purchases from mail-order pharmacies.
“Our regulatory and approval system seems constructed to achieve high-priced outcomes,” said Dr. Peter Bach, the director of the Center for Health Policy and Outcomes at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. “We don’t give any reason for drug makers to charge less.”
And taxpayers and patients bear the consequences.
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In all other developed countries, governments similarly use a variety of tools to make sure that drug manufacturers sell their products at affordable prices. In Germany, regulators set drug wholesale and retail prices. Across Europe, national health authorities refuse to pay more than their neighbors for any drug. In Japan, the price of a drug must go down every two years.
Drug prices in the United States are instead set in hundreds of negotiations by hospitals, insurers and pharmacies with drug manufacturers, with deals often brokered by powerful middlemen called group purchasing organizations and pharmacy benefit managers, who leverage their huge size to demand discounts. The process can get nasty; if mediators offer too little for a given product, manufacturers may decide not to produce it or permanently drop out of the market, reducing competition.
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Welcome to the USA – home to the big pharma lobby. Read the article – it is part of a series on the cost of medicines in the USA.
Whoa – all I can think about are drugs! With the air waves bombarded with the shut down of the American Government and all that debate over the Affordable Health Care Act – who wouldn’t think of drugs. Medicine to keep us healthy. Medicine to keep us sane. Time to look into the meds that keep us sane and send some to the USA Congress. It makes me crazy to think that a country still exists where some retired folks stop taking medicine when they find they are in the Medicare Part D donut hole of higher profit for big pharma. I am hoping that the Affordable Care Act – if allowed to live on and grow – addresses that too. OK, enough politics – let’s get down to what it is like for an expat to go to the pharmacy here in Pontelandolfo.
There is only one pharmacy in our village – the sign says Farmacia. It is not Waldgreens or CVS or any big box monolith run by employees who will never remember your name. It is simply La Farmacia – a family owned and operated small space on the Piazza Roma. No, they do not sell soda, bread, flip flops, books or toys – there is however a condom dispenser on the nearby exterior wall. How clever – condoms in a machine available 24/7 right out there in public!
Before we leave for extended Italian stays we always try to stockpile medicines for my husband. I’m lucky – I just take a blood pressure med and I made sure to get a thousand samples. Jack takes a suitcase full of heart, cholesterol and who knows what else stuff. What I do know is that when Jack’s Medicare Part D falls into the donut hole of death for the poor, his monthly tab for meds can be $2,000. Damn, my first car cost less than that. Rats, Jack just edited this and said I am lying about the $2,000. Ptblahhhh ( that is me sticking my tongue out at him.) I got the breakdown for what Jack’s co-pays were before we left for Italy in April – $1718.49. So I exaggerated a little but hey – some people don’t have $1718.49 – and that is still more than my first car.
Jack knew, before we hit the Italian hills, we couldn’t afford to buy multi-month’s worth of pills in the USA . So, we spoke to Michelle and Michael our fabulous local – non corporate – pharmacists at Raritan Apothecary. They said – buy them in Italy – they will be a hell of a lot cheaper.
Blatant Plug – Buy Local
Raritan Apothecary
25 West Somerset Street Raritan, NJ 08869
I will admit, my drama queen worry mamma surfaced. What if we couldn’t get Jack all the stuff he needed? Would I have to send him home? Get in touch with my wild women roots and make drugs from monkwart? The first time Jack ran out of a medicine, I brought the empty bottle to la farmacia and introduced myself to the Perone family team of Nicola and Tina, the father/daughter pharmacists who keep Pontelandolfo on a healthy path. (Yes, I did remember the Italian courtesy of saying Buon Giorno as soon as I entered the store.)
Tina Perone – who always said “Ciao Midge”. That doesn’t happen at CVS.
Dott. Tina Perone recognized me as Carmella’s cousin – the American who dances two nights a week with her mother. Small villages create the art and activity they need. Carmella had organized a bi-weekly line dancing excersize and get together gab fest at the indoor bocce courts. I love to dance, need excersize and wanted to meet the village women. It was a win – win – win since it gave Tina and I an immediate connection.
Even without that connection, Jack and I would have been treated like people not numbers. Dott. Nicola Perone took the empty bottle and then proceeded to research for an incredibly long time the formula and ingredients. When he had the Italian perfect match he provided Jack with his meds. We do not have health insurance for Italy. We are not part of the Italian health care system. We paid full retail. Full retail that was freakin’ less than Jack’s bloody co-pay in the USA! How the hell can that be?
Over the course of months we visited the pharmacy often. Jack’s meds were always researched and supplied. The one thing that cost more in Italy was Advil – ibuprofen – one euro a pill! Of course they only sell 400 mg of Ibuprofen – not our 200 mg bottles. Jack needs to pack his Costco Ibuprofen or start using the Italian Spedifen! Interesting that vitamins weren’t pushed – apparently most people only take those vitamins that docs prescribe – like vitamin D. That made me pause and think about how much I spend a month on supplements.
Poor Jack, he loves to walk in the noon day sun up and down the hills. Too bad the soft corn between his toes hurt like a son of a bitch. We went into the pharmacy to get the name of a podiatrist and the first thing Dott. Nicola said was take off your shoe. Jack took off his shoe and Dott. Nicola looked at the giant thing between his toes. Damn, I wouldn’t even do that and I love the guy. He gave Jack some rubber things to put between his toes and some gunk to put on the ugly thing. Did you catch that, the pharmacist got on his knees and checked out my husband’s toes. You don’t see that at Walmart.
Dott. Nicola Perone – our fabulous pharmacist!
I am uncomfortable sharing the meds my husband takes so I will only give you one example of price point differentials. Before we left for Italy Jack got Nexium 40mg – 90 pills – for a $311.95 co-pay or $3.47 co-pay per pill. In Italy for the generic exomeprazolo it cost .73 per pill retail – not co-pay. I just checked on line and the exomeprazolo 40 mg for 90 days co-pay at CVS on line comes to .55 per pill. Retail is less than or a wee bit more than the USA co-pay. Huh?!!! What?!!!!
Interested in learning more about Italian pharmacies and brushing up on your Italian –
Le farmacie sono luoghi organizzati dallo stato ma operati da professionisti medici che vendono medicinali solitamente dietro ricetta medica. Con l’istituzione delle parafarmacie è possibile acquistare medicinali equivalenti senza ricetta medica.
Pharmacies are places organized by the state but operated by medical professionals who sell medicines usually with a prescription. With the establishment of drugstores you can buy generic medicines without prescription. Are big box drugstores coming to Italy? I hope not. We did see pharmacy concessions with a separate check out in big grocery stores – kind of a grocery/Walmart store set up.
Just like I won’t shop in a Walmart in the USA and we only get medicine at a local pharmacy – Raritan Apothecary. When in Italy, I’ll stick with going to see Dott. Nicola and Dott. Tina in our little La Farmacia on the Piazza. La Farmacia where every “Buon Giorno” is greeted with a smile and you are served by people you can trust.
Nonna's Mulberry Tree 