Writing Nonna’s Mulberry Tree is something that my heart and elders tell me I have to do. In our home in Flagtown, I see – really see – my dad, Aunt Catherine, grandma, Uncle Sal and all those Guerreras who lived and played here. A quick flash past a window and I know Uncle Sal is going to check the garden. Arms squeezing me when I just want to lay my head down and cry – that’s my nonna. They are so much a part of me that not telling their story and the stories of their Italian village are not an option.
Some of my readers have told me that their ancestors visit them too and shout out stories of other countries and times. A while back I sent an e-mail to subscribers asking folks to share the immigration stories of their family. Marjory Klein, classical singer and college administrator, not only shared her grandfather’s story but lent me his memoir too. Today, we are honoring Marjory’s nonno, Michael J. Roossin. He left Russia when he was only fourteen travelling to America on the Lithuania.
Fifteen year old Michael lied about his age and fought in the Spanish American War.
In his twenties he perfected his English by reading the New York Times. What a brilliant way to learn English! What you’re about to read is just a small piece of his tale – taken from his memoir, The Little Immigrant.
Came the day when word was received from America that my two big brothers were there to receive us. The departure of myself and my sister, who as a year and a half my senior, was apathetic sight. I remember my mother standing at the outer door, her lips quivering, trying her best not to cry. My father went along to see us off at he station in the big city. It was the last that we ever saw of our parents and two married sisters.
Despite the fact that all provisions we were made so that our trip wold be reasonably endurable, we were overcome with nostalgia. But we kept cheering our selves with the thought that we would soon be very happy when our brothers met us.
It was a Saturday morning in mid summer of 1892 that our ship reached New York and the sun was shining brightly. It wasn’t very long before we set foot on the land of the free and I was so enamored of all the sights that met my eyes, that I did not seem to mind the time passing from debarkation to the entering into my married brother’s apartment…
The Roossins were entrepreneurial in Connecticut and in New York. Michael’s brothers had a soda water (setlzer) delivery business. I remember my grandfather and uncle Billy getting the bottles delivered by the case. Remeber those glass bottles – you’d stick them into a holder with a gas cartridge – of course that was in the 1950s – No, I was not alive in 1892.
My brother assigned me the job of helper driver of his wagon. I worked hard at my job delivering cases of bottles to customers, some of whom were situated on the sixth floor of the building where there were no elevators. One day, some boys were trying to steal bottles of soda through the back of the door of the wagon. Ours was a horse drawn vehicle and because we were going at very slow pace, I jumped from my seat and put one foot on the hub of the right front wheel, to leap to the ground and fight the rascals off, but somehow I slipped and the rear wheel went over one of my arms. While convalescing at the hospital an orderly came over and told me that I was going to take a boat ride to a nearby island. When I noticed the men and women on that boat, I got frightened. They were of the class seen around the Bowery missions and some had disfigured faces. I approached one of the boat men to ask if I could go home. He said, “Son, if you are able, do so right now!” It was on Friday I remember. I walked twenty-nine blocks, as I did not have any money for carfare. I finally reached my brother’s apartment late that evening and met with a very cold reception from his wife and not much warmer from my brother. In spite of exhaustion and the pain in my arm, I still held my chin up and smiled with the suggestion that I had better find my self another job.
You know, sometimes you just have to ignore your family and make your own way in the world. That is exactly what Michael did.
The cute little girl is Marjory’s mom, Esther, with Michael, his wife Sarah, son Isaiah and daughter Vera. You are not going to believe this, but his store was in Waterbury, CT. Know who else moved to Waterbury? Most of the immigrants from Pontelandolfo!!!! Maybe my family even went to his shop! (Circa 1930)
That Roossin entrepreneurial gene prevailed and by the spring of 1900 he opened his first store. Micheal rode the ups and downs of the times like a surfer and it wasn’t until 1948 that he retired and sold his last venture – an upholstery shop.
Retired Michael yucks it up with his son.Michael and his grown daughters.
He ended his memoir with a few words of advice:
“A strong will, determination, and a clear conscience, are the fundamental points and the keys to an independence in life…”
Michael Roossin, The Little Immigrant.
Thank you Marjory for sharing your grandfather’s story.
It is not to late for you to send me the tales of your elders. I would love to share them.
A few months back I could be found leaping into the air and making loud obnoxious weeeeeeeehoooooo sounds. I was ecstatic because I found out that my play about 9/11 was published by Indie Theater Now! After running around the house and cheering, I put my business suit on – I mean business head on – and let theater pals know. Then being a blatant self-promotion whore, I posted on Facebook the link to my page on the Indie Theater Now website (http://www.indietheaternow.com/Play/email-912) and told folks to cough up the $1.29 the play costs and buy one. A bunch of folks did and I thank each and everyone.
Whoa slow down – what is the name of the play and what is it about?
E-Mail: 9/12, my five character play demonstrates how sharing, caring, grieving and even allowing a spark of humor to fly through cyberspace helped our nation get through the painful aftermath of 9/11. In writing the play, I was able to come to grips with my feelings and understand that the people we connect with are the stories of our life.
On September 11, 2001, I was on the train to Newark when the first World Trade Center tower was hit by terrorists. I watched the horror from the window. That night I took stock and realized that the only thing that mattered were the people in my life – folks like all of you. The play evolved from e-mails I sent family and friends and their responses. During and after one of the most horrific tragedies our nation has ever faced, our keyboards kept us connected. The primary character is someone named “Margaret” a fifty year old college professor – who sends e-mails to everyone she loves. H’mm “Margaret” – Midge” Yeah, it is pretty autobiographical.
Last night – staring at the keypad while trying to write a new play based on the La Befana theme – it hit me. I couldn’t have written as good a work as I did about 9/11 without my Italian family. OK – La Befana needs work and maybe my brain was procrastinating but I did riff back to E-mail: 9/12. The summer that I was struggling with that play, my cousin Annarita was visiting us in Flagtown. I asked her what young people in Italy thought and felt about the events of September 11, 2001. Sharing a bottle of wine we talked for hours. I created a monologue based on her feelings, thoughts and phrases. I’ve posted that monologue below – it played really well in all the productions that were done of the play.
Soon, I’ll be back in Italy – I know all those happy kids playing in the piazza will inspire me to finish La Befana. Of course, I do sit in Bar Elimar sipping cappuccino and writing every morning so that helps too.
Oops – my mind is drifting again.
E-mail: 9/12 only costs $1.29 so click on the link and give the play a read. Belong to a book club? Why not suggest that your book club members buy it and read it! Teach? What a great way to generate dialogue about a piece of history. (I’ve even included open ended questions at the end of the work.) Read Annarita’s monologue and then read the rest of the play by clicking on: http://www.indietheaternow.com/Play/email-912
ANNARITA & MARGARET say their lines in tandem – Margaret translating the Italian. The play is done with only 5 actors – everyone but the actress playing Margaret play a variety of characters. Characters of all ages, sexes and nationalities. It was challenging for some companies to find someone to speak Italian. Our real Annarita helped there too and made an audio file for folks to listen to and upgrade their accents. Annarita is one of the reasons we go back to Italy as often as we do. Here is the monologue based on her thoughts.
Ciao Margherita! Qui in Italia sono piu’ o meno le dieci e mentre io sono qui seduta a scrivere , da voi in America milioni di persone stanno vivendo momenti di terrore ….ma in realta’ credo che tutto il mondo sia stato sconvolto da quello che e’ successo!.Io stavo tranquillamente guardando la tv quando hanno interrotto i programmi per dare la notizia…passavano le immagini del fumo,delle macerie,fiumi di persone che correvano in cerca di un posto sicuro…
Ho assistito impotente a cio’ che stava succedendo pensando a voi e cercando di capire il perche’…
Poi la notizia che dei terroristi hanno organizzato tutto!E’ incredibile come l’odio e la violenza si possono trasformare in tragedia cosi’, in un’attimo…
”L’America e’ cosi’ lontana…”questo e’ quello che ho sempre pensato,ma guardando gli occhi di quelle persone,le lacrime che solcavano i visi straziati dalla paura,sentendo le voci disperate…vi ho sentiti davvero vicini…
Hi Margaret! Here in Italy it’s ten P.M. and while I sit here writing millions of Americans are living in terror…In reality all the world has been shocked by what happened!I was watching television when they stopped the program for the news…the images of the smoke, of the rubble, of the river of people running and searching for safety…
I watched helplessly to what was going on – with you in my mind – trying to figure out why?
Then the news that terrorists organized everything! It’s unbelievable how hate and violence can be transformed into tragedy in a moment…
“America is ‘so’ far away … ” that’s what I always thought, but looking at the eyes of those people, tears streaming down their faces torn by fear, feeling the desperate voices … I felt really close ……
Love to all of you for thinking about and buying my play from http://www.indietheaternow.com/Play/email-912. Know any producers? I’d love to see a few more productions of E-Mail: 9/12. Grazie mille!
Have you ever been surrounded by people and yet still felt so lonely that your heart chakra ached? That is how I felt this morning. I am in sunny Ecuador, met a super italo-ecuadoriana, am staying with great friends but feel a gaping hole in my heart. At first I thought I was home sick – I never get home sick. Than I thought it was because my zia in Flagtown had a stroke yesterday and I am a continent away. Shazaam – it hit me -I was feeling lonely because I didn’t have a sense of community here. No “tribe” to connect with. All that depressive thinking made me hunger for comfort – comfort food – bread like I can only find at Diglio Panificio in Pontelandolfo! Diglio’s not only kept us in thick crusty bread but also was one of my connections to the community – it was a place I didn’t feel like a stranger or alone.
Some mornings I would walk down the hill just to buy a round of bread and if the Panificio wasn’t busy, I would talk to the owner, Nicola Diglio. My Italian isn’t the best but we would talk about the village, economy, USA, whatever. Nicola never made fun of my attempts to pronounce the pastries or how long it took me to decide which pizza slices to bring home in the morning for our night time snacks. That bakery was one of the anchors of the community for me.
Some Wednesdays after strolling through the market, my cousin Carmella and I would take a shopping break by going to Diglio’s for a cappuccino, a little nosh and a lot of laughter. Carmella is a bright star in my universe and of course she introduced me to this pasticceria.
Cousins/Sisters having a laugh.
According to their brochure, Diglio opened its doors in 1983 with a commitment to use recipes handed down form generation to generation. When you visit Italy, you can find the shop at 2, Via Eglido Gentile, 82027 Pontelandolfo (BN). It truly is a pasticceria artigiana – when you watch the video you’ll agree with me.
While selecting pictures for the video I saw one of the Diglio’s little sandwiches on scrumptious rolls and got a little misty. Zap – flash back to my dad’s first cousin, Giuseppina, insisting we stop at Diglio’s so she could buy the sandwiches before l’avventura. Jack and I take Giussipina and her sister Paulina on road trip adventures. They pick the place to go – it’s always a shrine – there are tons in our area. Since we never saw a shrine and loved listening to the two of them chatter and laugh at us, we would go to shrines – with bags of Diglio yummy mini sandwiches.
Giuseppina, Paulina & Jack 2013 adventure
Then I flashed back to 1995. when I first knocked on Giussipina’s door, pointed at my family tree and said in pidgin Italian “tu sei il cugino di mio padre?”. That timid knock resulted in finding my extended family and celebrating with what – pastries from Diglio.
1995 Giuseppina & Paulina – note the pastries.
Whenever I bought pastries I would marvel at the way they are presented – perched on a golden cardboard tray and gingerly wrapped in pretty paper. The presentation always made any day that you bought a pastry feel like a special day. Some days I just need a special day and a sfogliatella prettily wrapped can be just the medicine it takes to turn the grey sky into blue.
One bite is better than a happy pill.
This past June was the first time I had Il Rusticacio – a small bread puff made with cheese, egg and salame. When I bit into one I swear I felt my grandmother hugging me. People have been eating – what we call artigianale – dough filled things for generations. The connection I feel in Pontelandolfo to my family is intense and eating food made with ancient recipes makes the connection even tighter. Is that my grandmother pinching my cheeks?
One day I went into the shop and Nicola’s son, Antonio, who is a super creative part of the artistic bakery team was behind the counter. The door opened and his daughter came in from school – she looked at me, I looked at her and recognition twinkled in both our eyes. She said “Good Morning – How are You?” The secret phrase I told the kids in the public school that I worked with to say to me whenever they saw me. Boom – an even bigger connection to the bakery.
Community – that is what I need in order to feel secure, happy and healthy. When I am in Pontelandolfo – we go back May 1st – walking into Diglio Panificio yields more than just a loaf of bread. Enjoy the video!
The holidays are over and you may have been wondering where I’ve been. No where exotic, just doing a little inward gawking. It is the new year – 2014 – and standing under my nonna’s snow covered mulberry tree as chunks of ice smack me in the head, I feel compelled to tell the truth. To finally, admit that – cripes this is hard – how do I explain – beh – just belt it out –
During the holiday seasons there are Italian traditions that I love to exploit – yeah exploit. Preparing the seven fishes on Christmas Eve, hosting a Christmas Day feast, having lentils with cotechino on New Years, celebrating Epiphany by hanging up my collection of La Befana dolls – all of these traditions that my Italian American pals tell me were incredibly important in their families I never heard of until I was in my 20s! When I discovered these traditions existed in other families I STOLE them and made them mine. I now embrace these traditions to reinforce that I am Italian. Some folks say I over embrace them – hug them until they pop. They were not a part of my childhood in poor rural agrarian New Jersey. Here, you hid the fact you were Italian – the elders remembered the WWII Italian interment or prisoner of war camps that popped up all over New Jersey. We’ll save the stories of those camps, that were as close to us as 10 miles away, for another day.
A typical meal at grandma’s – that is me grinning in the lower right hand corner.
My first huge confession is that I never have gone to confession. That’s right, this kid with the Italian last name didn’t step foot in a Catholic Church until she was in college. I was baptized Lutheran and grew up in the Dutch Reformed Church. So I never heard of Epiphany or understood why eating fish on Friday was such a big deal. It all goes back to a randy priest in Manville who used to flirt with and chase my nonna around. Apparently, he was raising a lot more than the Holy Spirit with the Italian immigrant wives and my nonno, Francisco, wasn’t going to have someone else singing hallelujah with Mariarosaria. So, no one was allowed to step foot in a Catholic church. My dad said that Francisco held mass for the family every Sunday. He read from the bible, shared a lesson and reinforced that they were to put others first. What Francisco didn’t say was that he couldn’t read the bible – it was memorized or he gave a good facsimile of the word.
Nonna & Nonno in front of the Flagtown House
Dad didn’t discover that his father couldn’t read until he was in high school and he needed Fancisco’s signature on a form for football. I remember eating fish on Friday or pasta with vegetables or just vegetables. I also remember being poor which meant that lots of days we didn’t eat meat anyway. It wasn’t until my first trip to Italy when I went to mass in the church that my grandmother was baptized and married in that I felt any connection to Catholicism. When we are in Pontelandolfo I attend church often, listening to the mass in Italian, seeing parishioners of all ages – without books – repeating together the litany. I feel my grandmother there and to me that is priceless.
When I was in college and met Italian Americans from places like Jersey City and Hoboken where Italian traditions lived on and on, I felt stupid. “So how was your Christmas Eve – did you choke down all seven fish?” Huh, I muttered? The only fish I remember at Christmas time was baccalà fritto – nonna – damn we never used the word nonna she was plain old grandma. (We were not allowed to speak Italian – I’m first generation and no one spoke Italian to me. Remember, in Belle Mead – just down the road was that Italian prisoner of war camp.) Anyway, grandma made a pancake batter and dipped that cod and fried it up. We all loved it and that was a holiday treat. But seven fishes – never. After the scrumptious tradition was explained to me I tried to horn in on other people’s feasts. “Hey – I’m fighting with my mom again – can I come to your house?”
Today, I hungrily pour through cookbooks and dream about my next Christmas Eve. For the past two years, Jack and I have hosted a foodies night of seven fishes. We invite folks who love to cook and love to eat over on Christmas Eve. Everyone has to bring a fish dish and a healthy appetite.
This year we started with calamari fritti, baccalà fritta, clam dip and skewered shrimp with a pesto. We moved on to Salad Niçoise – two fishes here – tuna and anchiovies. Next was an incredible New England fish chowder made with fresh cod. We were forced to take a Christmas Caroling break to help the food move south.
We came in out of the cold for Cioppino – an Italian fisherman’s stew that had mussels, clams, shrimp, scallops, squid and a white fish. Time to start the bonfire. Pause and then finish our poached salmon, broiled flounder and green salad. So how many fishes was that?
We start the festivities at 1:00 in the afternoon and go on and on until the fish is gone and we are sitting with glazed eyes in front of our fire pit staring at the flames and raising a glass of grappa to the baby Jesus.
See what I mean about stealing the Seven Fishes tradition and going a bit overboard?
Christmas Day in Flagtown now resonates with loud voices, laughter and more food trucked in by my sister, cousins and friends. The table is beautifully set with the “good china” and silver. We swap tales, scream at each other and generally have a good time. The Christmas Day’s of my childhood meant a day with mom and a day with dad – this was the fifties and they were the ONLY couple divorced in my home town. I remember my Christmas tradition being how to escape the angst. Now being the “family elder”, I do go a bit nutsy on trying to see that the younguns don’t feel uber angst.
Can we talk about La Befana? One January, years ago, Jack and I were in Pontelandolfo visiting. Little witch looking dolls on brooms were being sold everywhere. Well, I just thought they were cute so I bought one and asked Carmela why they had all these flying streghe in January.
La Befana in Sardegna! They had a huge celebration with lots of women dressed like La Befana roaming the streets.
Here’s the story. One snowy night, this kind old woman, living alone in the forest, welcomed the Three Wise Men into her home. She fed them, heard their tale and watched them go to find the new born king. After cleaning up, she trailed them – never found them – but to this day brings gifts to children all over the world. Wow – kids got gifts on January 6th – brought to them by this kind old woman! What a deal – that never happened in Flagtown.
Celebrating in Venice!
Every holiday season all of my La Befana dolls come out. Watch your head – there she is hanging from the light in the kitchen. I researched La Befana’s story, wrote a play about her set in today’s world, did a storytelling session about her – well just became a la Befana fanatic. Do you see my pattern here?
I want to thank all of the Italian American women I went to Montclair State College with who first introduced me to all things Italian. Next, I need to thank my ever patient family in Pontelandolfo who still giggle when I look so wide-eyed at a tradition that has been going on for years. Lastly, I need to thank the Meet-Up: Central Jersey Lovers of All Things Italian who keep all of these fabulous traditions alive for me today.
Family Holiday Traditions – Embrace them and make them your own!
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.
**********
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!
Nonna's Mulberry Tree 