Tag: family history

Across the Atlantic

by midgeguerrera, posted in Finding My Family - Genealogy, Travel Comments

Jack and I are blessed to be able to buzz back and forth between our homes in New Jersey and Pontelandolfo. Travel is never easy. Does anyone love the lines and commedia of any airport? The waiting for late flights. The agony of cancelled flights. It all is horrific. We were packed and ready to head back home to Italy when Newark Airport became a shitshow. Outages in the tower causing traffic controllers to practically faint at the controls. Runway mishaps and construction problems. What?

Then the text from United Airlines came. If we chose to cancel our flight, even though we had nonrefundable tickets, they would be happy to give us our money back. Hmmm. What are they telling us? Next, I heard the CEO say that to keep their passengers safe they were canceling flights. Cripes. I cancelled. (Still waiting for the refund.)

Searching for last minute direct flights through Philadelphia or New York JFK was impossible. Then the gift from the goddesses appeared in my inbox. Cunard’s Queen Mary 2 was having a last minute sale on empty cabins. I looked at Jack and bought two tickets. (What, you thought I’d leave home home alone?) The base price was considerably less than premium economy on any airline.

The fare was $859 each. Add on transportation to Heathrow Airport from South Hampton, Cunard Care Health Insurance, taxes and port fees and the total for two people was $2046.54. That includes food but not adult beverages, Wi-Fi, or the tips. I am not sure what the final bill will be but when I do, you will be the second to know.

One of my creative friends suggested that I was echoing my families immigration experience – in reverse. Is that why I saw the Cunard ad? A message from someone who came before me? Write about the parallels she said. Gulp. Let that challenge begin.

Like my grandma, passport in hand, heading to Napoli to grab a ship, we headed to the Brooklyn Piers.

Our great driver, Al, from Spectrum Limo got us to Brooklyn in record time. It was much easier than the ride to JFK Airport. With three kids in tow, luggage, food and a husband who was already in New Jersey, my grandmother struggled to get to the dock in Naples. Someone from Pontelandolfo got them there. Then she was on her own.

At the Brooklyn Pier, porters grabbed our luggage from the car and free of encumbrances we walked to the terminal. WHAM, then I got the chills. Long lines snaked trough the terminal. As bad as or worse than any airport at Thanksgiving. As we crammed into the que, Aunt Cat’s story of Ellis Island took over my consciousness.

Struggling with bundles, Rosaria and her three children joined the Ellis Island mayhem. Crammed to appear upright between her mom and older brother, polio crippled Catherine was marched through the madness. Children were crying, different accents were heard and the closer they got to the people in charge the more fear built up in Catherine.

Engulfed by a cacophony of accents – mostly British Empire – I could see and feel Aunt Cat. We were squished and prodded through to passport and ticket control. They took our pictures. I asked why. Who is monitoring the pictures? If we don’t look “right” will they refuse to let us disembark or back into the USA? Was Aunt Cat forcing the words out of my mouth. Or was I just a tired Jersey girl?

Little Catherine was right to be afraid. She was pulled from the line, taken from her now crying mother, and placed in quarantine. Her experience disembarking the ship had a lifelong impact.

Daily, my grandmother and grandfather came to check on her. Their lack of the English language and peasant status made the ordeal sad, frustrating and scaring. Obviously, Catherine was ultimately released and they began a life in New Jersey.

Domani o dopo domani I will continue the reverse journey story. The Star Link WiFi sucks. You may or may not get this blog post. Let me know. Please add it to social media for me. The WiFi on the ship – that I spent $240 on – doesn’t let me access social media. Hugs to all of you and all of your journeys.

Ci vediamo

Midge

Can it Really Be 30 Years?

by midgeguerrera, posted in Any Day in Pontelandolfo, Finding My Family - Genealogy

FaceBook sometimes feels like just another chore and then some photo or post will smack me in the face and send my memory cells careening around my brain. On April 15, 2025, my testa dura got smacked hard. Into my otherwise boring feed popped a picture of a handsome young man at his thirtieth birthday celebration. I started to sob. Not because, I wanted to be thirty and at that party – though that thought did enter my mind – but because I first met the now thirty year old Valerio Mancini in 1995. The year that changed our lives.

The adorable Valerio Mancini held by his beautiful mom, Carmela Fusco. 1995

1995 –  Jack and I accompanied my Aunt Catherine back the village she was born in, Pontelandolfo, Italy. That year, I had started a family tree and the three of us were on a quest to find more information.

Just to put 1995 in perspective, this is before we had a cell phone with a magic app that did instant translation. We had to get by on Jersey Girl balls and a big smile. Aunt Cat had had polio In Italy and at 80 something smiled like a wee elf sporting a big brace. Jack wheeled her to the municipal building and stopped. There were two flights of stairs to the anagrafe office. No worry, Aunt Cat beamed that magical smile at two local policemen who carried her up two flights of stairs in the chair. (This is what the Italian heart is all about.)

 The woman responsible for vital records spent about three hours with us going through all these old books dating back to the 1860s. Aunt Cat started speaking in an arcane Italian dialect and everybody understood her. Her face lit up. It was like she had just found heaven.  This was a language that was entrenched in her soul. A language that she never spoke at home and suddenly here she is and it’s possible again. We find all kinds of information. Like my Great Grandfather, Salvatore Guerrera, was married to Caterina Guerrera. Italian women keep their own names so my imagination went wild. Did he marry his cousin/sister – euuuch? Is that why I am just a little pazzo? Guerrera, we discovered, is a super common name. I licked my pencil point and kept on writing. We thanked everyone and found our way down the stairs and back to our car.

Now, we have about 6 handwritten pages of family tree and I haven’t the foggiest idea what we’re going to do with it. While staring at each other and standing in the almost empty Piazza Roma another vigile comes up to us. Having lived in Waterbury, Connecticut, He speaks English. Side Note – After World War Two, the lack of jobs and demolished towns were a catalyst for a mass exodus. There are more Pontelandolfese  in Connecticut today than there are in Pontelandolfo. 

Pietro Perugini, sporting his vigile uniform, walked right up to us. Asking if he could see the family tree, he pulled the notes from my hand, stared at them, got into the town police car and left.
 He left with all my notes. He just freaking left.  Three hours’ worth of notes and he gets in his car and he leaves.  What the f*&$?  I threw the biggest hissy fit imaginable.  All that work.  All that time going through the dusty books.  Had I unearthed a horrible town secret?  

The tantrum chock full of English curses started drawing a crowd.  Aunt Cat smacks me with her cane.  I’m thinking, OK OK, maybe like we’re related to really bad people and they don’t want us to know that we’re part of the baddest of bad evil people. Or maybe we’re royalty. That must be it – and and and and and they don’t want us to know because we really own this freaking Piazza.

I swear we waited for 3 ½ or 4 hours. but Jack said it was probably maybe 15 minutes. I don’t know. All that pacing was making me insane.  Officer Perugini finally came back and said, “I think I found your relatives follow me.”

 We get Anne Catherine back in the car and we followed to row houses on a side hilly street.  I found out later that after a devastating earthquake that eradicated homes dating back to the 1600s, this public housing was built.  Since the houses were crammed next to each other, it was tongue in cheek branded as Shanghai.  The vigile and I knocked on a door. A little old lady tentatively opens the door and with a fierce look stares at us. I’m holding the family tree and pointing I say here I am and there you are.  The policeman says it in Italian. Actually, I have no idea what he’s saying but I’m guessing it’s ‘here she is and there you are.’ Bamm, the door was slammed in our faces.

Jack had parked and Aunt Catherine is, with great difficulty, dragging her leg, holding on to Jack and walking toward this house.  I knock on the door again. Again, I’m greeted by a scowling woman, but also a smiling younger woman holding a baby saying “come on in for coffee.” Obviously mother and daughter don’t agree about what to do with these strange Americans. The old woman is essentially saying we know no one in America and we don’t want to. The young woman with an adventuresome gleam in her eye is curious. They see and hear Catherine say in her little voice from the road “are you my cousin?”

The three of us were in the doorway. Aunt Cat asked again, “tu e mia cugina?”   

The old woman replied, Jesu e Maria. Ora e sempre, Caterina Guerrera had recalled the ancient greeting. Both women started to cry and hugged. 

Giuseppina Guerrera and Caterina Guerrera meet.

Suddenly, Giuseppina Guerrera, who we discovered was indeed Aunt Cat’s first cousin, starts to ask her 20 questions. It was better than any of those quiz shows. The million dollar question was – Libero Capporosso. Conosci  libero caparoso? I’m thinking who the hell is Libero Capparoso? A light went off, the audience cheered as Anne Catherine said – “bookie.”   Libero means book in Italian.  He had left the village and come to New Jersey and stayed with our family. Bookie was the magic answer that opened the door to our hearts and love for Pontelandolfo.

That day, we also found another family and first cousin, Carmine Manna. Both families have embraced us. Because of them we became part of the greater Pontelandolfo family.

Thank you Valerio for posting your birthday bash on Facebook. Thank you for being part of our extended family. Thank you for reminding me how blessed we are to have found our roots in Pontelandolfo. That you for being that wee baby boy who smiled and welcomed us home.

Ci Vediamo

Midge

La Casa del Mio Bisnonno – Salvatore Guerrera

by midgeguerrera, posted in Finding My Family - Genealogy

You know how little girls imagine themselves princesses twirling at the ball?  Well, I tried to imagine that but after tripping over a hoe somehow knew that my family sure as hell wasn’t royalty.  It felt really special to be about 6 years old and discover I was from a long line of serfs!   Hey, quit smirking – a lot of us first generation folks come from families who – well – didn’t have the proverbial ‘Pot’.  Salvatore Guerrera, the patriarch of my family, was a contadino, farmer.  Now, don’t think of the agri-businessman of today or even the great local organic farmer.  In the Pontelandolfo church and commune records my family members are all listed as “contadino and/or bracciante”  They were  peasant farmers who  “gave their arms work”  for another person.  Serfs – now that is a word we all know.  Or sharecroppers – these men and women worked the land for a piece of the garden pie  – a very small piece.

Over a period of 18 years, I have shared many a  long and wonderful Pontelandolfesi meal with my extended Italian family.  When the coffee was served, I often steered the conversation to stories about my bisnonno.  The elders, his grandchildren, vaguely remembered him but really remembered the stories about him that their parents told.  What was he like?  Where did he live?  What did he do?  These alert and fun filled men and women regaled me with tales – all in the dialect of the town.  I didn’t have a clue as to what they said.  They knew I didn’t have a clue, but kept right on talking. Today, having taken years of Italian, I still only understand about 20% of what anyone says in dialect.  Not to lose the stories, I shot lots of video tape.  Much of it still needs to be translated.  The ever gracious linguist, Annarita Mancini, helped by giving me some short summaries.

The central theme was that my incredibly well built bisnonno was a Robin Hood kind of guy.  If the landowners weren’t sharing, he would not so subtly help the process along.  One tale, set after  World War I, told of great deprivation – everything of any value was used for the war or stolen by the enemy.  There wasn’t a bit of food to eat or even wood to burn for heat.  Salvatore Guerrera approached the landowner  and asked if he could cut down a really  big tree  – one of the last trees.  The man said, absolutely not, I’m saving that tree for myself.  Salvatore looked at this incredibly  tall tree and thought 50% is good enough for that uncaring @#$%$#.  “Noi braccianti  have provided him with much much more.”  He then climbed up to the middle of the tree and began to saw.  Soon the top of the tree tumbled to the ground, was chopped up and shared.  No one remembers what the landowner did – but they kept remarking that their nonno was really big and really strong.  Hmmmmm.

Salvatore's house 4
Three walls are left of my great grandfather’s house.

We were led to what is left of Salvatore Guerrera’s house by his grandchildren.  I could write about it but, frankly, am enjoying editing video.  What follows was shot in August 1995 – the first time I saw the house with my Zia Caterina – and June 2002 when we brought my father there.