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ItalianAncestry |
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TheGattoConnection |
  
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A little bit of this, a little bit of that . . . |
How do you get Love from a Flour Sack? It's all about Perspective
In tracing my ancestors, I have come across roadblocks, and I have also had my share of successes, but more importantly, I have discovered the true spirit of our family.
When I started this journey, I was looking for data, a chronological set of events to fill in my charts and files. Gratefully, family members weren't content to simply supply me with this information, and soon, I began to discover the people behind the statistics.
My research takes me from the farming village of Bronte, Sicily to the coal-mining town of Carbondale, Pennsylvania, where my Italian ancestors settled. Working in the mines was not only dangerous and painstaking, but it didn't pay well. Often times, it was necessary for children to forgo schooling and take a job to help make ends meet. Many things have changed since then, labor laws not withstanding, but my research led me to ask my father if he had a job as a child.
"Uncle Joe and I delivered newspapers. Mama made us bags to carry the papers in. She used flour sacks and sewed handles on them," my father said, smiling at the memory. I thought of my own son, what a shame it would be if he had to get up at dawn to deliver papers before school, but my father quickly dismissed my concerns. He explained that delivering newspapers was not a burden.
At first, I failed to see how waking up in the wee hours of the morning could be fun, but he assured me it was. He told me he and his youngest brother would race to finish their route (which happened to be the biggest around). I assumed it was to get the dreaded task completed, but Dad assured me otherwise. He told me it was a race of challenge, a young boy's adventure. Running from house to house, powered by the energy and freedom of the early morning hours they felt as if they owned the world.
Sometimes they would take their wagon filled with newspapers and fly down the hills. When he laughed at how reckless they were, I had to force myself not to think of the potential danger a wagon, a steep hill and a couple of wild boys could be. Then he interrupted my thoughts and said, "Mama would get up very early to fold the papers for us."
That's when I realized this paper route really wasn't a burden. Instead, it was a special time he spent with his mother and his brother. A cherished memory.
Mama made that chore special for her boys. She showed her children love by participating in their lives. And that's what family is all about. Sharing time, turning tasks into fun, showing acts of love and kindness, guiding, but not controlling and setting free.
At four o'clock in the morning, my grandmother made my father feel as if there was no other place she would rather be than sitting with him and his brother Joe, folding newspapers.
What a beautiful gift of family Mama gave to her children, flour sacks filled with love. It's all about perspective.
Pieces of Time and Pivotal Moments
Life is comprised of pieces of time sprinkled with pivotal moments. Sometimes these moments have immediate impact. Other times, they are slow to manifest and reveal their importance. But if you listen closely to the soft whispers of life, they will guide you on an unexpected journey filled with beauty, understanding and fulfillment. One such moment occurred for me about eight years ago.
On this particular day, I was helping my mother redo her bedroom. We rearranged the furniture, cleaned, polished and changed the curtains and bedding. Then out came the new floral arrangements, potpourri and matching candles. Proudly, we stepped back to admire our work. That's when mom decided we needed a little atmosphere and she lit the candles.
Evidently, there was a residue of cleaning solution on her hands, because the moment she flicked the lighter, flames burst in the air. Large blisters instantly formed on her hands and she began to shake. As the tears rolled down her face, she looked up at me and whispered, "The children."
Those were her first words, not a cry, not a scream, not a swear word – "the children". I panicked. I though she was in shock. I hurried her into the bathroom to tend to her wounds but the blisters were so large she couldn't move her fingers. I realized I would have to take her to the doctor I was also concerned about her state of mind. Her response seemed so strange. "Mom, what do you mean, the children?" I asked.
She looked up at me with the sweetest, most sympathetic tear-filled eyes I had ever seen. "The poor children who get burnt." Then she continued to explain, "I saw it on Oprah. If this is painful for me, how much pain would a child be in? I feel so sorry for them…what they must go through."
That was her answer. My mom had second and third degree burns, her hands were swollen, blistered and shaking, but her tears were for the children. Children she saw on Oprah. My thoughts were less pure. At that moment, I didn't care about anyone but her. On October 5, 2000, I lost my mom to cancer. True to her nature, she never complained during her illness. Not once. Even in her suffering, she taught me valuable lessons. One of these lessons came when we were in her hospital room waiting for test results. The doctor finally arrived, flew into the room, delivered his devastating news and then abruptly left.
I was shocked, hurt and angry all at the same time. I turned to my mother and said, "I hate him." She looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes and said, "That's not nice. He was just doing his job. Can you imagine how hard it must be for him to have to tell his patients bad news like that?" Oh, Mom, you certainly were something.
In the years since I lost my mom, things have changed in many ways. There are sorrows and bittersweet longings, but her gentle lessons continue to touch my life and guide me. Most importantly, she taught me to listen closely to the soft whispers of life.
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