AT HOME IN ROME Part I Why Rome?
Chapter 1 Nonno
Why am I AT HOME IN ROME? Why would someone who was eking out a decent living as a performance artist in Manhattan, (no small feat), become a self-imposed-impoverished Roman? What could possibly motivate someone move overseas with no job, no language skills and no place to live?
There are ten answers that follow. The primary one is a man, a grandpa, a Nonno. Nicola Cristofaro, a.k.a. Nick Christopher. When they finished with him on Ellis Island in 1910, he moved to Ohio. He was my gramps.
I can see him standing in his driveway on that farm in Conneaut, Ohio, waiting for his daughter, my Mom, to arrive with usually at least 50% of her eight kids. Number five was me, Thomas James Shaker.
I would bound out of the station wagon and jump into his arms. He smelled of cheap cigars, had a perpetual stubble that would nearly lacerate my face and emanated a pungent farm odor from his bib-jean overalls. But, none of that mattered. Kids know instinctively where the love is. I craved that bear hug and his predictable salutation, “Hey Tommy. Kissa Grandpa”.
Nick and his bachelor brother, Vincenzo a.k.a. Uncle Vince, were barely literate, simple tillers of the land and the wisest men I have ever met to this day. Corn was the main crop on their farm, along with a few steers and the constant source of my entertainment, the chicken coop.
When you’re seven years old in 1960, tormenting fowl was the internet download of its era.
I would take a dried “Indian Corn” cob, scrape the kernels off and drop them through the fence so the hens would flock to snack time. Then I’d attempt to clobber one with the now-naked cob. Squawking chaos mixed with futile flight attempts was a source of shear glee for me. I would continue the process. The hungry hens would accommodate. As I prepared for the 4th inning of chicken torment, I suddenly felt the vice-like grip of a paw around my neck. Grandpa Nick nearly lifted me off the ground as he calmly stared into my soul and uttered, “Hey Tommy, what do you do to the chickie?”. I immediately convulsed with tears, begging his forgiveness. The calloused fingers relaxed, my forthcoming extermination was reprieved and he walked away in loud, uninhibited laughter. Perhaps this was his simple form of entertainment as well.
Another memory were his steers. He usually had 3 or 4. He would let them out to graze in the morning and call them in at sundown with his cadence, “Hey Bullie, Bullie, Bullie”. The grandkids loved this and always sat on the fence to pet the steers as they mosied by. Our favorite was Blackie, a friendly black angus with a bit of personality.
Fast forward 6 months to Christmas. We are having our feast. 10 people are at the dining room table (well only 9 because Mom never sat down) . Grandpa would always slaughter the herd in the Fall and give Mom a generous side of beef for the freezer. As we were devouring our roast, Mom couldn’t resist telling us, “You’re eating Blackie”. Tears and sobs exploded in tandem with requests for seconds. Mom knew this would be the reaction. Blackie was a great friend. He was even a greater meal. Italian farm life at its best.
Nicola Cristofaro was born in Ripabottoni, a tiny mountain-top village near Pescara, Termoli and Campobasso. This Molise Region rests on the Adriatic Sea, north of Abruzzo.
Starvation and economic depression drove Nick, Vince and their other brother, Tony, to take a mule down the mountain, to the train bound for Naples, to the steerage berth on that slow boat to the Lady in the Harbor and Ellis Island. It was the height of the American immigration flood in the early 20th Century. They ended up in Conneaut, Ohio. Nick married Alice, a girl who immigrated from the town next to Ripabottoni.
My Mom, Mary Katherine Christopher, was born to Nick and Alice in 1921. She spent her first years living like Mary in the Manger. The family hunkered down in the garage, converted into a stable, with the animals and no running water while Nick and Vince built the homestead. Even though the completed casa was equipped with all the creature comforts a family could want, Grandpa used the outhouse until the day he died.
Note: Italian-Americans all know that the buckhouse, a term for outhouses, comes from the phrase old-timers used when nature called.
“Ima go backa da house”.
He had a heart attack and was taken to the Conneaut hospital ( I use this term loosely). I went to visit him, now a shell of a man, propped up in a chair with his false eye removed. He lost it working in a machine shop years before. I happened to be wearing a pair of his bib jeans and had no shoes on, my signature look during rehearsals or farm visits. He cracked a feeble smile of approval, the last one before he passed.
These three immigrant three men thrived. They sent money back to the old country for their youngest brother, Felix (Felice). Turns out the baby brother was a bit of a drunkard, as I found out when I went on my first pilgrimage to Ripabottoni. 2001, nearly a century after Nick’s journey, I made the trip. I needed documents from the Commune di Ripabottoni for my citizenship application. I wanted to explore this region of Italy. And I had to honor the pledge I made to myself and to the memory of Grandpa. Find and pay homage to your Italian roots. My language skills were minimal, the town was nearly impossible to find and there were no relatives that I knew of there.
To say this place was a ghost town would be an understatement. Quiet, clean and seemingly abandoned, Ripabottoni was beginning to feel like a foolish venture. It was 14:00 (2 PM). I had not assimilated the concept of Italian lunch time or pranzo. Now I know that the whole country vanishes at 2 PM and doesn’t reappear for 2 hours.
Note: Same phenomena applies when there is a Calcio match (soccer).
I found a bar, walked in and discovered the entire population having mozzarella di bufala, caprese and abbacchio. The buffet of cheese, tomatoes with basil, more cheese and lamb was clutter to the eye and addictive to the smell. After a lifetime trying to communicate with me, the proprietor sent a boy out on what seemed to be an emergency errand. He returned shortly with Valentina, a Canadian-Italian who was the only mother tongue ringer in the town.
With her marvelous translation skills and patience, Valentina made it clear to the now mob of interested locals that I was a Cristofaro ancestor. In unison they began to buzz, “Cristofaro? Dove Nicola” (Where’s Nick)? The same Ripabottoni errand boy shot out the door and returned with an old, stubbled face man named Nicola, who seemed completely put out by the inconvenience.
Valentina mumbled to him. He mumbled back. She asked me where Grandpa moved to. I told her Ohio. I watched as the scowl on the old man’s face melted into the hint of a smile. With tears now flowing, he grabbed me, kissed me and and shouted, “Cugino” (cousin).
He was the son of Felix the drunk and an authentic Cristofaro.
The place erupted with joy, laughter, applause and sobs. An ancestor had returned to Ripa. They were beside themselves with pride and emotion. AND THEY MEANT IT!
I have inherited the emotional faucet tendency of Nick and Nick as I can attest from the mountain of tissue I have blown through while writing this. But, let me give Grandpa the final tear.
He would always cry as we pulled out of the driveway at the end of our visit to the Conneaut farm. The back of the wagon was filled with corn, vegetables and the famous hot house tomatoes he and Vince cultivated. Happy to see you. Sorry you have to go. Here’s some produce.
The Italian concept of familia was the molto importante premise that made up this gentle giant of a man. And it is that memory that brought me happily to Italy.
