By: Tony Traficante, ISDA Contributing Editor 

My life in an Italian immigrant family was an incredible experience. How I miss those close family ties, social gatherings, good food and beautiful traditions. I wish I could fully document those times before the memories fade away. For if not, will there be much to tell?

I remember our first home. It was a typical end unit of a row house. Today, they call them patio homes. One of the convenient features was their large basements, perfect for the Italian immigrant family.

Pap made wine there. Mom had her laundry and did her heavy cooking there. Sausages were stuffed and hung to dry, tomatoes canned, “conserva” was jarred, dried and stored there, hot peppers were strung and dried, and the seven fishes were fried or baked. Tons of loaves of bread, cookies, and pizza found their existence in the basement kitchen. It was all compatible.

Tucked away in a cold storage area under the basement stairs was a small wooden box. It sat there, mysterious, daring me to open it. Mom warned me, “Lascia, stare, se no.” Leave it be, or else. That’s your father’s!

I asked Pap about its contents. “Eh, no — you no toucha that, capisci,” he responded. But Pap, what’s in the trunk. “Non preoccupati; non sono afarri tou.” It’s not your concern. Someday you will know.

I bragged to my friends about the puzzling chest and then charged them a penny to see it! Here’s how the conversation usually went:

What’s in there?

I don’t know.  

Maybe there’s a body in there!

Aw, shut up. It’s not long enough for a body. Besides, it rattled when I lifted it.

Well then, it’s your Pop’s secret booze stash.

Yea, that’s what it is. Will you guys just knock it off?

 Curiosity from the minds of 7- and 8-year-olds knew no bounds.

For years I wondered about that box, but over time I forgot about it. Besides, I had other things to dwell on. No not girls, although they did cross my mind, once or twice.

Pap was from Basilicata, a mountainous southern Italian region located above the boot’s instep. Gardening and hunting were a couple of his life’s diversions.

And they did a lot to help fill our table. When we bought a home, Pap gave up his share of a community victory garden in favor of a home garden. After a hard day’s work, he invariably would go direct to his garden to till and hoe until supper time. Gardening wasn’t work for him; it was relaxation.

OK, so what about the box? I finally learned what was inside one day when home on leave from the Army. And there, sitting on the back porch, wide open, sat the baffling old case. “So Pap,” I said, “What was in the box?” Through a wrinkled smile, and with a sweep of his arm toward the garden, he said, “Eccoli figlio, i semi da Italia.” Look there, my son, the seeds from Italy.

I always knew he was a great gardener. I didn’t know that he had transported a variety of vegetable and fruit seeds from his beloved Italy. The sources were from tomatoes, garlic, squash, hot peppers, various greens, and even a twig or two from a grapevine and fig tree.

At the end of the growing season, Pap harvested the remnants to keep for next year’s crop. He often exchanged seeds with friends.

Amazing, that he had hauled that handcrafted case from the small hamlet of Rionero In Vultura, by “asino,” bus, train and ship to America, then on to Pittsburgh!

Unfortunately, the only seeds remaining are from heirloom tomatoes. My brother inherited and planted those seeds for several years. After he passed, I found a few drying in a small jar.

Since I don’t have room for a garden, I will donate those to another passionate gardener to keep the tradition of our “secret” bountiful garden alive.

 

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