By Tony Traficante, ISDA Contributing Editor
“C’era una volta,” there once was a sweet elderly lady who lived in the neighborhood. Lucia was her name. The poor lady lived in the alley behind our home. It was an awful road and, quite honestly, not the best of locales. It wasn’t even paved! Instead, the alleyway was peppered with gravel; yet she liked it and the privacy it provided.
No other person lived in this red brick offshoot, although there were a few businesses close by. There was an auto mechanic shop, a beer distributor, and an Italian grocery store. At the end of the short alley stood the Mother of Good Counsel Church, where she was a frequent visitor.
This article first appeared in La Nostra Voce, ISDA’s monthly newspaper that chronicles Italian American history, culture and traditions. Subscribe today.
Lucy (that’s what the Americans called her) preferred living there away from the hustle and bustle of the street above. She lived on the ground level of what was a small, old, two-story apartment. Lucy loved sitting outside on her small stoop knitting, peeling beans, or simply minding her own business. A friendly Lady was Lucy as she waved to all who passed by. On occasion, when walking home through the alley, I stopped to chat with her. I enjoyed it and so did she.
Some thought her to be a little “batty.” I didn’t think so. Maybe she was a little forgetful. My mom warned me “sii gentile con quella donna che sai come e.’” Mom felt sorry for Lucia and frequently sent her meals, bread, and baked goods. Lucia always appreciated it and insisted on giving something in return, be it a piece of candy or fruit.
There were a few mean and hateful kids, who would tease her, calling her a hag or witch. Whenever my Mom saw them taunting her, she rushed out on the back porch and shouted “Eh, maledetti, lascia stare quella donna (stoppa bothera that lady)!” And the boys would run off! There wasn’t much trouble from most of the adults. They understood her situation and were kind to her.
I called her Zi Lucia out of reverence. From the brown spots of her skin and the abundance of wrinkles that claimed her body, you could tell she was elderly. Lucy was also hard of hearing, couldn’t afford hearing aids, had a hunched back, and ambled along with a wooden stick she used as a cane. You could also see a few whiskers poking from her chin. Typically, she dressed in black with a long multi-tiered skirt arrangement that came to her ankles, and a babushka on her head.
Whenever I sat and talked with her, she would always discuss her days in Italy. From what I gathered she no longer had a family. One day she decided to share a tidbit about her life in the old country. As I listened, I was sad thinking whether this lady is truly “matto,” then I understood why. She related that her husband passed away before she could join him in the U.S. He died from a painful disease, she said with tears in her eyes, but I could not understand what it was. Soon after, she lost her home for failing to make payments. She ended up having to live in a neighbor’s backyard shed.
Finally, after waiting two long years, Lucia made it to America. I suspected from her complaints, that the trip across the ocean was horrible. The exact sentiments of many Italian immigrants who crossed the difficult and rough Atlantic Ocean, and then had to bunk in the hole of the ship for days.
It is a wonder that with all that she went through, “la gentile” Lucia held to her faith and continued her trek to church every morning.
Blessed are the clean in heart,
for they will see God.
