Beyond the Mangroves

BEYOND THE

MANGROVES

LINDA MARIE

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

BEYOND THE MANGROVES

Copyright © 2010, 2014 Linda Marie.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is an original work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons living or dead is completely unintentional. I have attempted to verify historical, environmental and general information; any inaccuracies are unintentional.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-2617-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2618-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2619-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014903352

iUniverse rev. date: 5/19/2014

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1.   Ancestors; My Early Family History

Chapter 2.   The Younger Years Of Mother And Aunt Olivia

Chapter 3.   My Childhood, Family And Home Life

Chapter 4.   Ava’s Family Story

Chapter 5.   Land’s Inn

Chapter 6.   Calvin James Ceege Harding

Chapter 7.   An Epidemic Of Endings

Chapter 8.   Revelations And New Beginnings

Chapter 9.   The Wedding, The Family And Red-Sky-At-Morning Forewarnings

Chapter 10.   Father’s Diagnosis; Plans Revealed And Plans Hidden

Chapter 11.   Illness And Intrigue

Chapter 12.   Gut Wrenching Storms In Florida And Philadelphia

Chapter 13.   The Beginning Of Endings

Chapter 14.   Staggering Revelations And A New Life

Chapter 15.   Truth Will Find A Way

Chapter 16.   Calvin At Boarding School; Tales Of Chokoloskee And Nadine

Chapter 17.   Cal Reveals More Of The Chokoloskee Years

Chapter 18.   A View To Initiate A Plan

Chapter 19.   Turmoil: Turner River, Hidden Key, The Ghost Of Nadine, And The Hidden Cal

Chapter 20.   Adjusting To Life On Hidden Key

Chapter 21.   Of Critters And Darkness, And Letting Go

Chapter 22.   The Story Of Sam Wolff

Chapter 23.   Old Ghosts Return; Life And Death Revealed; The Man I Never Knew

Chapter 24.   Return To Key Largo

Chapter 25.   We Become One

Chapter 26.   Adventurers In The Everglades

Chapter 27.   A Disappearing World

Chapter 28.   Hidden Key Discovered

Chapter 29.   Losing Dear Friends And A Small, New Beginning

Chapter 30.   In The Wake Of Hurricane Donna—Destruction And A New Career

Chapter 31.   Man And Old Friends Leave The Earth

Chapter 32.   Losing My World

Chapter 33.   Living In The Rock House

Epilogue By Carly Byrd

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My sincere thanks to all of those who helped, and encouraged me all along this writing journey. Thanks to my daughter Rhonda for planning and executing our excursions into the Everglades, and for all the ongoing technical advice. Thanks to friends and family who read for me and offered excellent advice and encouragement: Sheila, June, Jamie, Dee, Debbie, Carmen, Andrea, Kathy and Dot. Special thanks to Debbie, who provided the perfect title for the story of Elena’s journey, and to Sybil Patterson, who guided me in the early years. Thanks also to my patient advisors from IUniverse Publishing, especially Traci Anderson, Jan Ley, and Amy McHargue, who helped me through the editing and publishing process.

Life doesn’t always take us along the roads we expect, but I believe it always takes us where we’re supposed to be.

-Elena Maria Mia Covington

AUGUST 23, 1992

In the Sunday afternoon sweltering heat, Park Ranger Mitch Sanders raced his patrol airboat into the vast, watery wilderness of Everglades National Park. It was a race against time to save the person he called the old swamp woman, just hours before the devastating force of Hurricane Andrew hit South Florida.

In 1989, Mitch—my good friend and neighbor—told me about discovering the eighty-six year old woman living deep within the Glades. He’d visit and check on her every two or three months. He said that although no one was supposed to be living out there, she claimed to have lived on her tree island in the interior of the Everglades for sixty-five years. Mitch told my husband Dennis and me that the old woman spun wild stories, which he attributed to fantasy built upon years of loneliness. I thought, the fact that she was eighty-six and was out there at all, was a fantastic story and hard to believe. I doubted that any of it was true. It was not until she came to stay with me that I heard her stories along with the most shocking and unbelievable story of all; a story that she’d told few others about her life. Mitch brought her out of the Glades that day, and the next morning, while the vicious, category five, Hurricane Andrew was barreling down on us, Elena Maria Covington—who called herself Mia—said to me quite matter-of-factly, I’m an heiress, you know.

Several months before Hurricane Andrew, Mitch had asked me about caring for the woman. He thought that her health was failing, and had been urging her to leave the island. Since I was a registered nurse and already cared for elderly people in my home, he thought it was the perfect solution.

He said, Carly, I tell ya… I’ve tried my best to talk her out of the Glades. Told her about you. How she’d be comfortable living with you, and such. He shook his head in exasperation. "If my captain knew… well, he’s a tough guy. Have her removed, and me written up… or worse for keeping quiet about it. No question about it. She’s got nothing, but we could apply to get her some help. I could force her out, but man… I don’t wanna push her into an institution… you know? Wouldn’t last a week in a facility. I can’t do that to her."

I said, Mitch, just convince her to come. I’ll help her.

I had taken elderly people in to supplement our income for nearly ten years. I’m five years younger than my sixty-three year old husband Dennis. He’s a retired carpenter; a caring, quiet man. He’s quick to help me with anything. We feel that helping the people who come into our lives is part of our calling. Although I’m usually well paid, when the money isn’t there, I just do what it feels right to do.

Our house is large and old. It sits west of Miami on the edge of the Everglades. It’s rock solid—literally. It’s made of coral rock and built on high ground, so we’ve avoided storm surges. This house has endured many years of hurricanes. Other, older homes are scattered about the area, and Mitch lives over in a newer neighborhood built just down from our house. Our homes are situated on a deep, winding creek which allows Mitch to bring his patrol airboat from the Everglades, right up to the back of his house.

Mitch sometimes stops by to sit with me and Dennis out on our dock. He tells us all about patrolling out in the Everglades—of people lost and found; people or animals injured—everyday life and death in the Glades. But when he told us of his encounters with the old swamp woman living out there in a tree house—yes, a tree house—I found it a bit unbelievable. I never knew Mitch to stretch the truth, but to tell of a woman who lived out there alone—who hunted and trapped and fished; who grew a garden and lived beside an alligator—well, to me that topped all.

Mitch said, That gator… he’s a giant. Old as the swamp woman by the looks of him. Lives right there beside her. Says that gator’s been there all along and never made a move against her. Says they just co-exist!

I simply could not picture an eighty-six year old woman climbing into a tree house, and hunting and trapping; too incredible. I couldn’t even picture a fifty-six year old living out there alone. We laughed about the absurdity of that, even though Mitch swore it was true.

Hurricane Andrew changed all that. The day before it hit, when things began to look very bad with that powerful storm approaching, Mitch went to get the swamp woman. He said that he’d make her come in for the duration of the storm, even if she wouldn’t stay.

I told him, Bring her here. Maybe I can convince her to stay on after the storm.

We only had George Courtoy living with us then. He was mostly bedridden but of good mind and spirit. I could get him into a wheelchair for fresh air on the dock, but after many back surgeries, he simply couldn’t tolerate extended periods of sitting or walking. He was eighty, and I thought that he and the swamp woman could have some good conversations.

People who stayed with us for a while became like family. I tried to make them to feel that they were a part of our home and family. I didn’t want them to believe that they were the discards of their own families—which of course many were. I never wanted them to think that they were somehow a burden just by being alive. I’ve always believed that everyone has value, and no one’s proven me wrong yet. I was certain that the swamp woman would fit right in once she got to know us, but Mitch wasn’t sure.

Gotta tell you, Mitch said. The woman says things that are just off the wall. Makes me doubt her sanity. No telling how much is true. Maybe her mind’s a little off from living like a hermit. Well hell, Carly, I’ve told you a few of her stories… so you know.

I told him that I could handle it, but when Mia arrived and told me in that ho-hum, matter-of-fact manner, that she was an heiress, it caught me off-guard. She couldn’t sleep that night, so although we still had electricity at 2 a.m., she asked for candle light, and we sat at the dining room table talking about hurricanes. We talked, and the wind howled as storm bands increased in frequency and intensity before Andrew struck us at 4 a.m. As we sat there, she spoke those words, and I—rarely at a loss for words—was momentarily speechless. I finally responded quite lamely, Well, that’s just so interesting. Tell me more about that. I must have sounded patronizing, because her tone changed immediately.

She looked up at me over the flickering candle on the table between us. All the while, she carefully smoothed out a wrinkle in the white linen tablecloth with her ancient, sun ravaged fingers. She immediately changed the subject. "I spent several hurricanes in this house, you know. Many years ago. Maybe sometime I’ll tell you about that." There was a hint of irritation in her voice, so I just waited, but she offered nothing further.

I remember well the day Mia arrived. It was late afternoon on that hot August day. We heard the loud, idling sound of the airboat coming, so Dennis and I walked down onto our dock. I saw Mitch with this tiny looking, bit of a thing with long, silver-white hair in windy disarray, hunched over beside him. She was hanging onto him for dear life and clutching a tattered, cowboy hat—and that, I would soon discover, was Elena Maria Covington; known as Mia. Her skin was deep, brown leather and with her facial features, I thought that she could easily be part Miccosukee or Seminole. Although I first presumed her very frail, she was quite wiry and tough looking for a woman her age. She wore loose fitting trousers and a threadbare, white shirt. The underlying, tight muscle structure of her upper arms was quite noticeable as she clung to Mitch. She was fit, and I realized that I had mistaken her fear for frailty. Still, I’d soon learn that she did have a health problem.

This is Mia. Mitch shouted over the roar of the airboat. He pointed to us then and said to her, Dennis… Carly Byrd. Gotta secure my boat. Check in on you later.

Mitch grabbed a heavy looking cloth bag into which Mia had packed her belongings, and he handed that off to Dennis. He helped Mia from her seat and onto the dock, and when she stood, I could see that she was much taller than her hunched up body had appeared in the airboat. She seemed out of breath from the effort of moving from the boat to the dock.

It’ll be ok, I said.

Dennis started up the hill with Mia’s bag. I held my hand out to offer support. She pushed the cowboy hat down onto her head, but held on tightly to the dock railing. She watched Mitch guide the airboat slowly up the creek, and stared until he was around the bend and out of sight. I watched her face as she watched him go. Her expression was nothing less than pitiful. It was a look of grief without tears. I thought that in that very moment, maybe she knew that her life would never be the same. We stood there quietly for a moment longer.

Wind’s picking up, I said. You ready to walk to the house?

Mia said nothing and ignored my hand again. I think that she needed to feel in control of her own mobility if she could control nothing else. As she turned toward the house, she took an audible breath and the pitiful face was no longer visible. It had been replaced by one showing strength and determination.

We slowly headed up the incline toward the house, and I had to steady her a few times. I wondered if she’d ever seen a doctor. Though she appeared quite fit, clearly, something was not right with her; something beyond the discomforting experience of leaving her own home. She became easily winded. We had to stop to rest a couple of times as we walked toward the house.

I settled Mia into the downstairs bedroom opposite George’s room. I got her to sit on the bed and soon her breathing normalized. I tried to make conversation, but that went nowhere. She asked for, and seemed overly concerned about her bag that Dennis had placed in the front room. I retrieved the bag and offered to unpack her things, but she wanted it placed on the floor beside her bed. I brought in a pitcher of water and poured a glass for her. I offered again to unpack, but she was quite adamant about not doing that. She said that she’d be leaving soon, and kept the bag closed.

But, you’ll need a nightgown or clean clothes, won’t you? I asked.

Don’t have any. Just one shirt, she said.

No problem. I keep extras on hand for visitors. I’ll bring some things for you. I returned with several items of clothing, a toothbrush and a comb.

After the storm, we may not have power for a day or two… maybe more so…

She gave me an incredulous, lingering look, and I realized the obvious—this woman never has power or water as I think of it. I felt foolish for having made the comment.

I’d like to take a bath if that’s all right, she said.

I showed her to the bathroom. She took an inordinately long bath, and I understood that this was a true luxury for her.

In the days following the storm, Mia became more relaxed with us. We’d sit and chat about all manner of things. She spoke of returning home, but offered little information about her life in the Everglades. She was anxious to hear about her island from Mitch, but he was too busy attending to patrol duties in the aftermath of the storm, and usually he returned late.

In the end, after Hurricane Andrew had ravaged south Florida and passed on, I’m sure that the only reason Mia agreed to stay with us was because of the photographs that Mitch brought back a week later. Her beloved island was all but destroyed. Andrew had hit with sustained winds of 142 miles per hour with gusts to 169. The hurricane had been horribly destructive. I saw tears well up in her eyes as Mia looked at each picture before passing them on to Dennis and me. One photograph showed Mia in front of her tree hut. She was standing in a clearing beside two, long, narrow canoes and holding onto her sack of belongings. She looked completely forlorn; helpless and resigned. Behind her, the hut was partially visible and beyond that, were trees and shrubs. Mitch had taken that photograph of Mia before they left the island. All the others showed the devastation wrought by Andrew. Mia’s hut was gone; canoes gone. Three broken, jagged, cypress stilts remained where the hut had been, and thick, twisted vines covered the stilts. Many of the island trees were gone, broken down or uprooted. It was clear to see that the place was uninhabitable except to the old alligator resting on the nearly barren beach of the island. Mitch said that the gator had probably waited out the storm on the bottom of the lagoon which surrounded the island like a moat. Mia looked relieved to see the picture of the gator. Almost inaudibly she asked The orange tree? Past the bridge? Mitch passed another photo. The tree was leaning badly but not uprooted. Several trees on that overgrown end of the island had survived.

Thank you, God, Mia whispered. She touched one hand to her heart and sighed. It seemed really important to her that at least that orange tree had survived Andrew’s destructive bent.

Other pictures of Mitch’s foray back into the interior of the Glades showed general devastation of the plants and wildlife. One hammock forest had become a massive graveyard of sticks pointing skyward. There were dead animals everywhere, and many gators had not fared as well as Mia’s. So many lay bloated; their pale bellies upturned in the debris filled waters. The photographs were a sad sight.

Once she made the decision to stay with us, I asked Mia about any illnesses that she’d endured on the island. Based on her answer, I thought that she was perhaps suffering from heart problems as a result of a strep throat infection; maybe rheumatic fever. If it was, I thought that damaged heart valves might be the cause of her fatigue. That could impact her lungs if her heart was working too hard. Mia said that she had become ill after a hunting excursion four years earlier. She’d happened upon a man with two little boys. They’d been fishing from, and camping in their boat when one of the boys became ill with a high fever on their second day out. Mia had touched the child’s head, listened to his breathing with her ear to his chest, and told the somewhat frazzled father to keep placing wet towels on him until they could get to a doctor. Mia poled her canoe back to the island later that day, and within two or three days, she fell ill. The illness progressed, and her symptoms included a very bad sore throat and difficulty in swallowing. She thought that she probably had a fever, as well. Her further description of chills, severe aches and other symptoms made me think that strep throat was a good possibility.

Once I was able to talk her into seeing a doctor, my suspicion was pretty much confirmed. The doctor said that she had heart valve problems. He put her on medication, but her prognosis wasn’t good. The damage was done.

Although she spoke of aching desperately for her island, Mia understood that she could no longer live out there. There was no home, and no island to speak of. Over the next few weeks, we became friends; we became family. Mia slowly began to open up and tell me her story, and I never doubted that she was telling the truth of her life. Later, when she was becoming so very weak, she gave me journals that she’d written and told me, Do with them what you will. They once seemed so important, but I guess it really doesn’t matter… in the whole scheme of things.

She said, "Carly, we all have a journey. Life doesn’t always take us along the roads we might expect, but I believe it always takes us where we’re supposed to be. My journey’s been no better and no worse than anyone else, but extraordinary for me. It was my life to live… to make of it what I would. And I think I made a fine life."

The only things Mia brought from her island were her journals, a rag-tag piece of cloth that was obviously once a colorful, Seminole Indian garment, a man’s shirt and a few animal carvings—including one magnificent rendering of an otter with the word Ronee etched on the bottom.

Mia had the journals numbered. The first ones were neatly penciled, and later journals were written in ball point ink. Earlier pages showed that she probably used a fountain pen with bottled ink. Dampness and spilled ink had obliterated half a dozen pages before she reverted to pencil again. She’d been writing the journals since sometime in 1937. She said that she wrote when the mood struck or when she thought of some story, or some particular point that she wanted to tell. Some of her writings were revelations that came to her about her life or family. She said, that for over fifty years, she’d rarely thought of the man that she married in 1924—and then, mostly in a rather abstract or detached way. Still, she always felt that the record of that marriage should be set straight. Mia said that it was important for the truth be told. She firmly believed that there was rhyme and reason to life and the way lives intertwined, even if the reason was sometimes just beyond our grasp.

Regarding the journals, she once said, Carly, even if no one ever reads them, writing them was a good thing. It helped me understand things better, and gave me a kind release… all along the way. It’s what made me realize that my life was extraordinary. It’s true… you know. God granted me an extraordinary life.

When she said that to me, my mind went to that deeply isolated island and to her years of struggle and deprivation, and I couldn’t imagine how she could believe her own words and think her life extraordinary—unthinkable, maybe—but I had not yet read the journals. The stories she told were from her own personal experience, and the accounts and anecdotes of family members, and friends throughout the years. After reading them, I decided to share the journals that Mia had given me. Her words were a testament to life well lived in spite of the obstacles.

Because Mia’s memories and writings would jump around in time, I organized them somewhat, for easier understanding. So here, directly from her journals, I present the story of Elena Maria Covington—the heiress—and those she loved and those with whom she lived.

CHAPTER 1

Ancestors; My Early Family History

I am Elena Maria—Mia—Covington, and my family history is part of what made me who I am. Although my early life was one of wealth and privilege, my maternal great-grandparents, Claudia and Carlo Prochetti and their daughter, Sophia, lived a much different life. I never met them, but the stories that I heard about their grit and tenacity left their marks upon me. I think that the revelations regarding the character and deeds of these people instilled in me the will to prevail throughout my life. Of course, others certainly influenced me as well, and all roads led me to where I am today.

My grandmother Sophia married my beloved grandfather, Phillip Alton Ames in 1878. Grandfather— whom I called Papa—was born into wealth in Philadelphia on October 10, 1852. Both of his parents died when he and his older sister Bernice were young. Their father had built a successful business, but like Papa, he’d been an outdoorsman at heart. He died while mountain climbing, and left behind wealth, and Ames Machinery—a sewing machine and parts company. When Bernice married at age seventeen and moved to New York, Papa told me that he felt the full weight of his losses.

My grandparents, Phillip and Sophia, had two daughters. My aunt, Olivia, born on May 1, 1880, married financier, Raleigh Wilkes Farris of New York City. He died four years later, and Aunt Olivia never remarried. My mother, Cassandra Diane, was born on September 2, 1884. She married my father, Jonathan Jay Covington, who was born January 29, 1879. Had she known what an avid outdoorsman my father was, I think that Mother would never have married him. Their first child died in infancy, and that tragedy begat more unexpected and unrelated family tragedies over the years. Nevertheless, within three more years, my brother Edward and I were born. We lived very different lives within the same home—but more of that later.

First, I will tell of a woman whom I admired, and whose strengths I later tried to emulate without ever having known her—my great-grandmother, Claudia.

Old tintype photographs showed Claudia as a lovely, dark woman with a large bosom and a larger bottom that seemed only slightly disproportionate on her tall frame. Great-grandfather, Carlo, on the other hand, was rail thin, and three inches shorter than his wife. Although his head full of curly black hair gave the impression of a little more height, in photographs they looked rather mismatched. They were born and married in Sicily and immigrated to America. They lived in New York City with their daughter, Sophia Maria Prochetti.

My Aunt Olivia often repeated the story of my grandmother’s birth in a rather haughty and prideful way. She would say, "Mother was one of about 80,000 immigrants who arrived in America in 1863. She was quite proud that although she was born on September 5, somewhere upon the Atlantic Ocean, she was closer to America than to Sicily; therefore she was an American… and their ship docked in New York the following day, so who can truly argue with that logic?"

The little family settled in Lower Manhattan where there was already a surviving, if not exactly thriving Italian community. The area was overcrowded with people and animals. It was a terribly littered, suffocating place; a breeding ground for disease.

Papa often spoke of their background, as well. He told me, Your Great-Grandfather Carlo tended sheep in a small village outside Palermo. He was determined to have a different life though. Married your Great-Grandmother Claudia and moved to Palermo. Worked on machinery in a factory. A year later, they set sail for America on his uncle’s advice. Moved into the uncle’s crowded, poorly ventilated, two room apartment. Awful! Can you imagine that Granddaughter? Eight people in two rooms? Oh… difficult circumstances indeed. But they were very tough people.

I always begged Papa and Aunt Olivia for stories about them—that family that I never got to know. I felt so connected to them. I could see the stories that I was told.

Grandfather got a job in the garment industry and Grandmother Claudia took care of her baby. She helped Uncle Dante’s awful, bitter wife, Alda, with her three children too, Aunt Olivia said. Grandmother cleaned and cooked, and did most of the washing without complaint. She was certainly a better woman than I. Dealing with that horrid Aunt Alda? And their housing conditions? Oh, quite deplorable… quite, quite deplorable! Some had it worse… I know. Mother said that some people actually lived in shanties in the alleyways between tenement houses. Boards leaned against walls! Well, that’s certainly unthinkable!

Aunt Olivia often said, I never take for granted the circumstances into which I was born… and neither should you Elena. We are very fortunate.

It was clear that Grandmother Sophia made sure that her daughters understood how others lived. She told them all that she remembered, and what she’d been told by her mother about their life in New York. Aunt Olivia took it to heart, but I suspect that my mother resented the idea of such difficult beginnings.

Grandmother Sophia lived it though. She told her daughters, The tenement house was sweltering in summer. You cannot know this unless you live it. The air was too thick. Stale. Alda insist to keep the only window closed. She don’t like the stink rising from that street below. Mother say to me… it make this tiny apartment so dark. Light? Alda, she keep it on all day… but still, it is dark there. Some nights, they are so hot… so suffering… Mama and Papa take me to sleep on the roof. To breathe fresh air. Other people, they do this also. One night we wake up to hear screams. Mama, she try to cover my ears when a man fall to his death from another tenement house. But I hear him scream. I hear his family wailing for him.

The building that my great-grandparents lived in had no plumbing. They used the water closets available in the alleyways or courtyards around the tenement buildings. All of their water for cooking or bathing had to be fetched from a nearby hydrant.

My great-grandmother helped Alda in any way the dour woman would allow. Alda, however, was a spiteful, angry woman. Great-Grandmother Claudia told her daughter that Alda yearned for her home back in Palermo, but the horrid living conditions had probably contributed to her awful disposition, too. Alda often complained about the terrible smells wafting up. Horses and mules were stabled in alleyways below them, and pigs roamed freely and fed on the street trash. The smells of animals and garbage could become overpowering—especially in the summer. Alda hated all of it, but regardless of the genesis of her unhappiness, she vented her frustrations upon my great-grandmother.

Claudia told Sophia, When I try to help… Alda don’t like. When I don’t help, Alda also no like. Alda is offended when I breathe. She tell me, ‘My ears are too much hearing you breathe… this apartment cannot hold so much noise!’ I am crazy for this, but I say in my kindest voice, ‘So… then I will try to breathe more quietly, Alda.’

My great-grandmother wanted to move, but it took time to save enough money. Great-Grandfather Carlo had little money left after paying their passage to America, but favorable card games on the journey had added a modest amount to their savings. He paid Uncle Dante most of his wages every week, but ten months later, with their savings and luck at cards they were able to move.

Grandmother Sophia said We move just off Mulberry Street, which is good. Our apartment is small… on second floor above a bakery. Mama say baking smells come to us, but still we smell the street too. Not so bad as before. Mama say ‘at least we have no hateful Alda.’

The move required Claudia to gain employment, and she had to leave Sophia with a caretaker. She became a seamstress in the factory where Carlo worked. In 1867, an accident took Carlo’s life, and Claudia began to take four-year-old Sophia to work with her. The child had to become almost invisible in the factory. Aunt Olivia thought that the requirement may have contributed to her mother’s subdued demeanor. She said that, throughout her life, my grandmother Sophia remained a quiet and almost painfully shy woman.

Aunt Olivia told me, Father was gregarious, and the perfect match for Mother. He still has that quick sense of humor and easy smile. He brought out the best in her. His striking, good looks matched her beauty too. You see that in photographs of him as a young man. He had wavy light brown hair and a thick mustache that grew almost to his chin. And that perpetual twinkle in his blue eyes… well, I think that made him appear a bit mischievous.

I suppose that it was fate that brought my grandparents together. Papa worked from an early age and continued after his father died. He learned everything about their business. When he first saw my grandmother, he had come into the garment factory in New York to sell sewing machinery. As a child, I never tired of, and always begged for the story of their meeting.

Papa would tell me, Elena, your beautiful grandmother was fifteen then, and I, twenty-six. She was a seamstress. I was in the factory inspecting machines when I saw her. My heart was instantly captured… and she later confessed that she was quite impressed with me too. Called me handsome. Dapper! Still, she only dared to sneak quick glances from her machine. Twice I caught her peeking at me. I smiled, and almost laughed aloud when I caught her the second time! Sophia blushed and quickly turned back to her machine. She didn’t look again.

Sometimes at this point, Papa—caught up in private reverie—would stop the story. I’d always beg, Please Papa… don’t stop. Tell more!

"Well, let’s see… I completed my business at the factory that day, but couldn’t get Sophia off my mind. I returned many hours later. Waited outside. It was dark when the women began to pour out of the building. Finally, I saw her. She walked head down, a few steps beyond her mother. Some young girl yammered non-stop into her ear. I approached, but Claudia saw this and grabbed Sophia’s arm. I foolishly tried to garner a dinner appointment, and oh, my! Claudia began verbally assaulting me in animated, arm-waving Italian. She strode away abruptly with Sophia… ignoring my pleas. I returned three days in a row before I could convince your great-grandmother that my intentions were honorable. By then, Sophia was completely fascinated by my many charms. She was captivated!"

Papa’s brilliant, blue eyes always twinkled when he told that part, and he’d smooth his mustache in mock preening.

Papa told of how my grandmother began to plead his case to her mother. After repeated begging, a chaperoned courtship was finally allowed. He said that my great-grandmother knew that young men in the factory and the neighborhood had already begun to make overtures toward Sophia. She knew that it was only a matter of time until one of them would entice her child into God-knows-what kind of marriage. She finally granted them permission to marry, though Sophia wasn’t quite sixteen. Papa said that Claudia realized the marriage would be in Sophia’s long term, best interest, and saw too, that they were in love. With the marriage, Papa took my grandmother into his privileged life and away from her time of