A Gun and Cherries in the Bucket of Blood: The Americanization of an Italian Family and Lessons Learned

Copyright © 2014 by Greg Casadei.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/30/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

Orders@Xlibris.com

540274

CONTENTS

Dedication

Preface

Introduction

Stage I

From Motherland to America

Chapter 1 Divine Culture

Study of Contrasts

Bring on the Food

North Versus South

Chapter 2 What’s In a Name?

The Arts

Chapter 3 The Matriarch

Beautiful Sassofeltrio and Le Marche

Unusual Childhood

Off to America

Why Emigrate?

Clashing Wills

Strains of Steerage

Chapter 4 Welcome to America

Lady Liberty

Thanks to the French

Ellis Island

Immigrant Inspections

Chapter 5 The Patriarch

Making of a Name

Mamma’s Boy

Chapter 6 Other Family Immigrants

Silvio Fiorini

Alfredo (Fredo) Fiorini

Frank Casadei

Lorenzo Agarici

Stage II

Oakwood

Italy Away From Home

Chapter 7 Memory Lane

Valentino Inn

Oakwood Bar and Jimmy V

Kitty Kat

Genatto’s Pool Hall: The Bucket of Blood

Shimmy Camp

Hunter School Projects

Oakwood Blue Jackets Club

International Salt Company

Chapter 8 The Meetings

Not so Grand a Wedding

Millie Meets Jawsey

Grandma Goes Batty

Chapter 9 Clash of Cultures

Informal Living

In His Care

Chapter 10 Man and His Father

Stronk Liga Bool

Nick the Knife

School of Hard Knocks

New Boss in Town

Chapter 11 A Man’s Reputation

Chili at Chimes

Imo Knew Better

Justice for All

Chapter 12 Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

Busting Chops at John’s

Prince Charming

Latent Anger

Crusty Oakwood Women

Chapter 13 Transformations

Fine Food or Fugeddaboudit

Serafain and Others

Close to Home

What’s in a Name, Part Two

Stage III

Fresh Starts with a Move West

Chapter 14 The Forty-Eighters

Death of a Fort

A Star Rises in the West

Tucson’s Growing Appeal

Dad’s Wild Idea

Chapter 15 The Rise of La Cantina

Life with Nonna and Nonno

Business Takes Off

Mondays, Relaxing Mondays

Chapter 16 Lottie Moves West

A Rocky Start

Chapter 17 Joe’s Special

A Dish to Remember

Eating Machines

Chapter 18 Mamma Expands, Gets a Facelift

La Padella Room

A Bar is Born

Rockstar Nonna

Surviving Strong Arms

Chapter 19 Family Affair

Garlic Thief

Inequity

Frustrations

Chapter 20 Sad Farewell

Changing Hands

A Lifetime of Memories

Lorenzo Visits

Celebrity Visits

Chapter 21 Life Outside the Restaurant

Friends

Holidays

Nonnaisms

A Character’s Character

Summer Sons

Judi Meets the Family

Fooling for Fun

Chapter 22 Gifts and Curses

Baring It All

Hospital Antics

Hygiene Idiosyncrasies

Lifeless Legs, Talented Throats

Stage IV

The Dispersion

Chapter 23 Fond Farewells

Nonna’s Funeral

Farewell, Nonno

Passing of Others

Chapter 24 Beyond Best Intentions

Emotional Breakdowns

Chapter 25 Jawsey Takes It on the Jaw

Rocky Road

That Damn Dog

End of Fight

Chapter 26 Dad’s Funeral

Celebration of Life

Managing Change

Chapter 27 The Remnant

New Norm

Melting Pot

Remnant Today

Chapter 28 Tragedy Averted

About Travis

A Series of Surgeries

Time Stood Still

Chapter 29 Our Children

Chapter 30 A Happy Ending

References

Dedication

To my family, past and present, thanks for your love and inspiration.

To my children and grandchildren, keep our story alive.

PREFACE

E very family has a history. Some are rich, textured, layered, and deep. Others are less so. But all are a mix of verifiable facts and anecdotes. Together they tell a story. Some stories get told, but most don’t.

A family’s historical facts are what give the story its structure. Its strength. They stand up to scrutiny. They’re what they are and always will be. Think of these facts as a skeleton’s bones. Alone, they’re a mere framework of a body. Without organs, muscles, tendons, ligaments, veins, skin, and other parts, the body is incomplete. With skeleton alone, no one can comprehend the complexity of the human body.

Some of my family’s history is documented. The facts are impossible to challenge. We can’t change them, alter their impact, or pretend they don’t exist. They’re real, and they’re the foundation of my background. Most of our family’s history makes me proud. Some parts less so. You’ll understand why later.

You have the same. You may or may not know your family’s history, but that doesn’t mean facts about your family don’t exist. Like mine, historical facts only answer the five W’s of the story. Your history’s who, what, why, when, and where. They provide a black-and-white picture of who you are and where you’re from.

My dad’s family came to America from Italy. That is a fact. Your ancestors also came from somewhere, perhaps a location across the Atlantic. That, too, is fact. But here’s my reaction. So what? Alone they don’t tell much. They’re accurate but ho-hum. They don’t make me want to know more.

I live in a world of color, and I need more to bring life and interest to a story. I understand the factual content; now give me context to complete the picture. This is where anecdotes come in. Anecdotes provide the color and depth of a family’s history. They connect facts, complete the picture, and answer the so what questions. They are stories told over time, and they connect facts so you see a mural, not a picture. A universe, not a galaxy. Images so vivid with color, and they pique the interest of others outside of that history. This should clarify my belief.

I’ve seen images of the ship’s manifest from my nonna’s (grandmother’s) migration voyage from Europe to America. I know dates, port of departure, passenger number, and several other facts about that event. That’s what I learned about her voyage from official records. They’re good details to know. They document that an event took place, and that Nonna was involved. But without before and after details, those facts never become a story. Stories told by and about my family lifted my heart and caused it to break, brought smiles to my face and tears to my eyes, strengthened my soul, and weakened my knees.

People who value their history, like me, preserve it for future generations. They write diaries, chronicles, memoirs, and books. They realize individual strands of a family’s tapestry don’t reveal the beauty of the entire textile. That’s how I feel, thus I wrote.

Claire Gandini, president of a Connecticut college, comments on family in a PBS video titled "The Italian American II: A Beautiful Song. I tell parents all the time now, tell the stories of your family to your children, because it helps children to understand who they are, where they came from and what they belong to. Video narrator Julius La Rosa also remarks about keeping memories alive. He said, Being born into an Italian family is really only the first step in a wonderful and glorious journey, one we must keep fresh through recollections."

This story and collection of recollections is my gift to my mother, to my brothers and my sister, my children and grandchildren. The former shared this history with me. They know much of it well. They lived many of the experiences, know most stories. The latter have expressed interest in their ancestry, their heritage, their history, and the stories that make up the family they know today. It’s a history and heritage with a mix of relatives, with stories and memories, the likes of which have been made into movies.

Honoring candor, it’s hard to tell our story in as vivid a manner and detail as it was conveyed to me. My hope is I’ve been able to capture the essence of our past, if not its full flavor. Ours is a beautiful past, one worth documenting. I fear, however, certain relatives may disavow or fail to appreciate some of what is written. My assurance is this accurately reflects what I was told by people who lived the experiences. I have no reason to do otherwise. There were many people who helped shape our history. Respecting their privacy, I’ve protected identities of some nonrelatives. While vital to shaping our past, their real identities are less important than the roles they played forming that shape. All family names are real. Some spellings are phonetic, however. Actual spellings were unknown and not recorded in historical documents.

In different parts of the book, I shared insights from what I learned during my lifetime. I call each snippet Food for Thought. My hope is you’ll read, reread, and carefully consider how the ideas may apply to your life.

I hope you enjoy A Gun and Cherries in the Bucket of Blood. It was an emotional journey to research and write. It gave me joy and sadness alike. Many relatives and friends that gave me joy also caused my sadness with their absence. I’ve discovered the fondest memory can never replace the joy of live interaction. Yet at my age, memories gain greater importance each day. So we remember.

INTRODUCTION

An Invitation to the Journey

W hen I turned and walked from the gravesite, I told my wife, Judi, our family was one step closer to being Americanized. Uncle Bill was our last link to the Old Country. I felt empty. The silence, her stare, told me I was right. Damn! What I would have given to have been wrong. It was a time when being wrong would have felt so right.

This funeral was hard. The pain was deep. I thought of my cousin, Johnny. I thought of my nonna. And I thought of my nonno (grandfather). All laid side by side at this family gravesite. Uncle Bill will join them in minutes. He will have to wait years for his beloved wife, Mary, to arrive. Suddenly I stopped. Other images muddled my mind. The time is different, but the place the same. The air is heavy with sadness, but it isn’t for Uncle Bill. I’d been transported to another day. Another time. I was walking from Nonno’s funeral, which was being played out in my mind.

My soul was heavy with despair on the day of Nonno’s funeral. Tears stained my cheeks. My slumped posture pronounced. I’m a wreck and only stand because Judi holds me up. Head down, we continue from Nonno’s grave in my mind’s eye. My pain intensifies with each step. I feel lifeless. I am helpless. We proceed in silence. Then words jolt my being, as if shaken from my imagination. Hey, Greg! Judi! Come back here. Remember what Nonno always told us? It is my cousin Armin’s voice. Nonno told us not to be sad on his funeral day, Armin said. He wanted us to dance on his grave.

Armin, who is Uncle Bill’s oldest living son, is right. Nonno told us that. Time and time again. He wanted us to dance on his grave; to have a big party. Nobuddy cry whena I die, he’d tell us through his heavy Italian accent. Hava da pardy. Dringa da vino, ana hava da biga pardy! Everbuddy dansa. Dringa da vino and gedda dronk! Judi and I slowly turn. We stop and stare. Armin and his wife, Betsy, stand waiting. They are next to the plywood covering the hole into which Nonno was just lowered by busy grounds keepers. They had hard jobs. Dig holes for the departed. Await the arriving. Then reverse their work, which ultimately leaves few signs they were ever there at all. I remembered Nonno’s request, but I’m torn. I didn’t expect to return to the hole in the ground causing the pit in my stomach.

We pensively returned to Nonno’s grave to rejoin Armin and Betsy. A faint smile reveals I remembered Nonno’s request. It wasn’t a smile of joy. It wasn’t even a conscious thing. It came from knowing we were going to satisfy Nonno’s request. Judi looked at me to see what to do next. We did what we were asked to do. We held each other and danced on Nonno’s grave. It wasn’t much of a dance. We mostly hung onto each other. We held each other up through our embrace, our weakness. We clutched each other. We sobbed. We barely moved, but that mattered little. What mattered was we had a request to fulfill. To fulfill it was to honor Nonno’s request. That was important. It didn’t ease my pain, temper my tears, or dent my despair. But it was important to honor Nonno. We did it when he lived. We did it at his death. We still do it today.

Food for Thought: The respect paid people while living must transcend death. Forever respect who they were, what they represented in life, and how their lives paved the way for yours. How what they taught you helped shape who you’ve became, and how those teachings continue to influence your future. Acknowledge their impact to everyone you meet. After all, you’re only who you are, in part, because of who they were.

-     -     -

After the dance, my memory shifted to my cousin, Johnny. He died over twenty years earlier. At the time we thought he was too young to die. We knew he knew too much about guns to die from an accidental gunshot wound. So did his friend. Yet that’s what happened. The gun went off. The empty gun went off. One deadly round found Johnny’s chest. He suffocated on his own blood, which filled his badly damaged lungs. He died. It was April 9, 1961. It was an accident. That’s what officials said. It was crushing. That’s what we knew. Aunt Mary, Johnny’s mother, would never be the same after that sad Monday. None of us would ever be the same.

Losing Johnny was hard on me. I remember it like it was yesterday. He was my oldest cousin. He was our leader. He provided for us. He protected us. He was someone we looked up to and counted on. But I felt I ruined Johnny’s last day on earth.

The day before Johnny died, all of us cousins were playing baseball at Randolph Park. It was a Sunday. It was Johnny’s last Sunday, his last ballgame. I was in the outfield. Johnny was a runner at second base.

The grounder off my cousin’s bat skirts through the infield. It paves a path through the outfield’s low-cropped grass in my direction. Looking up before fielding, I see Johnny racing toward third base. I’d been blessed with a strong throwing arm, so I believe I can cut him down at home plate. I snag the ball and unleash a long, hard throw. The ball is on line. It is certain to reach home plate on the fly. I wanted to throw Johnny out at the plate. I didn’t believe he and the others thought I could. He tested my arm, so I had to try. If successful, I’d validate my abilities as a ballplayer. At least I thought I would. It really wouldn’t matter though. I was the youngest out there. Failing to throw Johnny out would’ve simply verified what everyone already felt. So I couldn’t lose regardless of outcome. So I thought. Dust flies from Johnny’s shoes as he races toward home plate. The ball cuts a perfect arc through the air. Closer. Both Johnny and ball draw closer to their target. It is the same target. With each stride it seems the unlikely might happen.

Please no, I thought. Don’t let it happen. Damn my throw. Move! Stop! Slow down! Fall down! No! Stop! Please! Then it happens. The unthinkable is all I can think of. The ball hits Johnny on the side of his head. The ball lost much of its oomph on its journey home, but it still strikes with force. The dull thud of cowhide finding flesh causes infielders to grimace. The impact brings Johnny to his knees. He cradles his head with his hands. He doesn’t bleed, but red quickly marks where a bump would soon grow. I don’t remember if Johnny was safe or out. Nobody cared. It didn’t matter to any of us. We were only concerned about Johnny and his throbbing head.

After the accident, no one wanted to continue the ballgame. Besides, it was nearing 4:00 p.m., and Johnny had to work at six. Game over. It’s time to go. It’s also a horrible ending to a wonderful game. Johnny came to our house to clean up for work. He makes pizzas at our family owned restaurant. We live right behind the restaurant, so our house is often the last stop for resting and cleaning up after play. You’ll learn more about the restaurant later. When Johnny arrives, he tells Mom he has a headache. He can’t help but have one. He mentions he was hit in the head with the ball, but he kind of blows it off. He relates the headache to allergies, not the accident. I know better.

Johnny, feeling tired, lay down before going to work. He naps then goes to work as scheduled, although a little late because he oversleeps. His headache remains. Being young and naive, I connect dots I have no business connecting. I’m sure Johnny’s headache is because I hit him in the head with the baseball. It probably is, I surmise, but he said otherwise. I never get to tell him the depth of my sorrow. He is shot and dies the next day at age twenty-one.

In days that followed, I was unable to shake the guilt of wrecking most of Johnny’s final twenty-four hours. It wasn’t allergies. It wasn’t his asthma. It was the ball. I threw it. I hit him in the head. His headache became my pain. It was my fault. I had unreal inner turmoil. Then I experienced something many disbelieve to this day. It may have seemed impossible, certainly implausible. At a minimum, unlikely. But it happened. At least I think it did.

Many people came from Detroit, Michigan, for Johnny’s funeral. They were family. They were also friends we knew when we lived there. They came to support us. They came to honor Johnny. They came because they cared. Detroit visitors meant my brother, Joe, and I would give up our shared room for guests. That was the norm. I never resented it. In fact, I kind of liked it. It was always like camping out in the comforts of home. I slept on sofas so often I still find them comfortable in my midsixties. I’m in a minority. I’m also odd with regard to this.

My sofa the night before Johnny’s funeral was in our back room. It was a room dad made by converting our porch into to a TV room. Most of our casual furniture was in that room. So was our back door. We used that door about 90 percent of the time when coming and going. It is the night before Johnny’s funeral. Although early, I headed to the sofa for whatever sleep I could get before the funeral. Turns out it didn’t matter I hit the sofa early. I lay awake, distraught over causing Johnny’s headache days earlier. Tossing. Turning. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know how I’d survive the next day. I’d never been to a funeral.

The gong of Dad’s wall clock let me know it would soon be sunrise on the dreaded day of Johnny’s funeral. Still dark, I turned one last time, hoping to find a position that allowed at least a little sleep. I was facing the door with my eyes closed when it happened. Someone turned on a light, so I thought. But what I knew was the total darkness behind my eyelids was disturbed by something bright. Opening my eyes, I was stunned by what I saw. Standing silent, Johnny smiled at me. He was in a long white gown, robelike. He had a glow about him. He was luminescent. Radiant. His brilliance lit the entire room. No wonder my closed eyes filled with light. I blinked repeatedly. The image didn’t change. I looked away. No change. I rubbed my eyes. He was still there. Then he spoke. He spoke, and I spooked. Johnny said, Don’t worry, Greg. You didn’t cause my headache. His smile got wider. Soft and angelic. I’d never seen him smile like that before. It was different. Peaceful. I’d never seen such an image before either. I just stared. Johnny’s smile and comment brought inner peace. I welcomed the change. Feeling good had eluded me since that Sunday. Now I believed Johnny. It must’ve been his asthma. He said so all along. Johnny’s smile eased. He appeared to slowly back away from me. He stopped. His soft smile reappeared. I blinked, and he was gone.

This was a real experience. As real as anything I’d ever experienced up to that time or since. It seemed I could’ve reached out and touched Johnny. I didn’t need to. He reached out and touched me, so to speak. He brought calm to my troubled mind and aching heart. Oh that Aunt Mary could’ve had such an experience. She’d have known Johnny was at peace in death. Perhaps she would’ve had peace in life. She didn’t.

Remembering Nonno and Johnny suddenly seemed normal. We were standing at the foot of their graves during Uncle Bill’s service. How could we not think of them? Our tears had permanently stained the ground here years earlier. Suddenly my own words snapped me from my stupor. I heard them echo in my mind. "Well, that’s it. Our family is one step closer to being Americanized. Uncle Bill was our last link to the Old Country. So much of our Old Country past is present in the nearby ground. Yes, I said those words. We were closer to being Americanized. But I didn’t fully comprehend the truth of what that meant till now. My own words hit me hard. I thought more. Americanized? What’s wrong with that? Nothing, I presume. After all, it’s happened to most American families. Every family with roots outside America’s physical borders has Americanized."

But I wasn’t just thinking about some family. God bless them, but this was my family, I thought. My family’s different. We have roots in Italy, the boot-shaped country that welcomes the five seas that splash upon her shores. No, something gnawed at me. This was really different. As I thought about it more, comprehension confirmed my sensing. Reality began to set in. With Uncle Bill’s passing we’d hear less Italian spoken. Nothing, I repeat, nothing flows like the Italian language. It’s melodic. Sweet. Captivating. Like my brothers, sister, and cousins, I know just enough Italian to understand some conversations. That is especially true if curse words are used. Sad but true. All of us kids specialize in Italian curse words. Not one of us can tell you what guardiare (to look) means, but we can tell you other things. We can tell you the slang names of male and female reproductive body parts. We used those words in derogatory name-calling when young. I’m not proud of that, but it’s a fact.

But with Uncle Bill gone, we’d all hear less of Italian, I presumed. We’d lose la bella lingua (the beautiful language). This made me sad and a bit angry. I thought, Shame on you, Dad, for not teaching us Italian. Amore. Cara mia. Ciao. Prego. You tell me that’s not more beautiful than love, my dear, hello/goodbye, and thank you. I never thought much about not speaking Italian when younger. My disappointment grew as I aged. Eventually I loved hearing Italian spoken. I hated not being the one speaking it. Hearing the romance language I love has decreased proportionate to the passing of family members who spoke it. I knew one day I’d hear it no more. I now knew we were one day closer. Ultimately I concluded, Shame on you, Greg, for not asking Dad to teach us. Shame on you. Shifting responsibility for not learning Italian didn’t change the outcome. But it did provide learning profitable for life.

Food for Thought: If you really want something from someone, ask for it. The worst that could happen is they say no. However, they might say yes. To that, my friend, I say, bravo!

-     -     -

Uncle Bill’s passing also meant we lost firsthand knowledge about the Old Country. Uncle Bill was Sicilian. He was born in Sicily. That gave us more reason to talk about Italy. In addition to having Sicilian roots, Uncle Bill and Aunt Mary made recent trips to Italy. They visited relatives there and returned home with many stories and pictures. I heard a few, which warmed my heart. Wish I’d asked about more. After Uncle Bill, only one relative with direct knowledge of life in Italy remained. But our cousin-in-law, Bertha, didn’t know our blood relatives there. She married into the family after moving to Detroit.

In May 2008, Aunt Mary passed away after years of poor health. That caused more heartache. There was a sense of loss that exceeded the passing of an aunt. We lost another part of our Italian roots. Although not a native of Italy, Aunt Mary was as Italian as it got. You’ll learn more of what I mean later.

Aunt Mary’s passing piqued my interest in knowing more about our family history. But there weren’t too many old-timers left. Their numbers were rapidly decreasing. Maybe worse, the memories of those still here were fading with age. Yes, we were being Americanized. Did it really matter? Did anyone really care? I concluded, Damn right it matters. Damn right people care. And the idea of preserving our history began to percolate.

Two other events reinforced my desire to document our family history. They motivated me to move the process from thinking to doing. The first event happened when Mom had back surgery in July 2009. Bertha was visiting Mom post-surgery. As often happened, the conversation got around to life in Oakwood. When people speak about Oakwood, they often talk about a man called Jawsey (jaw-zee) and his youth there.

Oakwood Heights, as it’s now known, is a small section of Detroit, Michigan. My father grew up there. Jawsey was his nickname since childhood. No one remembers how he got that name, but that was how Dad was known. I’m told by a family friend, Louie Marson, people in Oakwood were known by their nickname years ago. He said, If someone said something about Joe in Oakwood, others would ask, ‘Joe who?’ The person would say, ‘You know, Jawsey.’ The other guy would say in Italian-influenced English, ‘Oh, why you no say that? No, you dumbbell, it’s Jawsey, no Joe.’ Dad was Jawsey, and everyone knew him. Bertha said once Dad was gone, much of our family’s history in Oakwood would also be gone. Other than her, there was no one else alive in our family who lived there. She lamented her memory (at age eighty-nine then) was fading. She has trouble remembering the prior day, let alone the distant past. Dad still had a good handle on the past. The harsh realities of aging hadn’t affected his memory yet. It was the only thing unaffected by his age.

Bertha’s observation about her memory proved she was right. She forgot another living cousin, Alfredo Jr., (Junior) was also born and raised in Oakwood. But his memory, like Bertha’s, was fading. So she was more right than wrong. Dad had the most reliable memory about Oakwood.

The second event occurred at a jewelry party at Louie’s house. The women pored over the jewelry, none of which any of them needed. Then again, these parties didn’t emphasize need. They focused on want. The ladies fussed over what would look good with this? What would look good with that? The men were in the den watching football. We shared a response to the dilemmas our respective wives faced. It was, Who cares? All that mattered to us was the last snap the quarterback took, not how anyone would look wearing this or that.

Louie grew up in Oakwood, and he knows my father and our family well. His father, like my grandfather, was born in Italy. During our visit, Louie’s oldest son began talking about Oakwood and Jawsey. Like I said, Dad’s name always came up when anyone talked about Oakwood. He, like Bertha earlier, commented on the dwindling number of Oakwood’s old-timers. His comment stung me. He was right. I immediately questioned what I was going to do with that truth. I didn’t want to let our family history die. And since so much of it was in Oakwood, I couldn’t let its history die either. That is to say I wanted to preserve the memory of our family’s life there.

I was willing to let historians detail the community’s history; I just needed to capture our lives there. There was so much to lose. And there were so many who wanted our history preserved. Yet no one was taking action. After that comment, I checked out. My mind began working on things other than the football game and conversations. I drifted mentally to Italy. To Oakwood. I focused on the words that echoed uncomfortably. No one was doing anything about it. I knew I had to change that.

In A Gun and Cherries in the Bucket of Blood, I introduce you to mi familia (my family). For Italians, there is nothing more important. Again, consider narrator Julius La Rosa’s comments from a PBS special on Italians. He said, "La familia was the source from which all our riches flow. He added, La familia, in the narrow and broadest sense, made us who we were and who we would become." No truer words have ever been spoken.

You’ll learn about life in Italy and Oakwood. You’ll also learn about many of our friends who made life there what it was, and what it is today in memory. I believe life in Oakwood was unlike life in most other places. Non-Italians who settled in the Italian community experienced a serious clash of cultures. My mom was one of them. It was akin to humans meeting aliens.

Part of Oakwood’s reputation only lives in stories about events there in the 1920s-1950s. Surprise! Dad is at the center of many of those stories. He was envied by men. He was adored by women. He was feared by many. In the 1940s and 1950s, our family heard the call to go west. In 1955, we moved from Detroit to Tucson, Arizona. The move reunited my father with his parents, who moved there earlier with Dad’s sister, Mary. The moves from Oakwood to other parts of Metro Detroit, to Tucson, were more than just changes of residence. Each move took us farther from communities with large concentrations of Italians. They produced cultural changes we had to accept, like it or not, ready or not.

In Tucson, Nonna’s name graced a restaurant built and operated by our family. It was the glue that kept our family close-knit, even when we grew further apart geographically. Tucson had wide open spaces during the 1950s. It was so different from the cramped neighborhoods of Metropolitan Detroit. Family only had to walk a couple of houses away to visit relatives in Oakwood. We had to drive several miles in Tucson. But no distance was too far. Our family tradition was to do most things together—at least, we did then.

Speaking of traditions, all families have traditions. But few can match those of Italian families. Many Italians kiss each time they see each other, on both cheeks no less. No, that’s not the kiss of death. That’s a bogus movie representation about Italian-American gangsters. Italians eat their salads at the end of instead of before or with their meal. They believe it helps with digestion. It does. They drink wine out of empty jelly jars, and they drink it just because. Their logic is why pay for wineglasses when jelly jars work perfectly well. They do. Italians shop for food almost daily. They value simple, fresh foods and feel it’s their right to have the best their grocer has to offer. It is. They eat foods you’ve eaten and many you haven’t: bagna cauda (literally hot bath of minced garlic and anchovies in melted butter and olive oil), dry roasted chichi beans (chickpeas), lupines (a brined bean served heavily salted and peppered), dandelions and mushrooms freshly picked from fields and forests, minestra di paridoso, passatelli (two soups made with chicken stock, eggs, breadcrumbs, lemon, and nutmeg), and ravioli soup. Polenta, eaten off a large board simultaneously by everyone in the family, served with red sauce or sugo with various meats. Cannoli, panettone, and biscotti—three sweets we enjoyed around the holidays. Our family cherishes these and the other Italian dishes with which Americans are familiar.

Here’s another thing about Italian food. Some dishes most cherished by Americans were born out of poverty. Italians use scraps Americans would throw away to make something scrumptious. Nonno and Nonna were both great at that.

I’ll share more about life in Tucson later. I’ll describe the dispersion. During this time of our history we saw our family’s foundation begin to crumble. We were once so close it was suffocating. With the dispersion it became less so. That will lead to information about the remnant, a group of which I’m one. This group bears a heavy burden. We’ll either preserve our family’s history or let it die.

This story is mostly about my father’s side of the family. That’s not to disrespect my mother’s family. But as my mother observed, her family was normal and boring compared to Dad’s. For that reason, I purposely focus on my father’s side of the family. I speak of my mother’s family where needed to complete the story.

Food for Thought: Complete the story. If you are interested in your roots and have blanks to fill in, start the process early. Preserve your family history. Document your story. If not for yourself, do it for others.

Don’t let your history fade away. You’ll hate yourself for it later. Besides, you might be surprised by who’d enjoy reading it.

That is the challenge I give my children. When I’m gone, pick up this story where I left off. Keep our history alive for future generations. Beyond the challenge, I feel you have a responsibility to do so. It’s a story worth continuing.

-     -     -

A Gun and Cherries in the Bucket of Blood is a rich and vibrant story of hardship, success, love, and unity. Some parts are funny, touching, and some even sad. But in all cases, it’s real. That, in part, is why I wanted to share this with you. As I prepared to write this, I watched a YouTube video that helped crystallize my thinking. It helped me realize our family’s Americanization process occurred in four stages. I read a copy of something similar in the 1980s. I got it from a board member of a multibillion-dollar company. He was Italian.

I remember liking the information a lot. But that was about it. It didn’t give me the revelations I had hearing the audio portion of the YouTube video. It took thirty years and losing loved ones for my eyes and mind to open to the deeper meaning of the information. John Fusco narrated the video. It’s titled "The Joys of Growing up Italian."

Here are the four stages of the Americanization process as I believe they occurred. Stage I of the process occurred in Italy. Nonno and Nonna were born and grew up there. They were Italian/Italians. That is how Fusco referred to his Italian grandparents as well. Americanization began when they first thought of coming to America. Doing so caused our family to morph into something other than Italian. It was only a matter of time, and it was as certain as the sun rising in the east. Nonno and Nonna didn’t know decisions made then would start a process that would transcend generations. But it couldn’t help but do so. Our Americanization was subject to the domino theory.

The domino theory is simple to understand. Imagine setting up dominos like you did as a child. You set them up so the first domino, when pushed, falls into the next. The second into the third. The third into the fourth and so on, based on how you laid the dominos out on the floor or table. Once the first domino falls, the only way to stop the process of all of them falling is to remove one of the dominos from the line. So it has been with our Americanizing. Once the process started, we couldn’t change the outcome unless we altered an event in the sequence. We didn’t, and Americanization happened.

The decision to emigrate to America wasn’t an easy one. Immigrants knew what they’d leave in Italy. They could only wonder what they’d find in America. They’d leave as Italiano. Would they become Amerigan (how Italians referred to Americans)? So many uncertainties, so few answers. But many came anyway. Nonno and Nonna were among them.

Stage I continued until Nonno and Nonna arrived in America, met, were married, and started their family. Stage II began with the birth of their first child, my aunt Mary. During Stage II, Nonno and Nonna lived in Oakwood. It was like Italy in America. That enabled them to clutch to cultural roots. At the same time, they were exposed to American ways. They observed new approaches to education, business, and life in general. Nonno and Nonna’s children (Aunt Mary, Uncle Lottie, and Dad) were not Italians/Italians. They were Italian/Americans. They had Italian parents, aunts, and uncles who were born in Italy. But they were Italians born in America.

Dad and his siblings were expected to adapt to American ways but they were still expected to be Italian smart. That’s different from American smart, I guess. I mentioned my friend Louie. He was born and raised in Oakwood. He’s Italian/American, like Dad was. He often tells stories about his father and his old ways. His pa, Gigi, reacted sharply any time Louie, his siblings, or Louie’s children did something wrong.

One story involving Louie’s son, Tony, is a good example. He went swimming right after eating at a family gathering. His nonno, Gigi, was there. He went ballistic when Tony went swimming right away. Old-time Italians believe you have to wait thirty minutes after eating before getting back into any type of water. They feel any sooner and the person would cramp and possibly drown. Or they might get some kind of disease. Swimming pool, pond, ocean, or bathtub, for Italians, a sixty-minute wait would have been ideal. Thirty minutes was minimum safe time.

Tony ate. Before swallowing his last bite, he excitedly jumped back into the swimming pool. Before he hit the water, a roar arose from the family patriarch. It rattled doors and windows around them. Gigi yelled, Tony! Stubid Amerigan born. Dona you know you gonna die? Get oudda da wader! You gonna get polio! It was, "Stubid Amerigan born! Dona you know (this)! Or, Stubid Amerigan born! Dona you know (that)!" When something went wrong, it was always because the person was born in America. For Gigi and many old-timers like him, there was no other kind of American. Gigi’s theory implied Tony would’ve been smarter if born in Italy. He’d have known to stay out of the pool until after the waiting period. For Gigi, Tony went in the water early only because he was born in America and raised in her ways. That was his logic, as illogical as it was.

Here’s what was happening. Gigi’s family was teetering between stages I and II of the Americanization process. Gigi had old-school thinking about things. Louie and Tony understood Gigi’s beliefs. They even agreed with many. They just didn’t always follow others. They were adapting to the way things were done in America. It was hard for old-timers. It was necessary for Italian-Americans.

However, Italian-Americans are never fully Americanized in their heart of hearts. They may speak perfect English (probably not). They may hold traditional American jobs. They may even engage in American politics. Yet at their core, in the depths of their being, Italian-Americans cling to all that is good about life in Italy, about being Italian.

Stage III began when my parents and aunts and uncles began having children. We were American/Italians. We were born in America, to parents who were born in America, whose parents were born in Italy. Roots to ancestral linkages were separated by yet another generation. Yes, we still lived in Detroit with all its Italian influences. But little of what happened in our home resembled what my father grew up with in his. The cycle of change was continuing.

This stage of our Americanization process saw us through our move to Tucson. We went from a culture of Italian emigrants to one of straw-chewing cowboys. When we arrived in Tucson, I knew how Dorothy felt once she landed in Oz. I thought, Greg, you’re not in Detroit anymore. There were no yellow brick roads, just dusty trails. No wizards, just wranglers. Yep, partner, life was going to be different.

Stage IV of our Americanization process began when my brothers, cousins, and I started having children. It’ll end when we only exist as memories in the minds of loved ones. My children, who are American-American, weren’t old enough to remember my nonno and nonna very well. They remember seeing them, and they know who they were. But they remember little firsthand about them. They, obviously, remember everything about their nonno and nonna (my parents).

That makes it even more important to complete this writing. My children must know their bisnonno (great-grandfather) and bisnonna (great-grandmother). They must know where they came from. They must know about their lives. No, we’re not in Italy today. We’re not in Oakwood either. Today, my immediate family is not even in Tucson. We’re fully into Stage IV of our Americanization process in Surprise and Glendale, Arizona. The rest of our remnant are scattered in this and other states of America.

My desire to write about the Americanization process is so you can better understand Italians you’ve met in your lifetime. It’ll also help you grasp its impact on my family and why it’s been so hard.

So this day Uncle Bill being buried was important beyond that of the funeral itself. It triggered so many thoughts. One was of life on a hilltop community in Italy. This is where our story began so many years ago. The winds seemingly are calling me there. Glad you will join me there in the journey.

STAGE I

From Motherland to America

N onna talked with longing about Italy’s mountain breezes. They were constant. They were refreshing. They were alluring. She missed them. Studying Nonna, her eyes said things about Italy her mouth couldn’t. She could never find the words. She seldom tried. It hurt too much.

I learned there’s much to love about Italy. It’s a remarkable country with an incredible history and culture. Its culture today mirrors that of its past. It’s what makes Italy special and worth knowing more about.

CHAPTER 1

Divine Culture

N onno and Nonna didn’t speak much about Italian culture. I regret not asking them more about it. I didn’t have the interest as a youngster. I also didn’t know any better. Never knew one day I’d care so much. What I did learn from them is in this writing. Much of what I learned about Italy came from three sources: living it, Internet study, and reading a good book titled The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Italian History and Culture. Authors Gabrielle Euvino and Michael San Filippo delve deeply into Italy’s culture. Read the book. It will enlighten you. You’ll read it more than once, and you’ll refer to it often.

Learning about colors used in the Italian flag is a good starting point for understanding Italy, Italians, and their culture. The colors are green, white, and red. These colors weren’t randomly picked. They were chosen with careful consideration and link to specific virtues. You see these virtues throughout the country when visiting.

Green represents hope. Hope for a better life. Hope that each generation has it better than the prior. Hope that all they hold dear remains sacred. White represents faith. Faith that God keeps them safe and satisfies their physical and spiritual needs. Faith in mankind’s willingness to share personal gifts for the benefit of others. Faith they’ll never lose faith. Red represents charity. Italians give in many ways. It’s not always with money or other tangible assets. It’s with time, commitment, volunteerism, and sharing what they have with others. Hope, faith, and charity. Speak with an Italian. You’ll sense the importance they place on these virtues through the things they say and do.

Enter an Italian’s home. You’ll see religious pictures and shrines. You’ll also experience their giving, sharing nature. It often centers on food. That’s usually a good thing. When you leave, you’ll feel the visit was special. Here’s a simple, heartwarming example. It demonstrates how Italians share what they have with others. It’s often about people with little sharing with others who have nothing. The example is of a program started in Naples. Its simplicity is appealing. Its costs are minimal. Its impact is dramatic.

I modified some of the original language to make it read better. However, my edits don’t change the message. Now, please join me for a cup of coffee. It’s on me.

I entered a little coffeehouse with a friend of mine and gave our order. As we went to our table, two people entered. They approached the counter and placed their order. Five coffees, please. Two of them for us, and three suspended.

They paid for five coffees, took two that were served, and left.

I asked my friend, What are ‘suspended’ coffees?

He responded, Wait and you will see.

Other people entered. Two girls asked for one coffee each. They paid and departed.

Then three lawyers entered. They ordered seven coffees. They paid for all coffees, took three, and left. They suspended the other four coffees.

While wondering about the suspended coffees, I enjoyed the sunny weather and beautiful view of the square in front of the café.

Suddenly a man dressed in shabby clothes entered. He looked like a beggar. He approached the counter and asked, Do you have a suspended coffee?

The employee gave the man a cup of steamy coffee. It was free of charge. The man was grateful.

I got it then. It’s simple. People pay in advance for a coffee meant for someone who couldn’t afford a warm beverage.

The tradition of suspended coffees started in Naples, Italy. It’s now spread across the world. In some places, you can also get a suspended sandwich or an entire meal. It’s people helping people through sharing what they have with others who have little. The program demonstrates it doesn’t take a donation of millions to make a difference. If you’re Bill Gates or Warren Buffett, we appreciate your charitable giving. You’ve helped many. If you’re not, just pay it forward for someone. You’ll fill a need and will be doing it the Italian way.

Study of Contrasts

Euvino and San Filippo define Italy as a study of contrasts where, . . . the modern mingles with the traditional. They add, Italy is like a river that continually renews itself, constantly evolving, always changing, yet somehow eternal.

Go to Rome. You can experience what they mean. You’ll find a bustling metropolis grown up around a colossal coliseum. Bumper-to-bumper traffic where chariots once rolled between ruins of an ancient empire. Rome is a cosmopolitan city, once the world’s capital. But you can lose yourself in its history. Or in Turin’s history. Or Florence’s. Venice’s. Milan’s. Each city has a rich history. Step back. Relax. Experience the differences. When finished, return to the modern way of life that is Italy today. An Italian must have coined the phrase, Having the best of both worlds. In Italy, you have just that.

The authors also wrote, The history of Italy is like a patchwork quilt, each square representing a unique culture; sewn together they create something greater. Consider this. Each of Italy’s twenty regions has several provinces. Each province has its own cultures, dialects, and traditions.

In my family, my Sicilian uncle Bill spoke a different dialect of Italian from Dad’s. While both spoke Italian, the dialects were dissimilar enough to cause confusion. Sicilian cooking is also different from much of the rest of Italy. It has North African influences that others parts of Italy lack. And why shouldn’t it? Sicily is closer to Tunisia, Africa, than it is to Rome. This isn’t a knock to Sicilians. It just shows there are differences in Italian regions. They exist between all regions, but the closer the regions, the more subtle the differences.

These differences have caused questions of allegiance. Is an Italian’s allegiance to his community? His province? Just where does it lie? Famous television chef and restaurateur Mario Batali wrote in his book Molto Italiano that an Italian’s allegiance is to his province first and Italy second.

Dedication and commitment actually go deeper than that in Italy. There are subcultures throughout the country. They exist within provinces and communities. Believe it or not, cultural differences even exist in homes on opposite ends of the same street. Let’s use a recipe as an example. An Italian staple, lasagna, may be made differently in one community than in another. It’s likely even different from household to household in the same community. In fact, each resident will claim their mamma’s or nonna’s recipe is best.

An online poster on a food website, Cooking with Nonna, validated the point. She commented about an Italian peach cookie called pesche (peach). My mother, Nonna Lola, used to make these peach cookies through my growing up years. This is her version of the cookie from the town of Colledimacine in Abruzzo, Italy. There are several variations of the filling, including custard like this one. I personally like my mother’s best. That sounds about right. My mom’s is better than your mom’s. I’ve said or thought that many times in my life. When I have, I’ve been right.

Euvino and San Filippo feel an Italian’s first allegiance is to family, then hometown, and lastly, to Italy proper. I agree more with this hierarchy, although it seems allegiance to province and region has to fit in there somewhere. Deciding who’s right (Batali, Euvino, and San Filippo, me, or others) is unimportant. The point is correct. Italians are highly committed people whose allegiances run deep, strong, and are long-lasting.

Bring on the Food

Italians are committed to their family’s way of doing things. To their traditions. They desire to share these ways with the world. How they prepare and enjoy food is one way Italians share themselves with others. Eating in is always better than eating out. Mario Batali states, In Italy, people tend to go out to eat for social reasons… . The last reason people go to a restaurant in Italy is for better food.

Indeed, Italians live by the axiom, You never age at the dinner table. And you never find a better dinner table than en casa (at home). The same is true for Italians in America. Italians celebrate food. Italians respect what they eat and waste nothing. They feel if animal, fish, or fowl gave up its life for their good, they have a duty to use every part of it. If Mother Earth gave up her bounty, they use it all—fruit, leaves, and stems. Italians have found uses for every part of harvested plants. What’s unused in one recipe finds its way in another. If they don’t have a regular use for something, they’ll create one.

If it’s grown, raised, or otherwise available on earth for consumption, Italians will eat it. And eat they do. The average Italian in Italy eats over fifty pounds of pasta each year. They eat thin pasta and wide pasta. Straight pasta and curly pasta. Stuffed pasta and unstuffed pasta. The shapes and uses are limited only by imagination. That is not to say shape is unimportant. On the contrary, each pasta shape is very important. Shape dictates the type of sugo (gravy) used to dress the pasta. Yes, gravy. I said it. Americans put gravy on mashed potatoes and call the stuff put on pasta sauce. Italians feel the French created sauces. Italians created gravy. But don’t let the sauce/gravy debate hang you up. I call what I make and put on pasta sauce. The important thing is to eat your fifty pounds of pasta over the next twelve months. You’ll do that, right? Neither will I.

Italians also eat half a pound of bread each day. Much of it is eaten with, or even dunked in, vino. They measure bread quality by its lightness and how it crunches when torn. Yes, torn. Italians don’t slice bread. That’s reserved for American white bread. Instead, Italians tear chunks of beautiful, hard crusted bread from the loaf. Each piece is torn to satisfy the need based on what they’re eating. Only Italians could make eating bread a thing of beauty.

Speaking of dunking in vino, the average Italian drinks twenty-six gallons of wine each year. They prefer bold, big-bodied red wines that enhance the dining experience. They don’t adhere to American beliefs about drinking reds with dark meats and whites with poultry and fish. Fugeddaboudit! Italians drink red wine, often made by relatives or friends. Meat, fish, grains, antipasti—the vino of choice is rosso (red).

Italians may not drink twenty-six gallons of wine in America, but red remains the vino of choice, whether consumed at home or dining out. We recognized how Italians felt about wine when operating our family restaurant. It was an Italian restaurant after all. We printed a wine-related adage on our menus. It was, A day without wine is like a day without sunshine. A catchy phrase, no doubt. But it’s the way Italians feel. They’d rather drink wine over anything else not coffee-related.

Eating and drinking, and enjoying every minute of it. That’s the way it is in Italy. That’s the way it’s always been. And the differences between households, towns, and regions aren’t criticized. They’re celebrated. These microdifferences help make Italy the unique place it is.

Euvino and San Filippo also had interesting insights into families. They wrote, The notion of family is the thread that runs beyond natural borders and extends to Italians wherever they may roam. That truth lends credence to the Italian saying, la familia e’ sacra (the family is sacred). Italians love family, honor its members, and defend them to a fault.

Italians also treat friends with the same dignity and respect. They extend gentleness and hospitality, traits they brought from Italy. That’s perhaps why Dad acted as he did when friends visited our house. He made no assumptions. He took no chances. When friends entered our house, Dad asked them a question before saying hello. It was habit. He’d ask, You guys hungry? Should we get something to eat? Dad was referring to getting pizza from our restaurant. We lived right behind it, and running over for a pizza was easy. It was something we did often.

My friends often answered, Oh, no, Mr. Casadei. I’m not really hungry. We had (insert food) for dinner tonight.

Dad’s pat response was, I didn’t ask what you ate. I asked if you were hungry.

Some might have thought Dad was being snarky. If so, they never said a thing to me. But I knew better. Dad wasn’t being mean. He just didn’t want anyone to go home hungry. He didn’t want them to say they visited Casadei’s house and weren’t offered food or drink. Feeding guests, whether hungry or not, is the Italian way.

The movie Moonstruck addressed this characteristic as well. The scene showed Johnny Camareri upon his return from Italy. He was there to comfort his mother, who was on her deathbed. When Mom heard Johnny was marrying Loretta, she got better. Johnny called his mother’s recovery a miracle. He told his fiancée, Loretta, She came off her deathbed, got dressed, and started cooking for everyone in the house.

I know the scene firsthand. I lived it. Everyone was welcome in our home. If you were a friend, you were family. And Dad wanted to be hospitable. Not often gentle, but always hospitable.

North Versus South

Throughout history, stark differences existed between northern and southern Italy. While I haven’t studied them in depth, it appears they were similar to those in America in the mid-1800s. Industry was more prominent in the north than south. Bankers located there. Arts, fashion, and other cultural centers cropped up there as well. Farmers had more and better opportunities. Workers in the north, not just business owners, could build wealth.

There were reasons for this northern prosperity. First, northern Italy had plentiful natural resources. The north had a lot of coal and iron, which was critical to adopting emerging industrial processes. Southern Italy lacked these resources. As a result, industrial growth in the south paled compared to the north. The south could do nothing to overcome this disparity. And as the industrial gap grew between north and south, so did the animosity between its residents.

The Italian government didn’t help matters. To the contrary, it added insult to injury. The government raised taxes countrywide to support industrial advancements. With the increase, more of the tax money paid by southern Italians was used to support industry in the north. Northerners prospered more, while nothing was done to boost the south’s stagnant economy.

Second, northern communities were closer to major European population and trade centers. Over time, Italians built transportation systems that enabled easy access to those markets. It was an advantage of proximity. There were no reasons to develop similar transportation systems in the south. It didn’t have enough industry to warrant expensive roadways. But the problem became circular. Without adequate transportation, business owners shied from the south to set up in the north.

Third, geography favored the north over the south. It still does today for the same reasons. Because of that, I’ll discuss the issues in a present-day context. Northern Italy has more good farmland than the south. Farmers prosper there. Once again, the south lacks similar resources, and southern farmers flounder by comparison. Few southern farmers can support themselves, let alone others.

Italy is a long, narrow country. It covers 116,332 square miles. That’s similar to my home state of Arizona, although Italy has ten times the residents. It has two major mountain ranges, the Alps and Dolomites, which makes 75 percent of Italy mountainous and hilly. As a result, only 50 percent of Italy’s land is suitable for farming. In the south, mountains drop instead of slope to the seas. The terrain is higher and steeper than in the north, which limits farmable land. Residents live in hilltop villages, which are unattractive to industry, commerce, or farmers.

Southern Italy’s rainfall patterns work against farming as well. Most rainfall occurs during winter months in the south. Drought plagues the south many summers. By contrast, northern Italy receives most of its rain in the spring and summer. Farmlands in the north are seldom subject to drought.

It’s easy to see why northern Italians prospered over southerners. They had everything needed for success. And as happens, success bred success. To generalize, it led to a level of refinement