Giving Thanks
I am writing this article as I make my way back from a sojourn to my parents' hometown
in Piedicavallo, Italy. It is a small town of 400 people in the foothills of the Alps. Its
name actually means feet of the horse. It was given this name because this is about as far
as you can go on horseback. I have wondered, however, how Hannibal got those elephants
over those mountains. This region of Italy is in the province of Piemonte or Piedmont,
known for wool and wool products (Italian suits are woven and cut here) white wine,
arborrio rice and a its beauty. As much of Italy, it was also known to be very poor prior
to and after WWII. Many Italians left for America to find wealth, freedom and, more
importantly, hope. From my parents' valley, many made their way to Fayetteville, Iager,
Welch, Beckley and other small West Virginia coal towns. They came to work as stone masons
and bridge builders, skills for which artisans of this area were renowned. Many ended up
in the coal mines and on construction crews. My father's decision to immigrate was a
little different. He was searching for his father. He was actually born in Holden, West
Virginia but was quickly taken back to Piedicavallo at 13 months when it was discovered
that his mother was dying of the then common incurable disease of tuberculosis. That was
in 1925. My father lived with an aunt until age 6 and then with priests until age 11. At
that time, he was turned out to make his own way. He did it all from herding cattle, to
baking, to laying stone. In all it made my father what he is today, a hard man.
In the small village, my father met the most loving and patient woman in the world, my
mother. I guess they were meant for each other. Her mother died when she was 4 and her
father died when she was 9. He was working in Albertville, France as a store mason for
higher wages. Things were looking up as it was his last work away from home. He never made
it. He suffered what was believed to be an aneurysm. He still lies in France since my Aunt
and Motion could not afford to bring his body back. I take my name from him.
My mom lived with her sister and when she was 12 went to work as a domestic in a nearby
city and at 14 she went to the wool factories. She married my father in 1945.
In 1949, my father left Italy to meet his father. He knew where he was - in the coal
fields of Southern West Virginia. He knew little else. He found him in Beckley. Some other
Italian men convinced him life was better in the United States and loaned him some money
to buy some land and materials to build a house. In two years, my father saved up enough
money to bring my mom and the 2 year old daughter he had never seen to the United States.
Sometimes I a m not sure if they made the right decision to leave. Italy is beautiful, its
people congenial. My father has silicosis and he and my mother live together in that house
built nearly 50 years ago, mostly alone. My few relatives live in Italy and most of the
original immigrants have passed.
My parents' only wish was for their children to get an education. I believe they thought
that it was the only thing that war or poverty couldn't taken away from an individual. It
was the ticket to unlimited dreams. When I finished high school, there was no doubt I
would go to college. In fact, I don't think I really understood I had a choice. Parents'
dreams are often fulfilled through their children and I hope my parents' dreams have
become a reality.
At this time of the year, we all pause to thank God and those people who have made a
difference in our lives. I have many thanks to offer but none more so than to my parents.
I I really started this article to be about the Italian prospective on the recent election
but as I said, my father was a hard man and it is sometimes hard to tell him and my mother
how much I appreciate their sacrifices.
Please take some time during this busiest of seasons to thank those people who helped get
you to where you wanted to be.
Merry Christmas.