Western Pennsylvania Archives

Why Small Gestures Mean So Much

Those of you who read my blog regularly might remember my Thanksgiving entry: “Why I’m Thankful for the White Tornado.” It was a post about my grandmother. Well, yesterday was her 95^th birthday, and instead of posting something about it here, I chose to post on Facebook. Not on my author page, but on my profile page where family and friends who also know her would see it. It got a lot of comments. Of course it did; it’s my gramma, and she’s awesome! But back to the point of the story. Because I live seventeen hours away, I jokingly said that, since I couldn’t be there, I’d like it if someone could give her a hug in my place.

I never expected anyone to actually do it.

Someone actually did.

Hope Shick and I have known each other for more years than I’m going to write here. We grew up in the same town, went to the same school, know the same people. She knows what my family means to me. Maybe she just gets the importance of family because she has a large one herself—she’s the mother to seven children. Also, like most people in my hometown, she knows my grandmother personally, so she knows what a special person she is. Stopping by to give her a hug probably wasn’t that big a hardship.

Except she had to rearrange her whole day to do it.

And she stayed to visit with her for about an hour.

See, that’s the thing about small towns that I miss the most. You can count on people to come through for you. It kills me that I wasn’t there to celebrate my grandmother’s 95^th birthday with her. I didn’t get to bake her a cake or see her face when she opened my gift. I didn’t get to kiss her cheek or sit and laugh with her. We didn’t share a cup of coffee, and even our phone call was short because she had company and couldn’t talk. But because of an old friend, I got to share a hug with her—by proxy. And after talking with her this morning, I know that simple gesture made her day yesterday. It was a simple gesture that touched my heart more than words can ever express.

When I sit down at the keyboard and work on building my story worlds, these are the traits I draw on. The love, the camaraderie, the selfless gestures I find in the people in the small Western Pennsylvania town I grew up in. I hope you see these things in my work, and I hope you can draw on your histories to find inspiration for your art. What things motivate you?

On Veterans Day

I grew up in Western Pennsylvania. It has a high concentration of Italian Americans. But, after a few years of marriage, my husband and I relocated to Beavercreek, Ohio, which is very near Wright Patterson Air Force Base. The area has an incredibly diverse culture, mainly because of the influx of people from several different backgrounds and nations. While we lived there, I met people whose ancestrage was from Vietnam, China, Korea, Syria, Iran, the Netherlands, Mexico, India, (and yes, Italy too)… all over the world. I even learned to speak a little Dutch while I was there. (Thanks, Iris!)

I treasure my time there because my children were exposed to such rich and varied cultures. They also learned the importance of military service while we were there. Many of our friends’ families were employed at the base. As much as we admired what we learned from others, that doesn’t mean we don’t still treasure our own history.

My husband and I are not first generation Italian Americans. It was our grandparents’ and our great-grandparents’ generations that settled here. But they brought with them a sense of duty, honor, and love of country that Italians feel for their homeland, and that is the environment in which my husband and I were both raised. Both of our fathers were in the Navy. We have grandfathers, uncles, and great-uncles who served this country proudly.

Strong values are not a tradition that our families have said goodbye to. We and our siblings are raising our children the way we were raised, with the same code of ethics and honor that our families instilled in us. My niece took those lessons to heart. She is currently in the Navy. Given the state of foreign affairs, my first reaction should be abject fear for her safety. But it isn’t. It’s pride. Yes, part of me is frightened for her, but mostly I’m honored that she would put her needs and wants aside to serve her country, to protect me, my family, her family and friends, and the millions of other people she’s never even met. It’s humbling to think that she, and so many like her, would give so selflessly.

Today isn’t about whether you agree with the wars that are being or have been fought. Today is about thinking of and thanking those soldiers who have made a difference in your life, whether you realize it or not. Their sacrifices, and those of the families they’ve left behind, have given us the freedoms we currently enjoy.

To you, past and present military personnel of America, I thank you. Know that I don’t take your sacrifices for granted, and I offer up prayers for you and your families. May God bless you.

Are You Thinking Godfather or Jersey Shore?

I know, I know. You hear Italian-Americans and you think Capone and Corleone or The Situation and Snooki. And you are either fascinated with one or both of those lifestyles or couldn’t care less about either. And then you don’t think about them at all.

There’s so much more to Italian-Americans than that.

My heritage is rich and full. Like so many Italian-Americans, we aren’t at the head of a major crime syndicate, nor are we stars of a reality TV show. My family came from Italy because of the same social, political, and economical reasons most families came to America. My great-grandfather came here alone, like so many men did, to find work before sending for his family. Once he was settled in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, he toiled until he had enough money to bring his wife and son over. And once they were here, he kept working. He worked in the mill and grew his family and continued to provide for them until he got sick and died at a terribly young age, causing my grandfather, the youngest, to quit school at fourteen to support his mother, himself, and six brothers and sisters. And he did it without complaint.

That’s the thing about Italians. It’s all about family. You do for family. No matter what.

So my grandfather became the head of his family at fourteen. And even when I was born, the aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews all still treated him like the head of the family. Because he had earned that respect.

My grandfather isn’t with us anymore, but my grandmother still is. She tells me stories of how the wages were different for Italians then, particularly the dark southern Italians like we are. She tells me how the Italians were beaten in the streets and mistreated by other nationalities who had already settled here. That’s why Italians formed their own communities and started their own clubs and shopped in their own stores. It was a matter of safety in numbers and protecting their own. I’m grateful that it’s a different world today.

My family is almost all still in the Western Pennsylvania area. I’m the only one who has had to leave — much like my ancestors, for economic reasons. We went where the jobs were. We now find ourselves in an area without Italian markets and even the closest church is twenty minutes away. We are once again the minority, but it’s not like before.

And I am grateful.

But I haven’t forgotten my roots.

And that’s what I try to breathe that life to in my writing. So no one else forgets, either.