La FAMIGLIA Di BARBARA
The tall, lanky body of the man I knew so well
stood at the edge of the huge drainage ditch that separated the vast boundaries
of my world, an endless field of forty acres, with enough grazing for Smokey,
our one old gray mule.
Like always, his hands were propped on his slim
hips and his faded gray work pants bagged about his knees. His most favorite
thing in the world was pulled low over his rumpled sun-parched face covering
his fast-fading blue eyes from the bright noonday sun. Grandpa. The one person
in the world I loved more than anyone or anything. My heart leapt in my chest
when I saw him standing by the ditch. Grandpa needed me.
He never asked for much, but when he did he
asked his favorite people. Turning over on my belly I scooted over the edge
of the worn planks of the porch floor, disregarding the splinters and such,
and when my tiny feet hit the ground they were running. Grandpa needed me.
The narrow plank spanning the wide, formidable
depth hiding unspeakable dangers surely lay ready to steal the breath from
a soul, bounced up and down as he crossed over. I held my breath and watched
as he came closer. Grandpa was safe again. Then he stepped on solid ground
and glanced at me. Grandpa was going to speak. And he did. His eyes were
twinkling like always when he had something to say.
He was close. So close I could smell him. He
always had that grandpa smell. The smell he had after working hard, mixed
with the strong scent of mustard seeds or, just before the weather turned
cold, it was always green onions and turnip greens.
He reached into his back pocket and held up
a red, thin tin. On the front of the familiar tin was the picture of an old
man with half a face and just one eye. 'Prince Albert'. He was grandpa's
favorite chewing tobacco. I smiled at grandpa and held up my grubby little
hand. He reached over and pressed a shiny dime into my palm and closed my
fingers over the precious coin.
While grandpa watched, I skipped off on the
long uncertain trip to the local grocery store. It was treacherous treading
the old sidewalk overgrown with dried briars and cockle burrs hovering low
above the ground. Large black grasshoppers stretched out their long spiny
legs to show the bright pink flares of their distress. It always hurried
me along to finish the two block trip through all the creeping things.
Then, just as I stood there remembering all
those things, a feeling of ending came over me. With only an hour or so left
of daylight, my mind rushed to take in all the things of this wonderful time
of year. It was 'Indian Summer.' The time I remember as being so elusive.
A strange feeling of excitement would come over me and just as I was about
to settle into the joy of it, it would disappear. Even now, there was change
in the air.
It was a time when crickets rushed to cricket
and bees still bumbled and hummingbirds quickened to suckle the last of the
sweet from the honeysuckle vines. Over the fields was spread the bright orange
pumpkins, plump and near bursting with the makings of pies. But still it
wasn't quite time. Hay lay drying in the field, but still it wasn't that
time, not yet.
And, like always, old Mrs. Palmisano's pet turkey
foolishly gobbled as much cracked corn as it could gobble, and still, it
wasn't time yet. I watched the last ray of the golden, autumn sun retract
its final ray from over the neat rows of freshly plowed ground and then the
world was dark.
JOSEPH VINCENT BARBARA, JR., 'Grandpa', passed
on on February 16, 1958. His great reward was to go on to meet his life-long
wife and companion, ANGELINA Lena PICONE, 'Grandma', who passed on on June
5, 1943.
Yes, time has passed since one small girl's
life spent on a farm. A life of simplicity, wonder and a strong belief that
life is eternal and the sun would always shine for her, forever and ever.
Looking back on this lifetime, the tot grew into a strong-willed woman of
unconventional beliefs and high expectations, possibly too high for such
humble beginnings.
Later, marriage to the man of her dreams produced
four totally different, complex children. Three handsome men who certainly
put the 'Knights of Old' to shame and a lovely young woman, no less a beauty
than any princess who ever lived.
Reality of how things changed was painful and
kept me from going back to that wondrous place of my 'Indian Summers', when
the corn stalks were drying in the fields and crows skipped along fresh plowed
ground searching for treats, and the time has long passed since Smoky the
mule stretched her long neck through the barbed wire fence looking for greener
pastures.
The day I gave in to the constant tug at my
heart strings, urging me back to revisit the place of my childhood was an
attempt to put to rest things of the past and refresh those sweet memories
I will always treasure.
I climbed to the crest of the earthen boundary
that towers over the east bank of the Mighty Mississippi River flowing past
the small truck farms snuggled close to the river road. Looking out over
that vast body of water, I still remembered the smell of it and how it felt
to be covered with a fine mist as moisture was lifted from the waves and
carried toward land.
I remembered how faithful it had been as it
cleansed the batture of debris every Spring at high tide. And waves of mighty
ships passed through my memories as I stood there, even now, in awe. Such
might and beauty still hid its ability to deceive.
And last, I turned to face that 'Place'. Forty
acres now seeming a bit smaller than I remember. The double curves of the
river road had been straightened and the neat plowed rows were covered with
tiny houses of frame and brick. Mighty hundred-year-old pecan trees no longer
stood over the old tin barns, and the pumpkin patch was covered with an asphalt
street.
The five mile area that was once, 'My Place'
stretched from Hanson City in Jefferson Parish to the tiny town of Felson,
both no longer on any map and winding along close to the base of the river,
an endless strip of black top road continued northwest through St. Rose and
Free Town and on to the old City Service Refinery, no longer there. Further
on the road still grow giant oaks from a bygone era and wound along the place
where once stood Destrehan High School, my place of learning.
Then past the old wrought iron fence of the
burial grounds of St. Charles Borromeo and the legendary, 'Lil ' Red Church'.
But a quarter mile past the Destrehan Plantation, remembered in history,
the long line of oaks whisk you past the graves of my ancestors and the lovely
old Ormond Plantation reaching towards what was once the small town of Pecan
Grove and on to the city limits of New Sarpy, and Good Hope.
Along this black winding ribbon of speedway
giant haulers and tiny sportsters, and shiny motorbikes and pretty yellow
buses travel now. But in my mind I saw the old, faded yellow ice wagon of
Mr. Jim the ice man who faithfully balanced a block of crystal clear water,
our one luxury in summertime, atop the railroad cross tie we called the gate.
And at the break of dawn came the bread man,
Mr. Leche, bringing only the best of New Orleans, 'Poor Boy' French bread',
and there was the fruit peddler, our faithful black peddler, Mr. Vinnet,
and a robust man we called the butcher.
The century old house where my father,Felix
Ralph Barbara, Sr. was raised with his twin, Vincent Barbara and four brothers
and one sister, no longer hovered under Grandma's seventy-year-old magnolia
tree. And the hundred-year-old camelia trees that had sheltered generations
of birds would never again burst forth with thousands of lovely red blossoms
that had graced many tables in summer, then covered the ground with a thick
layer of spent flowers, seemed only my dream. And the heavy scent of the
large clumps of narcissus that welcomed you home was but dirt beneath a lawn
of blue-green grass.
The home where Grandpa lived no longer opened
its double shutters to let in the sun and, no where to be seen, the whitewashed
cistern where a child could drink, had long ago been carried away. The hum
of traffic passing by replaced the soothing notes of my aunt's player piano
that drifted over the silence of the fields on our day of rest. Only in my
memories could such things exist as surely time could never change the excitement
of childhood and a lifetime of hopes and dreams to fulfill ambitions. It
was THE PLACE,
Somewhere in that 'past-time' that went by so
quickly, is a space where dreams still happen. Those new immigrants who came
to settle this land along the east bank of the river in St. Charles Parish,
La., have finished the job they started. They lived their dreams to the fullest
and planted the seeds of a bright new future. I'll not be the one who forgets
them, those extraordinary people who sailed the seas, and fought off pirates
on the Isle de Ustica. Their belongings were few but their intent had purpose.
They raised their families who spread over the
state and made the world seem a bit smaller, they grew the produce that in
times of famine and plague, fed a city. They were poor people with a trunk
or two when they stepped from those ships, but the contents were precious.
With them came the yearning that burdened them; the need to belong, a place
of peace and a burning desire to plant roots and sow the seeds of our ancestors.
And sow they did, as so many Italian-Americans will attest to. Yes, we are
a proud people and share our gifts with all who wish to receive them.
They once gathered on the shores of Italy one
very cold winter day and looked out over the beautiful blue-green waters
of the Mediterranean Sea. Then, with courage and hope, stepped over into
the unknown, but leaving a link to their homeland so not to forget, then
into arms of welcome.
I recall the names of all the families along
the river in the 1930's. They were Bonura, Abate, Noto, Barbara, Giardina,
Gendusa, Catanzara, Lovetro, Vitrano, Giglio, Favaloro, Gulotta, Guaraggi
and Maggiore and Cashio and Varvaro.
Each family was a part of this small section
of the river road and with their great desire and God-given abilities maintained
the greatest truck farms this country has ever known. Each farmer closely
guarding his keep, bright green patches of produce that wove the blanket
of emerald green covering this wondrous place.
Yes, the pumpkin patch is gone and the hill
that once covered the foundation to the old sugar mill of the Almedia Plantation
had been leveled for a playground. But if you stand on the crest of the levee
where I stood you can still see a small patch of bright green sprouts. Over
the hill where the pumpkins grew is the Spigot patch. It is elusive and not
too large, but still it grows, as well I know. You see, the day I learned
of the spigot patch, I inquired of Grandpa.
"Grandpa, how did you learn to grow such big
carrots and how do you make the cabbage so green and the mustard greens bigger
than me?" A quick glance into the face of a weary old man gave a hint of
a smile as he struggled to hide his amusement.
"Well, I guess I never told you, but the secret
is that Italians are the greatest farmers in the whole world. Not every farmer
can grow spigots." He said, tongue in cheek. "Now if you squint your eyes
and block out the sun, over the rise beyond the pumpkin patch is the 'Spigot
patch'." He continued to whittle a tiny wooden peg he was preparing to use
as a new spigot plug for the cistern.
"Spigot patch?" I remember looking in that direction
and sure as shooting I saw the tiny speck of green.
"Yes, Grandpa, I see the Spigot Patch! I really
do!"
*******************8
My research starts off the
coast of Sicily