Ruth meets her uncle Giovanni in Italy.
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
Trip to explore Italian roots proves to be a step back in time
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Clay tile rooftops are seen above the village of San Donato di Ninea, Italy, during Ruth’s pilgrimage to visit relatives in her ancestors’ hometown.
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
Ruth’s husband Bill enjoys some wine with her uncle Giovanni and other relatives.
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
Franco in his younger days
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
Franco today
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
The church in San Donato di Ninea: St Mary’s Assumption Church.
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
A view inside St Mary’s Assumption Church.
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
View looking down onto the village from the church courtyard.
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
Ruth enjoys dinner with her relatives.
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
Bill sits with Giovanni, Franco and Franco’s father, Franco Sr.
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
Franco shows Ruth the cemetery markers for her aunts and uncle.
Courtesy Ruth Corcoran
My husband and I planned our first trip to Italy quite a few years ago.
We wanted to see all the touristy spots, such as Rome, Florence, and Venice. At the time, I had family in Italy that I had never met, and Bill encouraged me to try to contact a cousin in Italy with whom I was a childhood pen pal.
The last contact I’d had with Franco was back in 1983 when he mailed photos he had taken of the family and the village they lived in. Before that, we exchanged letters all through our school years. He wrote in Italian and I wrote back in English. If I was lucky, I was able to find someone to translate the letters. If not, I used an Italian to English translation book and went word by word. Google translate would have really come in handy back then.
After a bit more prodding from my husband, I decided to write to Franco at the old address. I can’t remember how Franco and I first came into contact, but I enjoyed reading his letters and getting to know more about my Italian relatives. I’m glad Bill pressed me to contact him because it worked. I included my email in the letter and received an email from Franco in a few weeks.
Franco is the son of my maternal great aunt, sister of my grandfather, Vincent Marino. My grandfather traveled to America from San Donato di Ninea, in the province of Cosenza in the Calabria region of Southern Italy, when he was young. His name at the time was Vincenzo Marini. Somewhere along the line, it became Americanized.
He settled in the New Columbus section of Nesquehoning, where he met and married Pauline Zimmardo. When he left for America, my grandfather left behind two sisters and two brothers. He passed away when I was only 2 years old, so I didn’t get to know him, but my mom told me a lot about him as I was growing up.
We made a plan for Franco and his wife Luisa to pick us up at the Rome airport and drive us to visit my family in San Donato di Ninea. To say this trip and the connection I was able to make with my relatives was the experience of a lifetime is an understatement.
To prepare for the trip, I took a conversational Italian night class. I picked up a few words and phrases, but definitely not enough to prepare me for what lie ahead. When we met Franco and Luisa at the airport we realize they spoke no English. I had a small Italian/English word translation book that wasn’t much help.
Somehow through animated expressions and our ramblings on the five-hour drive from the airport to San Donato di Ninea we learned to understand each other a bit. After the long drive, we arrived at this picturesque village built into a mountainside. It reminded me of a scene from an old movie. Narrow cobblestone streets, rustic orange clay roof tiles, and connected dwellings in their original architecture. It seemed like the entire village was one big interconnected family. You couldn’t drive up the streets, so a golf cart with a small flatbed attachment was sent to haul our large suitcases. I overpacked as always and it was embarrassing. Franco introduced us to an adorable little old Italian man — so little that, at 5’2,” I had a good inch on him.
His name was Giovanni, and he is the only living sibling of my grandfather. He hugged me and we all cried. My husband had an immediate bond with Giovanni who wanted to share wine and smoke cigars. We met a few more cousins and some distant relatives and neighbors who had come out to greet us.
Once inside the house, we looked through old photo albums and I got to see photos of my grandfather as a child. We continued to communicate with gestures and hugs and were content just knowing that there was a lot of love around us. Of course, there were plenty of sweets as well, including chocolates and homemade baked goods.
After we met most of the family, we got a tour of the town. Many of the neighbors were waiting on their porches and invited us in to visit. They shared more food and gave me gifts. Religious statues and medals, rosary beads. beautiful Italian lace, and shawls. I tried to say no, but Franco explained the best he could that it would be insulting, so I had to accept the gifts.
It truly was a step back in time. Old-fashioned woodworking shops, men sitting in alcoves smoking cigars and telling stories, women cooking together or tending to potted gardens, and the simple beauty of this idyllic village. As you got to the higher homes, you could see down onto small patios and little courtyards between homes. Everyone had fresh herbs and vegetables growing.
We returned to our room to rest. We stayed in Franco’s father’s home. He was married to one of my grandfather’s sisters, Annina. From the photos on the walls to the furniture, I felt like I was transported to another era. A door from our bedroom opened to a Juliet balcony where we had a breathtaking view of the hillside. We shared a meal that night that I won’t soon forget. The fresh taste of the pasta sauce was unbelievable. Every ingredient was handpicked from the small potted gardens. Of course the wine kept flowing as well. We Italians do love our wine.
The wife of one of my grandfather’s brothers was still alive and also lived in this village. Bill nicknamed her grandma. The next morning she invited us to her house for breakfast. Bill asked her if she drank limoncello. She happily pulled a key out of her bra and unlocked a secret liquor cabinet that held a treasure of homemade limoncello. We drank it with breakfast.
That day more cousins and their children came to visit. We walked the hills to the top of the village to visit the cemetery and the church. In the cemetery, Franco showed me the markers where my grandfather’s two sisters and brother rest.
At the moment we signed the guest book we realized that all of my relatives thought my husband’s name was Pablo or Paul. Not sure why they thought Bill was Paul, maybe it was the language barrier. When he wrote his name in the guest book, Franco said “no Paul?” and everyone had a good laugh.
That night we had a big family dinner. One of the cousins was married to a Canadian who came to dinner. Finally someone who spoke English. He spent the entire night acting as a translator to all of us who couldn’t talk fast enough to get the answers to so many questions and to just talk. We dined on roasted chicken, that had been plucked and cleaned that day, homemade sausage, and homemade pasta and breads. We also enjoyed little water glasses filled with homemade wine. No true Italian drinks wine out of a wine glass.
We spent our last day touring the rest of the town, meeting more family and neighbors, and looking through more photo albums. One cousin had a beautiful home near the entrance to the village at the bottom of the hill. They had fragrant lemon trees and fig trees growing around their home. His son entertained us by playing his saxophone. I had never before felt this welcomed anywhere. I met the man who drives a narrow little truck to bring a portable farmer’s market to the village once a week and the owner of the town’s bar which serves ice cream and other snacks, as well as wine.
I also visited the blue haired lady as I nicknamed her who was so happy to have us in her home.
Saying goodbye to Giovanni and the others was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. There were lots of tears and hugs. It’s a visit I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
I hope you enjoy this recipe from Calabria that I remember eating growing up. I substitute canned cannellini beans for dried beans to save time. I believe dried cranberry beans were used when my mom prepared this.
Escarole and Bean Soup
2 tbs extra virgin olive oil
2 cloves of garlic, minced
½ small onion, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
1 head of escarole, washed, dried and chopped
8 cups chicken broth – adjust broth based on how soupy you like it.
2 15-oz cans of Cannellini Beans
2 bay leafs
Parmesan rind or a 1 ounce chuck of Parmesan
Freshly grated Parmesan cheese.
Salt & Pepper to taste
Directions
Heat the EVOO in a large pot over medium heat. Sauté onion, celery and garlic until they begin to soften. Add the escarole and sauté until wilted. Add a bit more oil if needed.
Add a pinch of salt & pepper. Add the chicken broth, bay leafs, drained beans and chunk of Parmesan. I just drain the liquid out of the can of beans, I don’t rinse them. Simmer for approximately 15 minutes or until escarole is tender. Remove bay leaves. Top bowls of soup with freshly grated Parmesan. You can also drizzle with EVOO and sprinkle with hot pepper flakes if you’d like. Serve with fresh Italian crusty bread.
Ruth Corcoran is a professional marketer, former restaurant owner, and community advocate. She resides in Bear Creek. Readers can reach Ruth by emailing [email protected].