The Reluctant Pilgrim

The year of 1943 was not a great year to be born in Europe which was in the midst of a cataclysmic war. Three months before my birth, July 1943, the Americans, British and allied forces stormed ashore in Sicily, devastating the small Mediterranean Island like previous invading armies had done before, such as the the Carthaginians, the Romans, the Vandals, the Byzantines, the Muslims in the eighth century AD, the French in the 12th Century and the Spanish after them. During the American/British invasion, my mother and my entire home town, Geraci Siculo, had to be evacuated, fearing allied bombing runs.  My mother recalls the day when a riderless mule suddenly appeared in town.  It was learned later that the rider was blown off his mule and killed by an allied bomb while he was crossing a bridge along Highway SS 286, a twisting mountain road, near the town of Castelbuono, while returning home.

Piano Caterineci

As a youngster in Sicily, I was a totally happy child; the environment suited me.  My dad was a shepherd and as soon as I could walk, he took me with him while tending his flock (outside of school days of course). By this time I had developed an emotional attachment to the land. Even though we were very poor, along with all the townspeople, I never knew it and was totally happy in my environment.

In the summer months, all the animal farmers would move their herds to distant lands for grazing.  Since Sicily is a heaven for wheat farming, most farmers would lease wheat field lands after the harvest. The animals would feed on the stubs that were left.  My dad joined several other shepherds, moving their herds about 60 kilometers east of Geraci in an area called Chibbò; an area of rolling hills and home to wheat fields as far as the eye could see.  Driving the animals there would take about three days.  We would sleep in the open sky, using nothing but a blanket under us and one over us.  To me it was heaven on earth.  I loved it.

Around 1954, when I was 10 years old, I learned that my parents were planning on leaving Geraci and moving to America.  For a long time I denied that this was the case.  I did not want to leave.  When my dad finally sold all his sheep and his other property, the reality hit me like a hammer.   When we finally left and before boarding the cruise ship, the Saturnia, in the Port of Palermo Sicily, I asked my mom if she would leave me behind.  I told her I could stay with one of my uncles, Uncle Domenico. She declined out of hand.  We all boarded the ship and landed in New York Harbor on March 23, 1956 after a stormy Atlantic crossing in the dead of winter.  From the harbor, we went straight to the train station for the trip to Los Angeles, where my dad's sister, Maria Santa, was waiting for us.

We arrived at Union Station, Los Angeles, on an overcast day three days later.   I recall that I'd never seen an overcast day.  In Geraci, it was either sunny, foggy, or rainy; never overcast.  My aunt, her husband Joe and two other fellow Geraci immigrants, met us at the station and drove us to a rented one-bedroom house in the Crenshaw District of Los Angeles. My uncle had a beautiful 1947 De Soto.

What followed after our arrival could only be described as  a disaster for my parents.  My father's sister was a very hard and cold woman; very demanding and hyper critical.  The most unfriendly person I'd ever encountered. She despised my mother for reasons unknown to anyone.  In short, she made life miserable for them.  Despite all the personal travails that we experience, we were successful.  Our neighbors were very nice to us and we made friends quickly.  The school we kids attended, Angeles Mesa Elementary, was very welcoming and made our lives comfortable.  Both of my parents started work right away; my father at a cheese company in Compton and my mother as a seamstress in the Hyde Park area of Los Angeles.  Three years after arrival, my parents purchased their first house in Compton with 40% down.  Ours was an American immigrant success story.  Despite the odds we prevailed and advanced; we never retreated. The credit for this goes to my mom and dad.  They did the heavy lifting.  Both are my heroes.