From Italy to Chicago

I don’t know as much about my dad’s family because they all stayed in Chicago while we moved around and eventually out West.  My paternal grandmother, Angela Marie, married my grandfather, Pasquale, in Pizzone, Italy in 1918 and then immigrated to the United States.  Angela was born and grew up in Pizzone.  Pasquale’s family left Pizzone during the late 1800s and settled in southern France.  He served in the Italian Military during WWI then moved back to Pizzone when the war was over.  That’s when he met Angela and they married.

After coming to the U.S., they settled in Chicago and had three children – my dad, Tony, Uncle Ralph, and Aunt Marylou. 

My dad and Uncle Ralph were typical urban Italian boys who were doted on by their mother.  Uncle Ralph would stand out on the street shouting up to their third-floor apartment, “Hey, Ma, throw me down a meatball sandwich.”  And she would.  My dad would invite my mom on a date by saying “I’m going to a movie on Friday night.  You wanna come or not?”    Aunt Marylou was 12 years younger than my dad, the light in her Grandpa’s eye, and raised to be a girl who takes care of her menfolk.   Grandma would cook dinner and make something different for everyone (except Marylou) if they wanted it.  I remember my Mom telling me that Grandma came out to visit when I was just a baby.  Mom was cooking fish for dinner.  Grandma said, “What are you making for Tony?”  Mom said, “The fish is for everyone.”  Grandma said, “Oh, my Tony doesn’t eat fish.”  Mom said, “Watch him!” 

I don’t have a lot of memories about Grandpa because he died when I was four.  I remember thinking he was a very tall and strong man (he was 5’6”) and he used to come into the kitchen with chocolate bars on top of his head and make me jump up and down to find them.  Then when he was sick, I remember sitting on his lap one day.  He was wearing blue and white striped pajamas and crying because he didn’t want to leave me.  I didn’t understand what was going on, but it stayed a very strong memory.  When he was in the hospital for the last time, I was left to sit in the lobby with someone.  There was a staircase going up with a rope across it and a sign saying no kids under 14 were allowed up the stairs.  I knew he was up there, and I was crying because I wanted to see him.  That’s my last memory of him.

I don’t think any of my family members were actually in the Mafia, but they were definitely on the periphery.  My mother always remembers that they seemed to have a bit more food and money than a lot of her friends.  Great Grandma would brag that she once took a bullet out of the arm of a mobster.  And she handed down a knife and fork set that, supposedly, one of her Mafia buddies hand carved while in prison.  Also, there is the fun story about how Grandpa Mancini was attending some men’s group in Chicago – primarily because they were all Italian and they served food at the meetings.  Being fairly new to this country, he didn’t always know what was going on.  Then he found out it was a Communist group, so he made the wise decision to not go back!

After we moved to Tucson, Grandma came to visit us a couple of times.  Arizona reminded her somewhat of where she was from in Italy, so she enjoyed the visits.  For some reason, anytime family from Chicago visited us, dad had to put on his cowboy hat and his fake gun and holster and pretend he was shooting them.  I guess that’s what the wild west meant to them.  One time we took Grandma for a drive up Mt. Lemmon and she said the rosary the whole way praying that we wouldn’t go over the edge.  We didn’t.  Although there was a car at the bottom of one of the cliffs that obviously hadn’t made the turn successfully.  It was there for many years as a warning.

The last time we saw Grandma Mancini was shortly after Tony was born.  We took a trip to Chicago to visit her because she had adult-onset leukemia and was not doing well.  She was happy to meet Tony as he would be the one to carry on the Mancini name.  She passed away shortly after our visit.