Summer Retrospective: Part II

In a recent article, Pico Ayer wrote that "visiting a new town is like having a conversation." If you leave your assumptions at home, you can hear whatever your destination is trying to say to you.

In June, I had the opportunity to continue a conversation that I first started four years ago in Sicily. And two years ago I revived that conversation in New York City as I retraced my great-grandparents journey through Ellis Island. This time the city lead me to the Tenement Museum:



In a partially renovated 6-story walk-up, you can participate in a small group tour that will introduce you to some of the families that lived at 97 Orchard Street. It was built in 1863, and almost 7,000 working class immigrants called it home before moving on to other enclaves in the city and around the country.



I think the next time I rejoin this conversation, it will be in the small coal mining towns of western Pennsylvania.

Going on a Wild Strawberry Hunt

A couple of years ago I wrote about my memories of blueberry picking each summer. In fact, I reprized that role just last week so that I could pack fresh, Oregon blues to share with family in Idaho.

But this berry adventure? Well, we're going on a wild strawberry hunt. First, you'll need some transportation. Most anything will do, but a topless jeep sure makes for a fun ride:



You'll also need picking vessels. No buckets here, folks. Paper cups? Just the right size.

Next, find yourself a secluded and overgrown patch of brush along the river. It helps if you have an expert scout in your party. In our case, my mother has been summering in Island Park since the late 1930s, so she knew right where to look.



Now, get yourself familiar with the shape of the plant you're looking for. Once you've found one, lift the branches and look close to the ground for the berries. Don't see any? Me neither. Don't get discouraged. We'll find some eventually.



Ahh,look! Two ripe berries!! Expecting more? Tsk, tsk. This is going to be a lesson in patience and diligence, my friend. Repeat plant checking steps listed above for 1 hour...



...and this is what you'll have at the end of your labors!

Now, get yourself speedily back to camp so that you can clean and chill your berries before the summer heat renders them to nothing more than juicy pulp.



It helps to use a small colander. It will make the berries appear larger and more plentiful. Watch out for sneaky little hands that want to steal them.

Now we're getting to the good part. Fold your berries into some egg whites that have been whipped with sugar. Place this concoction into a graham cracker crust and try to wait until after supper...



Make sure to save a few berries to sprinkle on top!



Mmm, enjoy the fruits of your labors!

"Lazyman's Pie"

1. In a bowl, beat 2-3 egg whites until peaks form.
2. Continue beating egg whites while adding 1/2 cup sugar.
3. Fold in 2-3 cups of fresh raspberries or wild strawberries.
4. Pour mixture into prepared graham cracker crust.

If Someone Had Said That I Would…

liberty in window
Originally uploaded by Katherine H.

If someone had said that
I would one day leave my Island,
the rocky islets, the sunrises on the sea,
the olive groves, the caper fields and the vineyards;
and I would no longer hear
the singing of cicadas during the summer heat,
or wasps buzzing around the pergola
or lizards hiding
In the cracks of walls, but…
I don’t know.
I have brought along with me so many things,
but the dearest and the most precious things
I have left on that Island,
and they appear in my thoughts,
when my misty memory
clears away.
Planted in the islands,
we have uprooted out children
Only to have them grow elsewhere.
In the vineyards now there are only weeds.

Antonia Famularo

Why Did They Leave?

salvatore
Originally uploaded by Katherine H.

Before leaving Ellis Island, there was one last thing I needed to check. I had been told that my great-grandfather's name was inscribed on the Wall of Honor that runs along the north side of the museum.

And yes, near the bottom of Panel 399 was his name: Salvatore Seminatore.

Is your ancestor commemorated on the wall? You can check here.

From Island to Island

front entrance
Originally uploaded by Katherine H.

I don't know how an empty building can capture one's fascination for four hours, but that's exactly what happened.

A couple of months ago I learned about a special exhibit titled, "Sicilian Crossings," that would be showing at the Ellis Island Immigration Museum for only three months.

Visiting New York City has long been on my personal travel list, and when coupled with low air fare and generous friends who provided a bed for me to sleep on -- how could I pass on the opportunity?

Ellis Island has significant meaning to me because my great-grandparents immigrated from Sicily to Pennsylvania via this port of entry. So in the forefront of my mind during my time there was the experience Angela Marie, her three children, and her brother may have had as they were processed among thousands of other immigrants.

The baggage room was on the main level just beyond the entrance. New arrivals were instructed to leave their trunks here while they continued upstairs to the Grand Hall on the second floor.



The Grand Hall was often referred to as the Hall of Babel due to the cacophony of foreign tongues that filled this space, all vying to be heard and understood during a process that could often be fraught with uncertainties.



The floor of the Grand Hall was lined with row after row of wooden benches, where immigrants would sit and wait for medical inspections.





Following their clearance, they would exit the Grand Hall down one of three stairways. The door on the left lead to the ticket counter for passage to New York City. The door on the right was for those leaving for other destinations. And those who were filed through the center door were being detained on the island.



If you were a single woman, or a married woman traveling solo or without a chaperone, you could not leave the island until your husband or another male relative came to claim you.

The Heart in a Suitcase

27 November 1908

It is a Friday in the chill of winter, and a 37-year-old woman arrives in New York Harbor for the first time. Her name is Angela Marie. She is short of stature with a dark complexion, brown hair, and grey eyes. Three of her children are at her side: Maddalena, age 13; Giacomo, age 9; and Gregorio, age 3. Her youngest brother, Cateno, has also made the journey.

She has come to join her husband, who is working in the coal mines in western Pennsylvania. He first left their home in 1902, recruited by a sub-agent of a steamship company promising economic opportunities abroad.

It is the first time they have seen or touched land for several weeks. They left their small village in the Sicilian countryside by two-wheeled, horse-drawn carts for the capital city of Palermo. There they boarded the San Giovanni and endured weeks among 1,800 other 3^rd class passengers bound for America.

They are hoping to leave behind them harsh economic conditions: the destruction of the vineyards by a root-eating aphid, foreign competition in the tuna industry, a crisis in the local sea-salt mines, antiquated sulphur mining practices, and difficulties exporting citrus fruit.

One month after their arrival, an earthquake hits Messina on December 28th, further devastating the island. It kills 60,000 residents and displaces another 80,000 people. An estimated 20,000 of those rendered homeless will find their way to the USA.

Angela Marie is also leaving behind two children, Lucia and Mariangelica, who died in infancy. Her parents, two brothers, and a sister will also anchor her heartstrings to Sicily while her sights are on a future in America.

On a Country Road

Eugene Market
Originally uploaded by Katherine H.

With summer quickly fading, I wanted to take advantage of the warm days and blue skies before the fading daylight and crisp air sweep in the approaching autumn. I had not visited the Eugene Saturday Market yet this season, and I was anxious to follow up on a conversation pointing me in the direction of the Oakhill Pioneer Cemetery. So today I set out for Lane County.

The Saturday Market in Eugene has a unique flavor all its own. Interested in a rune reading? Need the latest in tie-dyed fashions for your little one? Searching for one-of-kind jewelry or perhaps a wind chime for the back porch? Well, a stop at the market will satisfy all of those wishes. Fashion is certainly free-form here, and you’ll encounter a number of merchants and activists who are passionate about what they do.

At the adjacent farmers’ market I stop to pick up some fresh corn on the cob, button squash, and a sweet-smelling summer melon. After consuming a handmade tamale with chunks of potato and a prune nestled in the center, I leave the market to navigate the western reaches of Highway 126.

For the past several months, my dad and I have been on a mission to locate the grave marker of Ellen Hemenway Humphrey. So far, the search has taken me along country roads in Bellfountain, to the Oregon state archives and state library in Salem, and now to the small settlement of Veneta.

Established by John Bailey in 1850, the Oakhill Cemetery covers two sides of a small knoll within sight of the Fern Ridge Reservoir. It has become a resting place for many of the early pioneers who came out west via the Oregon Trail, including my great-great-great-grandfather, Ansel Asa Hemenway. At the crest of the hill bordering the gravel drive sits the marker for part of the Hemenway clan: patriarch Ansel, his wife Abigail, and one of their sons, Urban. After 110 years, signs of age and erosion are particularly evident on the north-facing side of the marker. Still decipherable, however, is a tender inscription:

Tis hard to break the tender cord
When love has bound the heart
Tis hard so hard to speak the words
Must we forever part

After a quiet walk through the cemetery rows, I leave with another piece of the family puzzle in place.

In the Blues

blueberries
Originally uploaded by Katherine H.

Six o’clock in the morning comes very early – especially in the summertime when you’re twelve years old. For three weeks each summer, from the ages of 10 through 15, I earned money for new school clothes by picking blueberries. For most of those summers my mom and my older sister, Beth, were there, too.

By 6:30 am we’d be out in the field, on our assigned row, and reaching for those first few handfuls of cool, morning berries. Not being much of a morning person myself, the thought of wet grass and wet berries combined with the early hour was not very motivating.

My mother had to do a fair amount of cajoling to get us to be productive pickers. She came up with all sorts of techniques. Who could pick the first bucket of the day? Who would have the heaviest bucket? She taught us to clean pick, and pick well, by reminding us to gather up our “lead berries,” berries that had fallen to the ground and would therefore add that extra weight to our bucket. Once one of us was ready to “top off” our bucket before taking it to be weighed, everyone would pitch in those last few handfuls to finish it off.

If you came back with anything less than 15 pounds, well, then, the berries were small (or you just hadn’t been picking very earnestly that morning). Anything over 18 pounds was really pushing it. You ran the risk of losing precious handfuls of berries as you tried to haul it down the row without stray branches wicking off the top, or your own feeble fingers losing their grasp on the handle.

At the end of each day, we’d receive a carbon copy receipt of our total poundage. We’d keep these posted on the side of the refrigerator at home -- a little friendly competition to spur us on throughout the season. One summer we picked one ton (2,000 lbs.) between the three of us.

By two o’clock in the afternoon the harvest would be done for the day. The truck would be arriving soon to pick up the flats, as the escalating heat would only crush the berries. Sometimes as an afternoon treat, mom would take us to the city park along the Columbia River where we could cool off in the water and play in the waves from the river traffic.

Today I went out to Fordyce Farm in northeast Salem at a more civilized hour, and picked at a rather leisurely pace. I was reminded of the solitude of the blueberry patch, and how good a cool breeze feels when you’re out working in the sun. I paid $4.50 for my 5.8 pounds of fresh blues.

A Trip to Bellfountain

Bellfountain cemetery
Originally uploaded by Katherine H.

After many far-flung road trips in recent weeks, I wanted somewhere relatively close to explore today. In a cubbyhole of my mind was a faded memory about Bellfountain, Oregon, and a family reunion held there over two decades ago. I remember my Dad rolling out a long sheet of colored butcher paper on the park picnic tables which traced the various family lines, and inviting everyone there to add to or clarify their information. I remember the requisite family photograph and a ball game with cousins I didn’t really know very well. So with Father’s Day this weekend, it seems apropos to pay tribute to a bit of family history.

Four miles off Highway 99 W in the corner of Benton County is the intersection that forms the hub of Bellfountain. The hill on the northeast corner proudly displays a well-kept community church. To the southeast is the Bellfountain Cornerstone Christian School, already at recess for the summer. On the southwest corner sits an abandoned, dilapidated storefront and two weed-encrusted gas pumps. Painted in script on the front of the pay station are the words, “Gone Fishing.” One gets the impression that this is a permanent fishing trip. To the west is the town park, the location of that family reunion so many years ago.

When I returned to Salem, I called my Dad to see how we were related to the names on the grave markers I had photographed. I should have called him prior to my trip. I didn’t realize that so much of his immediate family history is rooted in the rolling farmland around Bellfountain.

The community park sits on land that once was part of the Humphrey family farm. Over time, great-uncle George divvied up the land among his four sons. It’s where my grandfather, Eston Bruce Humphrey, and his father, Walter, were both born. Since then, it has changed hands outside of the family. The patch of hillside where the old cemetery is fenced off has a good clan of Humphrey men and their Perin wives resting underneath the douglas fir trees. It was a good reminder that I need to have more conversations like that with my Dad.


*The title is inspired by the 1985 film, The Trip to Bountiful, in which a woman in her twilight years yearns to return for one last visit to her childhood home in Bountiful, Texas. Geraldine Page was awarded an Academy Award for her work in the movie.

Of Mausoleums and Monuments

Villarosa cemetery steps
Originally uploaded by Katherine H.

For those unfamiliar with Italian burial practices, it is commonplace to construct a family mausoleum where family members will be laid to rest for as long as someone pays the rent. Old tombs that are not maintained will be emptied, the remains transferred to a potter’s field, and the mausoleum rented to another family.

I found the two cemeteries I walked through in Villarosa and Santa Catarina Villarmosa fascinating. Some of the mausoleums are quite elaborate, and look like miniature chapels. I was often struck by the contrast between new and old, and I always wondered what the story was behind some of the oldest monuments.

Another common practice is to place a photo of the deceased relative directly onto their headstone. At first I thought this a bit odd, but grew to like the personal aspect this lends each mausoleum. There is a wealth of historical and family history information to be found in Italian cemeteries, although you shouldn’t expect to find many graves prior to the late 1800’s unless the family has remained in the area and maintained the tomb.

Later in the day I returned to San Giovannello for the lunch hours, and noticed accumulating clouds. The storm was expectant, but slow to break. First loud rumblings echoed throughout the valley. I kept listening and watching. Finally, the rain arrived. Mild at first, as the terra cotta tiles became spotted than soaked in the downpour. The valley misted over, losing all distinction of the mountains encircling it. Finally, lightning and crackling thunder. I had a grand location for watching the storm, and the fresh smell such a rain leaves behind.

The Day of the Animals

Cows on road
Originally uploaded by Katherine H.

Today was the day of the animals. I first encountered a cow and calf on the road between Villarosa and Enna. As I explored Sperlinga, stray cats were abundant all over the cliff. Next, a group of goats was being herded on the road to Alimena. And finally, on my way home in the dark I came upon a rather large herd of cows headed home on the north side of Villapriolo. Fortunately, I had slowed down in reaction to cars that had stopped on the opposite side of the road. It wasn’t until I was practically in the middle of the herd that I even saw them. This stop-and-go process continued for nearly 1 km, and I had to laugh to myself when the last herdsman I saw was prodding his cattle along while talking on his cell phone. I guess there are only so many ways to make cows move, but technology sure has advanced!

As I walked up the hill from breakfast to my room this morning, I noticed that Tuddi had arrived with company. I meet his daughter, Maria Concetta, and his granddaughter who is not quite yet two years old. They live in Villapriola, a frazione of Villarosa just 4 km away.

This morning Tuddi accompanies me to the photography shop of Salvatore Seminatore on the main street in Villarosa before I continue on to Enna. We stop and talk for a few moments, and I learn that his grandparents are Salvatore and Guiseppa Seminatore. They also emigrated to the United States. He does, however, share a popular birthdate: 25 November (his, mine, and my biological great-grandfather’s).

I met with much success at the Archivio di Stato this morning. The gentlemen employed there were very helpful and explanatory. Between my English and Spanish, and their Italian and French, we figured out what we needed to. We were able to verify five Seminatore children born in Villarosa, along with Salvatore and Angela Marie’s births. Additionally, I learned that Salvatore’s mother’s surname was Marchione. I now have approximate years of birth for both of his parents based on their ages recorded at the time of his birth. With this information, we then went in search of their marriage records, which would have the names of their parents. Unfortunately, we did not find it during the years we thought that we would. The Archivio di Stato doesn’t have any civil records for Villarosa prior to 1824.

This means one of two things: (1) A search of the records of the chiesa madre (church) in Villarosa or the Municipio (town hall) may turn up something, or (2) Maddalena Marchione was born in another neighboring town and they were married there as was the predominant custom at the time. With this knowledge, when I return to the United States, I will search the records of Santa Caterina Villarmosa, a small town about 15 km from Villarosa that also has had a high concentration of Seminatores in the past.

I return to San Giovannello to rest, eat lunch, and plan my afternoon. I decide to explore the small mountain towns of Sperlinga and Nicosia. As it was, I missed one turnoff, so ended up taking the “scenic route” that also took me through Alimena and Gangi. I didn’t mind though, as the hills were saturated with wildflowers in vibrant hues.

One of Sperlinga’s unique features is the giant sandstone cliff around which it is built. Many cave dwellings have been carved out of the surface, and some are still inhabited. Visitors are welcome to walk around and explore several of the old dwellings which have been filled with items that would have been used by their inhabitants many years ago. I also wanted to see the Norman castle that is perched at the top of the cliff, but was unsuccessful at finding the road that would take me there. I tried several, but decided to continue on because I wanted to reach Nicosia.

Nicosia turned into a bit of a frustrating experience for me. All those narrow streets and alleys running up and down the hills really tried my patience. I’ve decided all these maze-like towns remind me of clusters of barnacles clinging to the mountaintop. I had wanted to see the painted ceiling of the cathedral, but soon tired of the search. I found a place to park my car, and walked some of the streets for a while, but ultimately ended up heading back to San Giovannello for the night.