An 85 Year Anniversary Worthy of a Champagne Toast

Eighty-five years ago today, my grandmother arrived at Ellis Island. Eighteen years old. She was excited to be joining her sister and brother on these shores, and thrilled to be on an adventure. I never asked her what it felt like to sail into New York's harbor on that November day, if she saw the Statue of Liberty from her ship, what Ellis Island was like, if she was scared or homesick.

Eventually she married my grandfather, a Sicilian who crossed the border from Canada illegally according to family legend. My dad was born 14 years after she arrived here, followed by my aunt a few years later. They lived in what to me felt like a huge house in the Bronx which seemed to be the central meeting place of the entire extended family. Every Sunday, they all gathered there for dinner and catching up on how everyone's week went. My grandmother and her two sisters prepared the meal, my great uncles were charged with bring the pastries for dessert. My cousins and I explored all the spooky corners of the basement, played the William Tell Overture on the Victrola (which now graces my dining room) or played in the garden. To this day, the smell of fresh basil reminds me of that little garden in the Bronx. Odd but true. The day for the adults was spent most around my grandmother's enormous dining room table. As the family grew, there wasn't room for the kids so we ate the kid table. While the adults enjoyed dessert and black coffee, I sat under the giant table, listened to the conversation (80% in Italian, 20% English), and annoyed my aunts and uncles by playing with their shoes. I know that sometimes then I was bored but God, what I'd give to be able to rewind the audio of one of those dinners and hear it as an adult. Or even better yet, have one more of those Sunday dinners with all of them again.

Fast forward many years - my grandfather, my grandmother's sisters and brothers had all passed away. My grandmother was living alone in a small apartment in Scottsdale, still walking to the market every day, totally strong, sharp and self-sufficient (as all Di Bianco women were and are). I was in town for some reason that I can't remember and she asked me to join her for dinner. Just the two of us. Such a far cry from the huge family dinners I remembered from the Bronx. But the food was still just as good (and I can still remember the exact meal she prepared) and she still wouldn't let me help with the meal or do the the dishes. I did ask her then why she made the trip across the Atlantic. I had heard numerous stories about her step-mother which confirmed all the stories I had heard in fairy tales concerning evil step-mothers so I knew that was part of it. The unexpected part was she said that she was madly in love with some boy her father didn't approve of and thought shipping her to her siblings in America would be best. She wondered aloud how her life would have been different had she stayed and I silently thought how would my life be different (or, I suppose, would I even exist?)

My grandmother passed away in 1996 and is buried in Arizona, such a far distance from her native Italy. In her 72 years spent in the US, she never returned to visit. If there is one thing I regret with regard to her, it's that I never traveled back to Italy with her. To have her show me around her town, swim with her off the Maiori coast (even over the point where the fishermen warned her about the octopi living in the rocks which is huge when you know how much stuff in the water freaks me out. I did not inherit a love of swimming in the ocean from her unfortunately) would have been amazing. I know that compared to this girl who moved cross country kicking and screaming, she was certainly the brave one. I so wanted an escape route back home that I made the decision not to sell my Boston home. And while I still think that was a good decision, I wonder how my experience would have been different had I really cut the cord to the east coast. Not that I would have settled in Seattle - way too dreary for me, but still I wonder. And I'm thankful that one 18 year old girl was a true adventurer and sailed into NYC 85 years ago.