Returns Gladly Accepted

Recently, a friend from New Jersey came to town on one of her semi-annual visits. She's fallen in love with this place since her first visit here four summers ago.

An ancient name for: Ceriana

When she and two of her friends came to town the first time Ceriana was abuzz with their arrival. Being Americans, Rich and I are instantly informed when fellow Americans are in town. The Cerianaschi must assume we all know each other, i.e. "have you seen 'so-and-so' yet, they're from 'such-and-such' is that close to San Francisco?" That summer it was: "have you seen the New Yorkers, do you know them, are you friends?" When we finally met them and learned that they were really from New Jersey we realized that they must have done the same thing most Americans do and "rounded-off" their home location to the nearest place most recognizable to an Italian. My family does it too:  when asked, "da dove sei," instead of saying San José, San Bruno or Millbrae we say, "San Francisco!" Simplification is a necessary thing when language is limited to a few words!

We met "the New Yorkers" at En Tu Furnu where they were holding court with Dario and Esmarelda. The ambience was Bacchanalian as Dario's wine and grappa coursed through everyone's veins. We, Rich and I, willingly joined in the merriment. These were "professional" party people--here for a good time; instantly likeable and bigger than life! One of them, Carol, was an Italian-American on a quest to find her roots in this great country--something I completely understood and appreciated. She spoke an alarming "broken" Italian mixed with Spanish and a few words in a dialect sounding a lot like xeniese--my grandfather's tongue. That night I learned she had grandparents from this region; we had a lot in common!

I made a promise to Carol that someday I would help her connect to her Ligurian heritage using the same method taught to me by my Italian cousins many years ago; namely, a road trip!

It was the 80s when my cousins took me to see the "home" where my grandfather, Giovanni Antonio Allesandro was born! I remember my Grandfather telling me he was born in Chiusola and I remember how excited I was to find it in an atlas; however, on the way there my cousins kept repeating the word, Giandì. After hearing Giandì batted about for the better part of an hour drive, I figured out that that's where we were headed. My cousins were "discussing" the best route to Giandì! I was worried that they were confused, after all, no one in the car actually knew my grandfather as I did; they met him when he visited in the 50s and 60s and even though they were the descendants of Nonno's brother Antonio, I feared they were taking me to the wrong place. I finally spoke up, "non è Chiusola?," I asked. "Si è Chiusola," they answered. "Ma perchè avete detto Giandì?," I asked. They answered with an expression that only a Ligurian-born can properly utter: "eur?" I have no idea what "eur" means or how it's spelled, but whenever there's really no answer to a query, or, if an answer is common-knowledge, "eur?" is uttered. ("Uttered" is the proper word here as the sound of "eur" is bovine-like!) Finally, I saw a direction sign with "Chiusola" clearly spelled out and my frenzied mind relaxed a bit. We took a sharp left and stopped: "Ecco Giandì!" Upon a knoll which the locals “call” Giandì sat a stone dwelling--my grandfather's birthplace! 

Giandì

I cannot write about how I felt the moment I first saw my Grandfather's house so please draw upon an extremely emotional and joyous moment you've experienced; that's what I felt! They took me in the dirt-floored home and showed me the central wood-stove which served two very small rooms. I saw the skylight my grandfather remembered and described to me when I was very little. He told me that chestnuts would occasionally fall onto the skylight and frighten him when he was a little boy. I looked through the skylight and I could make out tree branches and I imagined my Grandfather standing there as a child. My cousins Dina and Fulvio showed me the attic space where they hid from German soldiers during WWII and I sensed the hard-times this home had withstood.

Chiusola, the elusive!

We paid a visit to the local cemetery in Chiusola (yes we were finally in Chiusola). I saw the gravestone of my bisnonni (great-grandparents). I marveled at all the stones with Ghiorzi carved into them. In the States our name was rare but here it thrived--perhaps "thrived" is the wrong word considering where we were standing! 

We then walked to meet my grandfather's nephew, his wife and their son, the only Ghiorzi family still left in Chiusola! These were my cousins and I was especially pleased and relieved to meet the son. Yes, “relieved,” for I realized at that moment that I was not the last Ghiorzi to carry on the family name--it was Renzo's job now!

The next stop was Sesta Godano another name my grandfather mentioned as the comune to which Chiusola belonged. In the Municipio of Sesta Godano I received two certified copies of my grandfather's birth certificate, a document Giovanni Antonio Allesandro had probably never seen or held!

What a day!

Years later, on my 50th, my mother treated our whole family to a trip to these hills where my sisters got their chance to discover family roots as I had years earlier, but with one additional element:  Giandì had earned its own sign!

On this same trip, Dan, my brother-in-law, armed with the name and approximate birth date of his grandfather, got to experience for himself the thrill of discovering family roots in the old country.

Dan's day

When we arrived in Riva Trigoso the first thing we did was ask some old timers if they knew the name: Dentone. Their eyes widened and they began to rattle off who they knew with that name. They asked the spelling and mentioned that "Dentoni" is spelled with an "i" ending and that "Dentone" is pronounced differently; something Dan had heard, and had been questioned about his entire life. In fact, Dan's family had wondered if the spelling of "Dentone" had been changed since they all pronounced the name with an "i" ending. After a lengthy discussion about this, the paesani remembered an old guy known as "Dentunn" and they pointed to their teeth (Dentone means "big-toothed"). After a good laugh, we explained when Dan's grandfather left Riva and where the family settled in America. They also shared the names of their relatives who left Riva for the U. S. , in fact, one man named Stagnaro was related to the well-known Stagnaro's of Santa Cruz, CA.  Dan was the prodigal son returned and the harbormaster presented him with an official Riva Trigoso Yacht-Club T-shirt.  The most emotional moment of the day came when the parish priest found the baptismal record of Dan's grandfather, Felix Dentone.

That was 2007.

And now it was Carol's turn. Her mother had given her a few, rather vague, names of places and a few, more specific, names of people. It's important to keep in mind just how sketchy this information was as it was not Carol's mother's relatives she was naming but rather her "in-law's" information she was recalling. On a list entitled “places” were the names:  Porto, Trebbia, Ponte, Pensa.  With that to go on, I searched my Atlante stradale d'Italia and found a tiny dot on the map labeled Porto, and nearby a river named Trebbia. I couldn't find a Pensa or Ponte anywhere on the map. Carol jumped from her seat on the terrace and immediately called her mom in Jersey! "We found it Ma, we found Porto near a river named Trebbia!" A road-trip was imminent!

We set off from Ceriana and set our sites on Torriglia the largest "dot" near Porto. After a drive past Genova to the coastal town of Chiavari, we aimed for the hills. Winding and winding, up and up we went until we were close enough to ask for directions. A man on a horse pointed us to Santa Maria del Porto.

Porto was abandoned and locked up, "shut as a nun!"--Carol's words, remember she's from Jersey! We knocked on doors and rang every bell we could find but, by the looks of it, the town was deserted. Perhaps Porto had become what many hill-towns in Liguria are now:  a collection of summer residences used occasionally by the decedents of the original families. Refusing to accept this as a “dead-end” we scoured the town for clues checking every mailbox and doorbell for a name that might be on our list. Finally, on the church bell tower was a plaque honoring a priest with the last name of Garbarino--Carol's father’s maternal surname! Without a living soul about, Porto found a way to assure Carol that we were on the right track and with that small sense of accomplishment we drove off to Torriglia for lunch.  

On a wall in the restaurant was a vintage photo of a butcher shop with the name, “Fratelli Garbarino!” As Carol examined the photograph I saw a look in her eyes I’d seen before; the same look my sisters’ eyes had when they entered Giandì; the same eyes Dan had when he saw his grandfather’s name was, indeed, spelled with a final “e” and not an “i” as many had questioned.

Debbie and Giandì

After lunch we walked to the church and found a woman inside who was cleaning the altar area. I asked her if we could check the church archives for Carol's grandmother's baptismal record. She gave us a time to return when the parish priest would be able to help us. Outside the church there were several men and one woman playing bocce and I asked them where we could find a Garbarino? It so happens that Torriglia is filled with Garbarino's and not all of them are related. We were instructed to find the oldest Garbarino who lived in the white house in Pontetrebbia. “Pontetrebbia?” I asked, “sì, sì!” they answered. “Ponte!" Carol screamed, "Trebbia-- the places on my list!" We were off to Ponte where we spent an hour with Eddolo Garbarino and his wife. Eddolo was celebrating his 87 birthday that day and his mind was sharp. He recalled all of the members of his family who immigrated to the Americas but could not connect to any of the names Carol provided him except one. His grandmother and Carol's great-grandmother had the same maiden name:  Casozza! That was enough for Carol; she had found a long lost cugino! Pictures taken; grappa consumed, we explained our appointment with the parish priest and bid our goodbyes to Eddolo and his wife. We returned to Torriglia where a stern pipe-smoking priest granted us 10 minutes to search the archives--10 minutes and not a minute more as he was a busy man. After the better part of an hour, and with a sly grin the priest uttered, "ha ha haaaa." He turned the leather-bound book around and pointed to an entry and there were the names of Carol's great-grandparents and the name of a baby girl baptized on March 30, 1884. The record indicated her name, as being Palmira but Carol's family knew her as Zira. The priest reckoned that Palmira was shortened to Mira and, suggested that, Mira, a fairly common name in the region, became a more endearing Zira. On the margin of the page it indicated Palmira's place of birth as Pensa— another name from the “places” list! The priest also found Zira's sister Paola born in 1886 in a record complete with all of the other confirming names. At that point the tears flowed and the pages blurred. The priest gave us directions to Pensa (an unmarked town), which was nothing more than a knoll (hmmm, sound familiar?) with a couple of homes on top, one of which, we were certain, was the birthplace of "Zira." Our day ended at the cemetery in Porto where we found the headstone of Carol's great-grandfather Giovanni.

There is something about seeing “our” names in old leather-bound books or on tombstones; it affirms the stories we, as the grandchildren of immigrants, have been told by our parents in an effort to keep alive our ties to the old-country. We, at least those of us who listened, seem to share a common "need to know," and as our elder’s memories fade and they, eventually, die off one by one, this “need to know” intensifies in us.

Ours, is largely an oral history, paperwork is often scarce, incomplete or incorrect as we piece together our pasts.  How many names and spellings were changed by an overworked cleric on an average day at Ellis Island? How many of our ancestors were illiterate and accepted whatever name was given them just to get on with their new lives? My dad’s mom, Luigia, could only scratch out the six “letter-shapes” of her given name when she arrived in the U.S. under a mysterious surname; a surname which isn’t even close to the name I eventually found on her birth certificate!  

We'll probably never have a complete picture of the past, there will always be nagging, unanswered questions which might haunt us, in a bad way,  or cause us, in a good way,  to set out on a new adventure. Book your ticket!