CHAPTER 1
The Journey Overseas
In 1959, in Napoli, Italy, my parents, Carmine and Rosaria Morrone, stood with their three children, looking down over the huge ship's railing, waving to all the people and their relatives. They tried their best to smile, but couldn't help the tears from streaming down their faces, all the while friends and relatives on land did the same, trying to keep the parting of their loved ones remembered with a sad smile. They did not know when they would be able to see or hear each other again, nor did they know what they would find in the country where they were headed. However, they were leaving with reassurance that their new land would be a better one to raise their family, with more richness and goodness, even if they would not be able to understand the language at first and did not have a lot of money for a fresh start. All in all, they knew it wasn't going to be easy. The most painful thoughts, however, were those associated with losing that safe feeling of being in their birth land with all their loved ones, especially their parents, knowing they wouldn't have their daily support. Sad bitterness was felt deeply in all their hearts.
It was February 7, 1959, a bitterly cold and windy winter day when the Ispettorato ship departed from Italy's port to go on a ten-day journey, arriving in Halifax on February 17, 1959. Once it arrived at the port in Halifax, my family had to take a taxi to the train station, after which we would head to Toronto.
We arrived in Toronto on February 19, 1959, a snowy and cold day. We were very tired though incredibly grateful to have arrived, while feeling sadness to have left all our relatives behind in Italy.
We were so pleased to see our Uncle Frank, and he was waiting at the train station with so much happiness and eagerness to see his little sister Rosaria and her family. And so our journey ended, but in so many ways it was only the beginning.
CHAPTER 2
My Childhood
When my parents arrived in Toronto, my sister Emilia was seven, I was four and my other sister Maria was one year old.
My father was the youngest of his twenty-one brothers and sisters, and his father had passed away. Being the youngest child, his mother was very attached to him. When my father left Italy, his mother couldn't accept him leaving, and thinking that she might never see him again, she took sick. She stopped eating out of sadness, and after three weeks, the harshness of the separation took over her health and she passed away at the age of seventy.
With the war taking place, my mother was always kept in her parents' house. Her parents were worried that if she went out, the war soldiers might rape her. She was also the youngest of the five children; therefore, she never attended school and never learned how to read or write.
My father chose not to go to school. Being the youngest, he was given money from his brothers and sisters. He would go into town and watch movies, eat, buy himself what he wanted and enjoyed himself.
My parents were both born in 1930. They didn't have any formal education. They were sponsored by my mother's brother Frank. Hoping for a better life, for themselves and their children, they left Italy, leaving behind their home, loved ones and childhood memories. They arrived in Canada not knowing what was to come of their lives.
After settling in, with my dad working hard and saving their money, they bought their first house in 1960. My parents had a house where they lived and also rented to families. One family lived upstairs, another in the basement and we lived on the middle floor.
Our home was located on 16 Stonehouse Crescent, in the middle of Dufferin Street and Gladstone Ave. At the side of the house was a laneway and our garage along with a big backyard.
Everything we needed was close-by, all walking distance –– the church, school and stores.
The children's bedroom had one huge bed where we all slept. We also had a large window that looked out to the front of the house. Our bedroom was also where we kept our only television. Our parents' bedroom was next to ours and the baby's crib was in their room. Our home was always overfilled with people coming and going, there was always lots of noise and things were constantly happening. But we always had our dinner together as a family, sitting down and eating together, and talking about the day's events with love.
We had been in our home for about one week. My mother went to the corner store to buy bread, and I was left behind. It was cold outside and there was snow on the ground. Wearing my pyjamas with no socks and no shoes, I opened and closed the front door, and went outside looking for my mom. I must have been four-and-a-half years old. After a little while, with no success at finding my mom, I was cold and started crying.
A policeman on his motorcycle came by and stopped his bike. He picked me up and talked to me, though I didn't understand what he was saying. I didn't know how to speak English at the time. Though I remember I liked him and felt safe with him. He went to some of our neighbours' doors but nobody recognized me. My sister didn't open the door to anybody, so the policeman put me on the back of his bike –– there was a seat in the back –– put a blanket on me and tookme to the police station. I liked it there. All the policemen fussed over me, giving me candy and chocolate, and even went out to buy me shoes (pretty ones), as well as colouring books to keep me busy.
The next thing I recall was seeing my mother; I ran to her and I remember she had tears in her eyes. I told her I was okay and having a lot of fun. The real estate man talked both English and Italian. My mother called him for help because I disappeared and naturally she was scared. He asked the neighbours and they told him that the police knocked at their door with a little girl. That's how they found me. When we went home, I got in trouble and was not to tell my dad what had happened. My mom was so happy that she arrived home before he did, as he would have blamed my mom for what had happened.
My dad was overprotective of all his children. We would have to lie all the time that we had strange things happening to us. For example, at school, after fighting with friends, I would have to tell my dad that I got hurt on my own or that we fought with each other at home.
As a child, I had a problem pronouncing words. If someone would ask, "What is your name?" I would answer, "Fracula." If my mother was beside me, she would slap me across my face and I'd feel very embarrassed. My dad always called me "Francusa," which was my name with a debarment added at the end that meant "little one." Well "Francula" is a bad word in Italian, and that's the version I was able to pronounce, which is why I was scared to say my name, especially when I had my mom with me.
One beautiful summer day, as I was playing in the garden, I fell on a rusty nail and hurt my hand. My mother cried all the way to the doctor. She was worried that my hand was going to be infected. I tried to comfort her by telling her it did not hurt and that my hand was going to be okay. I was also praying that Dad wouldn't get too upset with her. Well my hand got better and my dad didn't seem too upset.
My parents also worked part time on the weekends at a farm in an attempt to make extra money. My dad worked full time at a rubber company and my mom worked at home peeling onions. We would receive pails of onions in the morning. The next morning, the company truck would pick up the pails of onions that were peeled and leave us additional pails for that day's work.
My mother was busy cooking, taking care of us, cleaning the house and earning money peeling onions. We had no choice but to help her. We may not have liked it at the time, but sitting down and peeling onions with my mother offered us valuable time together. We would cry from the onions, then laugh together and sometimes we'd even fight. After we finished with the onions, we would try to help each other with our homework. Then our dad would come home and I always made sure I was the first one to run and give him a big hug and kiss. After he greeted us all, we'd sit down for supper and afterwards we'd help clean up. Later, if the weather was nice, we would go and play outside. I remember playing hide and seek, hopscotch, double rope or skip-rope, and even jump rope. Then we would go inside to clean ourselves and watch some TV. Sometimes our dad would even tell us stories.
Every morning during my youth, getting ready for school was the same. We had to share one bathroom and had to make sure we had cleaned the bathroom and fixed the bed. After all our things were ready for school, we would sit down for breakfast, and every morning it was the worst event of the day. My mom would combine chocolate Quik and a raw egg, then beat it in our milk. When I drank the milky parts of the raw egg, yolk would be stuck at the bottom of the glass. It almost made me sick to my stomach. It was her way of thinking that we would keep strong. After we were finished, we would have our cereal.
Next, we fixed our hair, which was also the same thing every morning. My mom would let us sit down and then we would have to pick a spot on the wall and not move our heads because she had to get us ready in time for school. If we moved, we would get the comb slammed on our heads and it would hurt.
Every morning we'd get the same lecture. My mother would say, "I am your mother at home and your teacher is at school, and if there's trouble at school, there will be trouble at home too!"
The best part of the morning was the hugs and kisses and I love yous, after which I would go to school happily skipping and singing all the way.
Every morning at school, the first thing we'd do is sing "God save the Queen." I didn't enjoy the song and would always say to myself, "God save all of us." After that, we would sing "O Canada" –– that I enjoyed!
One time, when I was about seven years old, my mom had to go out and she didn't take me with her. I wanted to go to the park and my older sister was supposed to take care of us. I didn't listen to her and went to the park with my younger sister. I had a bathing suit but my sister didn't so she wore her underwear and I made a top out of a cloth. We had a lot of fun and we forgot about the time. We went swimming in the outdoor pool, played on the swings and climbed on the monkey bars. We ate our lunch, which I prepared, which included sandwiches, cookies, bananas and drinks. Then we coloured in our coloring books. When we got tired, we went home. We were very happy, singing and skipping all the way home. My mother had arrived about twenty minutes before us. She knew where we were because my sister had told her. She was waiting for us to come home, and she was really mad!
First, she screamed at us and asked us why we didn't listen to our sister. She made us promise we would not go out anymore without her permission. Then came the worst part: we had put out our hands and with my Mom's rubber slipper, she hit us on our hands over and over. Tears poured down our faces and we were not to say anything about what happened to our dad.
Even though our hands were painful for a couple of days, it was all worth it because of all the fun we had. That year, my mother had another baby girl; Lina was born and now we were a family of four sisters.
Our parents made us go to Sunday school, the reason being because we went to a public school during the week, which was closer to home. Alexander Muir Public School was located one block away from our home, plus there wasn't a big street for us to cross. Sunday school was where we were taught our Catholic liturgy.
I did like going to church, and enjoyed getting dressed in my Sunday clothes, wearing my fl owered headband. I felt like a princess. The best part was when my mother gave us money to put in the church basket, but we did not always obey. As soon as church was over, we would use the basket church money to buy ice cream, chocolates, gum –– the church never saw the money!
The day of my first Communion came and I couldn't wait to dress up and look pretty. I was so excited though I was also scared about having to go to confession. I was nervous because I had to clean my soul of all my sins. I had to tell the truth; I had to confess about all the money that I didn't put in the church basket. I prayed for days that I was going to be able to tell the truth. Well I did and it wasn't too bad –– thank God. I had to say so many "Our Fathers" and "Hail Marys," and it felt so good to confess. I felt clean, holy and wonderful.
When my father had the time, sometimes he would take my older sister and me out so my mother had two less children to take care of. My father took us to Dufferin Mall to walk around, and then would buy us treats such as candy or ice cream.
He also took us to the movies and sometimes on the way home, I would be too tired from walking, so my father would give me a piggyback ride. I remember hanging onto his neck and putting my head on his shoulders. I felt like I was flying, so happy, safe and filled with love.
Oftentimes, I would say to myself, "One day I'm going to marry a man strong and loving just like my dad." I was so proud of him. After that year, we didn't really walk places anymore because my dad learned how to drive and bought a car. Wow –– I remember that first ride in my dad's car. I looked out the window and felt very, very rich, as those days not everyone had a car.
The year 1963 was a good one. My dad had some extra money from his savings and he bought a second house on our street, number ten, which he rented out.
Then came a horrible day. My dad got sick and he had to go to the hospital for a while, and so he couldn't work for some time. Those days there weren't any sick benefits.
My mother cried and cried as she was afraid for my father's health. I remember feeling scared that my father might die.
I prayed so hard and so many of my prayers included things like, "Please, God, don't let my mom cry anymore and please help my dad get better, and in return I will not be bad again."
Though it seemed as if years had gone by, it really was only a few days of crying and praying. In that time, I had also done so many good things for my mom, especially helping her in the kitchen.
I also tried to be nice to my sisters and to be good in school. Then one day something really good happened. We received boxes of food from the church and an envelope for my mom.
It helped a lot and my mother seemed to be in better spirits. I'll never forget how grateful she was and I felt a wonderful feeling of goodness from the church. Soon after, my dad came home and everything returned to normal.
When I was in grade four, another baby sister was born: Natalie. Now we were five girls. My dad would always tell us what a lucky man he was to have all these girls. He never, ever mentioned that he wanted a boy.
I felt really happy and lucky to have all my sisters, knowing that they would always be my everlasting best friends.
One summer day, my mom was busy and again my sister and me took off and went to the house across the street to pick berries. In order to get the berries, I had to climb the old man's fence and then climb the tree. My sister would be waiting in the laneway with the bucket and I would throw her the berries. I was told and screamed at so many times from the old man not to climb on his tree because he feared I would hurt myself. He didn't care about the berries and of course I loved the berries, and naturally I never did listen to him. Well that day he came running out of his house screaming once again to get down, and he then fell down and started screaming for help. I didn't help, but got so scared and started running. About a half-hour later, I saw the flashing lights of an ambulance, which took him away.
That day I cried and prayed that I didn't kill him. I was so worried and scared, but I didn't tell my mom. I thought that if he died, I would end up in prison and I wouldn't see my family anymore.
I remember praying so very hard with so many prayers that I actually forgot the prayers and had to look them up! Then one day, as I was walking by his house, I heard his voice calling out my name.
Again, my prayers were well prayed and answered. I was so very, very happy, but so scared to look at him. He had a special chair he used to stand and walk. He looked at me and said, "I will not tell your mother about all of this because I made the mistake of not telling her the first time you climbed the berry tree. Plus she has enough on her hands."
In return, I had to help him. I had to go to the store when he needed bread, milk, eggs, etc., which wasn't so bad as the store was only at the corner of our street.
I also had to clean outside the front of his house. On top of all this, my mother was so proud and pleased that I was helping an old man who was in need, and so I had to start calling him uncle.
Anyway, I made sure that when I went to pick the berries, the old man was not home. I will never forget the taste of those sweet and juicy white berries.
