The first Ferrara home in NJ, ten kids and two parents. Amazing!

Abstract: 

One of my favs about writing a book about my Italian-American family.  Lots of fear and lots of fun!

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My sister and I recently (in 2012) hired Stories Inc., “a life history company committed to helping families document, preserve and share their loved one’s experiences and stories.”

[2019 Update: The firm has a different focus now but still does fantastic work for all its clients.]

This amazing company is now responsible for interviewing my family members and compiling the “story” of our Italian-American clan, the Ferraras.

Sounds really cool and fun, right?  So why the scary title?

After my interview, which took 2.5 hours here in D.C., the founder of the company asked if she could accompany me on a trip to the homeland . . . no, not Italy . . . New Jersey.

She wants to see where my grandmother and her extended family lived.  She also wishes to take photographs and interview the living members of her generation.

No big deal, right?  I mean traveling to Jersey is never an issue for me.  When I drive there and hop on the Jersey Turnpike, I get goose bumps!  I think of all the crazy fun stuff I got into as a kid.  I mostly have very fond memories, both real and embellished.

Many of my blogposts share the pearls of wisdom of  my grandmother Santina (“little saint” in Italian).

The town my family historian wants to visit is called Cliffside Park.  This is the place where my great grandfather eventually settled, and in which he raised his family and created a thriving construction business.  No, not the kind of “waste management” business you see on the Sopranos . . .

He and my great grandmother raised ten kids in a small house and as each one of their children wed, he or she got a house within a block or two of the original.

My grandmother lived in this neighborhood her entire life – 84 years.  I swear my 5’ 0” great grandfather designed his properties for hobbits, the ceilings did not exceed six and a half feet.  Every time I visited my grandmother I would smack my head on every light fixture and door jam!

I last visited her house a few days before she died in 2002, almost ten years ago as I write this blog.  I purposefully left the hospital that day after sitting with my grandmother and drove with my cousin to her house to collect one item:  her sauce pot (2019 Update: still have it safe and secure].  To me it was a symbol of her love and dedication to taking care of her family.  I vowed never to return to that house after she died.  I have a strict, albeit strange, policy of never returning to a place that served its purpose in my life.

For years after her death I would touch the handle of the sauce pot before I left my house each day.  Sounds kinda corny, I know, but it always made me smile and gave me strength.  I adored that woman, wholeheartedly.

So when I have visited New Jersey since then, I have never gone back to the old neighborhood.  It has not been difficult since only one of my grandmother’s sisters still lives there (2019 Update: she passed away earlier this year, only two siblings remain of the ten born in the early 20th century).  The family has spread out (still in Jersey mostly, of course!).

I did not want to see Cliffside Park without my grandmother living in it.  I wanted it to die with her.  That is silly, I know, but she was larger than life . . . the town and her were, in my eyes and in my heart, one in the same.

So I am scared . . .

Let me be clear, the fear is not grounded in a belief that anyone in my family will say something salacious or inappropriate to the interviewer.  This is not a tell-all biography; it is an oral history of an extraordinary family and how food helped to foster and cultivate connection.  Instead the fear is grounded in private and personal realizations I may have about me as a result of the trip.

What kind of realizations am I afraid of anyway?  Perhaps realizations about how difficult a child I once was, about the hassle and fuss I always seemed to cause, about the trouble I always seemed to be in and the stresses and strains I caused Santina and others.

Or maybe, just maybe, that will be true and I will realize how a beautifully kind and generous woman always defended “her Scotty,” and left me feeling more loved than any boy could ever hope for.  Perhaps I will remember how she cared for people she hardly knew, how she rarely judged (unless you were her daughter or granddaughter!), how she acted with grace and compassion during times of trouble and how she laughed when she said something silly.

Most of all, I will remember how she, more than anyone, taught me the value of self-love and self-compassion.  OK she was not a saint, but she was indeed, my “little saint.”

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If you have any questions about coaching please feel free to contact me at scott@kineticcoaching.co, and remember I always offer a complimentary 30-45 minute session to prospective clients to determine if we want to work together.