First Posted: 5/5/2015
That old trunk has been in my life forever. It is not pretty but is strong with character and a survivor of many decades. I cannot remember if Mama said it is the trunk that she, at the age of 15, traveled with from San Cataldo, Italy to America. It very well looks like that kind of trunk — rectangular in shape, dark wood, standing about 2 feet tall and 4 feet wide with gold flap latches.
I recall as a child the trunk sat against an outside wall in a downstairs bedroom. It was a favorite spot for me. Countless hours were spent playing with cutouts spread across the top it. It was to the trunk that I retreated with a toy piano to plunk at the keys and sing my heart out.
Through childhood days, it never occurred to me to wonder or even ask Mama about the trunk and its contents. It just sat there minding its own business, no questions asked.
When I was 13, we moved from 135 Elizabeth St. to 178 Johnson St. in Pittston and, of course, the old sturdy trunk came with us. There was no downstairs bedroom to store it so Mama had it placed in her bedroom, where it was totally out of décor with her beautiful waterfall, ornate bedroom suite. Again, it was placed on an outside wall, comfortable with its new location and Mama equally as happy.
Through the years, curiosity of the trunk’s contents occurred and I would ask Mama, “What’s in the trunk?” She would respond, “Papers and prayer books.”
“Prayer books? Could I see them?” I asked. She would answer, “You would not understand them. They are printed in Italian.” The trunk was opened only twice for those prayer books when Mrs. Licata from Pine Street called Mama and asked if she could borrow them for a prayer service at St. Rocco’s Church.
I missed the first opening of the trunk but happened to be around for the second. Imagine the anticipation, knowing Mama was going to open the trunk. She carefully lifted the lid, which is quite large and heavy, as I watched and waited to finally see inside. A tan plaid paper covered the top and sides with the same colored divider on which were the prayer books. The lid came up and went down just as quickly but not before I saw a brown paper bag with a white dove inside. Looking at Mama for an explanation, I watched as she quickly retrieved the bag from me with a tear in her eye.
There was an unspoken word or trust that the trunk was Mama’s private domain. Whatever was placed inside was for her alone to know and treasure. Mama passed away in 1983 and, in all that time, as a sacred trust, the trunk remained unopened.
I suppose with old age comes a curiosity to learn more about the past and family history. If Mama had stored papers in the trunk, perhaps she meant passports, Papa’s discharge papers from the United States Army, marriage licenses, baptismal papers and other records.
It was time to open the trunk. I could not do it alone so I asked my brother Joe if we could do it together. We selected a date and did just that. It was an emotional experience as the lid went up and we stood side by side, looking down at the contents of the first layer.
Just as Mama had said, there were the Italian prayer books that perhaps she had prayed with as a child and young girl in la Chiesa del Cappuccini convent where she and her sister Catherine resided for several years. Family wedding photos of favorite aunts and uncles attired in elaborate wedding outfits, two large crucifixes and the brown paper bag. No papers or records.
Lifting the lid, we discovered sheets from J.C. Penney’s, a package of sheets from Grants advertising “Good for 104 Washings by Actual Test,” towels, bedspreads and treasures that her hands had created. Sheets with cut work borders, towels trimmed in lace and crocheted table scarfs — products of the handiwork taught by the nuns at the Capuccino convent.
Joe and I looked into a shrine created by our mother. A woman of simplicity — with great calm, patience, and dignity with a quiet and strong love of her family.
Before closing the lid on the old trunk, I gently placed the brown paper bag with the dove enclosed in its original place. The dove, a symbol used for funerals in the early 1900s, was the one used at Mama’s first child’s funeral. My heart was pounding and tears fell, for in that short time, we had visited a place meaningful to one very dear to us.
I wanted to share the story of Mama’s old trunk today which is Mother’s Day. In a small way, it is my tribute to Mama.
Happy Mother’s Day.
