In the early 1900’s, rural Sicily and southern Italy remained a feudal land with a permanent underclass. My grandparents’ difficult and courageous escape from Italian oppression to North America benefited the family.

My maternal grandfather father, Antonio, was born in Volturino, Provincia Di Foggia, Puglia, Italy, the Achilles heel of the Italian boot. Though details of his past are unclear, it is said that he was raised in a monastery where he received an education and frequently sang opera. He arrived at Ellis Island on March 14, 1906, aged eighteen and alone. He traveled throughout the northeast and was a boxer and laborer and in 1914 he worked as an engineer on the Lackawanna and Portland railroad.

At the onset of World War I, Tony was presented with the option of enlisting in the army or facing deportation back to Italy. In 1917 (29) he drove troop transports on the battle front where the Germans introduced chemical warfare with mustard gas. He was wounded and received the “purple heart” the details of which are unsure and returned to the states.

From Sicily to America: A Journey of Grit and Perseverance

My mother’s father was a tough man, which suited him for the wild prohibition era (1919-33). He settled in Easton, Pennsylvania. I recall my grandfather Tony as man’s man, protective and physical and a no-nonsense person. He was a laborer in the Sanco Dye Mill in Phillipsburg, New Jersey and after hours cooperated with the regional demons. The leaders respected "Tony".

My maternal grandmother, Anna was born in the idyllic colorful seaside town of Giovinazzo, Provincia di Bari, Italy. She read and wrote Italian. She immigrated to the USA on Oct 28, 1920, at 28 years and single. She was sent to America against her will and lived with her cousins in New Village, an Italian immigrant enclave in western New Jersey. Her sister Christina lived in Easton. In 1922, at the age of 30, she married Tony and had one daughter, Angelina my mother, and six sons. It was the depression era, and they owned a small two-story wood-framed, end-of-the-row home on seventh street in Easton. They were the only Italian family in “Dutch town.”

My paternal grandmother Donna Maria was a garment worker who spoke affectionately of the beauty of coastal Santo Stefano di Camastra. She described the beautiful flowers, the citrus fruits, and the Lemon-orange scented air in “Sicilia.” Maria was born in 1892. She arrived in 1914 at age 22 under the custody of her brother Carmello. In 1915 she married her first love in Santo Stefano, Sicily. His name was Alfonso Zaffiro. She gave birth to two children, Alfonso and Anna.

Tragedy on the Railroad

Donna Maria's husband was employed as a lamplighter on the Central New Jersey Railroad. Lamplighters carried a long pole with a lit wick on the end, to ignite the lamps along the tracks. This task was both hazardous and required a high level of responsibility, as the lamps needed to be ignited in a precise sequence. If a lamp went out, it had to be relit immediately to maintain safety. They rode horses up and down the railway so they could cover more area. Lamplighters ensured signals were visible and stations were well-lit for safety. One fateful night, in 1916, his horse became startled while he was working. Tragically, Alfonso fell under an oncoming train and was killed. He was just 26 years old.

Being a widow with children in 1916 was difficult financially and socially. Maria was introduced to Ignazio Arangio by her brother, Carmello, and they married in 1919. It was not love at first sight. Don Ignazio was silent on his hometown and family in Italy. He was recorded as a "laborer" on the Ellis Island passenger list.

Ignazio was born in 1883 in Motta D’Affermo, Provincia di Messina, Sicily, on the rough-and-mountainous northwest coast.  It's located about five miles and 700 feet above sea level from Santo Stefano. He immigrated to the USA in February 1913, at 30 years old and single (scapolo). His “custodian” was Guiseppe Arangio on Cedar Alley in Phillipsburg, New Jersey. Ignazio adopted Maria’s two children, and they had six children of their own. My grandparents’ difficult and courageous escape to L ‘America from oppression benefited the family.

Family, Traditions, and the Lessons That Shaped Me

Italians blended into a community of blue-collar German, Polish and Irish families. Most of our Italian community came from coastal Santo Stefano di Camastra or Motta D’Affermo, between Messina and Cefalu. The view from this peaceful 700-foot antique perch in the heavens is breathtaking. Motta is neat and well-kept by proud people and Motta has an inordinate percentage of its sons in the Carabinieri (National Military Police), an honor with significant anti-crime implications.

The Stefanese and Mottese formed a close-knit community on the “flats,” low land in town. They found the streets were not “paved with gold.” My paternal grandfather, with whom I lived, worked at Warren Pipe Foundry. His job focused on repairing bricks in the lower blast furnaces after melting iron at 1500°C. It was a hot, soot-filled workplace.

Exposure to soot triggers inflammation in the lungs, causing the body to release immune cells and chemicals that can interfere with DNA repair. Over time, this damage increases the risk of developing skin and lung cancer, as seen with elevated levels of a protein called Serum Amyloid A (SAA), which has been linked to these diseases.

One day, when I was eight years old, my grandfather was coming home from work with a soot-covered face and looking dirty. I ran and hid behind a car. My uncle Lou saw me and asked why I was hiding. I told him. He took me by the hand and told me to give my grandfather a big hug and a kiss. I loved my grandfather, and I gave him a big hug and a kiss and “nonno” Ignazio smiled. I learned an important lesson that day.

On Friday evenings, we gathered in the Frinzi family yard and Tom, Sam, and Mike sang and played guitars and the mandolin. Another neighbor, Joe, played the accordion. We sang Italian folk songs and popular American songs. They were wholesome times.

In August, we celebrated the Sicilian feast of the Solemnity Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary (Maria Assunta) in authentic fashion. It is celebrated in towns in the Province of Messina, Sicily, on August 15th. An Italian marching band played “number 9”, the familiar Italian mazurka. The flag showing the Blessed Mary was carried around the Italian neighborhoods and people pinned money to the flag. Block parties followed.

Years later, Judy and I were in Motta D’Affermo, Sicily, in August and the festival procession was eerily familiar – as was the familiar “number 9” mazurka.

We played Briscola and Bocce and Briscola’s cousin Pinochle – lots of Pinochle. Briscola is a mediterranean trick-taking card game for two, three, or four players. The game is played with a standard Italian forty-card deck with one-time bidding. Bridge is a more sophisticated trick-taking card game. Bocce is a ball sport belonging to the boules sport family, related to the French pétanque. They both have a common ancestry from card games in the Roman Empire.

I walked to-and-from school daily. It was only a few blocks from my home - up Sitgreaves St, past Ann and Wally Gallagher’s bar, right on Stockton St., past the shoe repair shop, and Chief’s “candy store.” After the candy shop I crossed cedar alley, past the 5 & 10 cents store and, at the light, across South Main St., and to my final destination at Saints Phillip and James Parochial School. It was a safe and friendly walk.

Donna Maria’s Tale of the Tail: How a Family Legend Gave Me Confidence

When I was around 10 years old, I was smaller and heavier than average and would be teased by the older children in the neighborhood. After a while, I told my grandmother (mom) what had happened. Well, Donna Maria grabbed my shoulders and sternly looked into my eyes and told me about my “tail.” “You see, when you were born, you had this tail,” she said. "It gave you great strength.” I listened intently. “So, to protect the world and the other kids from your super strength, we had your tail removed,” she explained. She then proceeded to have me feel the small indentation at the base of my lower spine. And there it was, a small depression where my tail had been.

Donna Maria told me I was still strong. She said: “You go up to the corner and look those boys straight in the eyes; you tell them about your tail and tell them they were truly fortunate that you had your tail cut off. They should be careful what they say to you in the future.” I marched up to the corner and did just as she said. They were astonished, and it worked.

I had told that story, humorously, many times. Fast forward 30 years and I was reading about the development of the lumbar spine, and I came across an article, “What causes a vestigial tail?”. Are you kidding me, I thought. I read the following: “While tails are rare in humans, tail-like structures found in the human embryo. A vestigial tail disappears in most people. When a vestigial tail remains after birth, elective surgery may be the treatment and removing the tail may increase self-confidence." Turns out, having a tail doesn’t come with super strength—just a higher chance of needing a tailor for custom pants. Thanks for the confidence boost, “mom.”

My family encouraged education, and I spent many nights at the kitchen table completing my homework. I enjoyed math, mechanical drawing, and literature. I was in the Honor Society throughout my school days. The sisters of Mercy were good teachers, particularly in the Arts.

The left side of my report card reflected that I was an A student but the right, the behavior side, reflected that I was a bit overactive. One of my warts, the red “U” for unsatisfactory, plagued me in grammar school. The sisters were no-nonsense judges, juries, and executioners. They were supported by the priests and lay teachers and our parents. Punishments were deserved and occasionally the nuns got it wrong but there were no appeals. "Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die." (Proverbs 23:13-14) Times have changed.

Lifting 200-Pound Blocks of Ice Transformed Me from a Chubby Kid to a Powerhouse

My family encouraged integrity, responsibility, discipline, and teamwork. My Uncle Matt had an ice business. From the early 1800’s, cooling with ice transformed the food industry. In the summer of 1955 at 12 years old, I started to work on Uncle Matt's ice truck. Working on “the truck” was a family rite of passage. He chopped and I carried. In a few households and restaurants 25 and 50-pound blocks of ice were used in “iceboxes” that were made of wood and insulated with tin. Also, retail markets needed chopped ice for meat and fish displays.

At one market, to fill the case, I would carry thirty, 50-pound buckets (1500 pounds!) of chopped ice on my shoulder, up two flights of stairs. It was a killer, and I loved the work. After the second summer, I had grown five inches and transformed 160 pounds of chubbiness into 190 pounds of muscle. I was blessed to have had the camaraderie of my Uncle Matt and the exercise too. I was in great shape for high school sports, especially football.

In the late 1940’s, New Deal loans encouraged Americans to make the switch to electricity in the home and business. Most homeowners and businesses had given up their iceboxes and ice cases for affordable electric refrigeration. By 1958, electrified refrigeration displaced ice and the era of the “iceman” and “the ice truck” ended.

During my teens I was allowed to go to “Chief’s” store on the way to school and was the local “hang out.” The store was about twenty by 20-feet where Chief sold candy, gum for a nickel, popsicles, and soda “pop”. Chief's store had two nickel-a-game pinball machines, and guys smoked there. Chief was a short and kind Italian American who spoke good English, and my family trusted him. He did not allow acting out or bad language. The public-school guys called his store the “cat-lick kids” hangout. I cannot recall any girls frequenting Chief's. I did not smoke or play pinball, but it was my go-to place where I listened and learned some stuff. It was a part of Americana, and part of growing up on the “flats.”

In Catholic school, being chosen to study to be an altar boy was a “big deal.” Yes, just boys and no altar girls. You need to learn Latin. My friend Nick and I trained as altar boys in fifth grade. He and I memorized Latin responses. I still remember “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam". The translation of this phrase from Psalm 42 in the Latin Bible is “to the God who gives joy to my youth.” By sixth grade we were serving Mass regularly. My family and I were proud of my appointment. Nick and I served the 5 am Sunday Mass for several years. I recall those chilly winter mornings running to the sacristy (preparation room) behind the altar where the priest celebrates Holy Mass. We were never late. I have no knowledge of any priests treating altar boys inappropriately. Nick became a priest and I a surgeon. Years later, Father Nick married Judy and me.

A Rainy Day, a Locked Gym, and a Life Lesson on Windows vs. Doors

One Sunday afternoon it was raining, and Jimmy, Tommy and I could not play basketball on our school’s outside court. So, we decided to play basketball in the school auditorium, but the door was locked. Jimmy was a tall and lanky kid, and I was short and sturdy. With full exposure on Stockton Street, Jim climbed on my shoulders, and he entered through an unlocked window, and opened the side door. We cleared the bingo tables and began playing basketball. About fifteen minutes later there was rattling at the door and we saw the figure of a policeman through the frosted window. We “innocently” opened the door and officer Werley gave us a stern reprimand and led us to Monsignor Lannery’s office. The Monsignor was not happy, and our parents were called. After appropriate scolding and discipline, my father admonished “if windows were doors, they would have doorknobs.” It was another wart, and another lesson I learned.

I thank God, for the United States of America, and for my family and my mentors who helped me, gave me security, the excitement for living and the meaning of the sanctity of life.

Until next time, God bless you.

George A. Arangio, M.D.

P.S. Keep We Talk with God at your bedside and share it with your family.

P.P.S. Please ask three (3) of your family and friends to read We Talk with God. It may be the answer to their prayers. And give a rating and a review. Thank you.

Summary:

This story traces my great grandparents' journey from rural Italy to America, overcoming hardship and forging a new life. From my great grandfather’s time as a railroad worker and WWI soldier to my great grandmother’s reluctant immigration, their struggles shaped our family’s resilience. May dad shares childhood memories—working on an ice truck, playing bocce, facing bullies with a legendary "tail" story, and sneaking into a locked gym—each offering life lessons. His tight-knit Italian community, traditions, and strong family values provided security, discipline, and laughter. Through it all, Dad gained a deep appreciation for hard work, integrity, and the sacrifices that built my family's future.

George A. Arangio, M.D., is the author of We Talk with God, a scripture-based guide to God’s advice that will boost your spiritual energy, bring you peace, and enrich your life. It is full of simple lessons. It shows how God’s Word guarantees answers to life’s important questions. It may also be the answer to your prayers. Please read it and write a review on Amazon.com. For further insights and discussion, visit WeTalkWithGod.com.