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My father, Giuseppe, was the eldest son and, from tender years, helped his father with the mill and stone carving. By the time he was seventeen, he realized that his future held very little promise and started searching for some avenue of escape. While running the mill, he saw the possibility of utilizing the bran for the raising of some pigs. A year later, he had half a dozen good fat ones and decided to take them to the nearest market, instead of selling them to middlemen who used to comb those little town for bargains.
At the market place, in the town of Laurenzana, known for horse trading methods, a shrewd butcher made a bid for my father’s pigs, belittling their weight. The custom was to sell on sight. He singled out the fattest pig and asked my father how much he thought it weighed. My father said something like 250 pounds. The butcher, ridiculing the boy, said: “if that pig weighs more than 200 pounds, I will pay you double the price, and if not, I’ll pay you one-half. Let me see if you have any guts.” That was part of the game to beat down the price. My father, undisturbed, asked the butcher if he would lay the bet on 225 pounds, to which the butcher boastfully consented.
The wager was on and the news spread like wildfire. In no time a big crowd closed in, cheering and jeering the venturesome boy who was bucking the old weasel. The two town policemen intervened to keep order in the milling mob, while the pig was being led to the butcher shop, to be killed and weighed.
In the stillness of the suspense, during which only heavy breathing could be heard, the scale tipped at 235 pounds. Beads of perspiration oozed out of the bloated, purple face of the butcher. For once, his sagacity had been deflated by a country boy. It was harder to bear than the financial penalty paid with groaning sounds, before a public which never before questioned his judgement.
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The exaltation of this little triumph stirred my father to write a humorous limerick which was printed and widely circulated.
One day, when a youngster, I was cycling with a friend of mine on a rather long tour. We stopped at a country inn for a modest meal. While filling the order, the hosteler asked our named. When he hear “Campagna,” he inquired: “What town?” I replied: “Castlemezzano.”
“Related to Giuseppe Campagna?”
“His son.”
“Figlio benedetto. How is your father? I haven’t seen him in years. He was a smart kid. I’ll show you something.”
Excitedly, he opened the top drawer of an old credenza and pulled out a roll of newspaper. Peeling off one sheet after another, he finally uncovered a printed page and with gusto began to read the rhymes which my father had written many years past. We celebrated the event with an appetizing meal and delicious cool wine…and no charge.
After the first venture, my father had quite a little success and, having set aside sufficient savings, he proposed marriage to my mother, whom he had courted for some time. Her family took exception, feeling that they were a little higher up, but mainly objecting to the young man’s daring. They preferred someone with less fire. But it was exactly that fire and ambition, surging from the dormant little town, which won the girl’s heart and the wedding took place. The bride was eighteen and the groom twenty-five.
[Anthony’s mother is Agata Maria Taddei Campagna 1862-1951]
My father, a little under medium height, had a personality vibrant with life and energy. High forehead, brushed up black hair, curly mustache, intelligent brown eyes and the handsome cast of our race. Very keen minded, impatient and always on the go, he never slept more than four or five hours.
The instinct of building was also in his blood. He introduced new methods of construction, with lighter materials. This caused much frowning and foreboding on the part of old-timers who, for example, had never seen slender steel beams and wood framing between floors, thinner interior partitions, glazed cement floor tile, instead of the customary brick or flagstone. Nor had they ever seen a waterproofed flat roof.
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(Photo)
Snapshot of my father showing he could handle the plow…and indeed he could in all endeavors of his limited field. From left: Uncle Ralph Campagna and mutual friend, on a visit from America.
Another passion of my father was to own fine, spirited horses, one of which he once sold to a circus.
My mother, on the other hand, was of a happy, satisfied, genial nature. From accounts of her contemporaries and my own recollection, my mother was in her youth a handsome girl. Measuring 5’4″, bubbling with health, with cream white complexion, pink high cheeks, grey blue eyes, wavy hair of light chestnut color, a winsome smile, she was considered the belle of our town. Even in late years, she preserved her good looks and nice figure.
When my mother gave us the great pleasure of joining us here in 1922, I bought for her and modernized the private house where in 1908 I had boarded for $5.50 a week. My brothers Michael and Armino, whom we had sent for in 1911, when my earnings were quite modest, lived with her. It was a period filled with many festive occasions.
My mother had grasped a few words of English but, when introduced to American friends, she just responded with a smile and a gentle…
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…nod. She could walk with us in any fashionable place without embarrassment, carrying herself with poise and dignity.
Our son John was her little pal. From childhood, John had a knack for telling jokes, of which he is now a master. We marveled at the facility with which he translated his funny stories to my mother. In a corner by themselves, they were often seen giggling and writhing.
(Photo)
My mother at the age of 62
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In the summer of 1929 we were taking a trip abroad and invited my mother to go with us. She jumped at the opportunity but, when we were leaving, she insisted on remaining in Castlemezzano for a few months. Later, she wrote that owing to her advanced years, 63 or 64, she didn’t believe advisable to return to America and become a burden to us. No pleading on our part changed her decision and she lived to the age of 89, through all the horrors of World War II, family deaths and distress, with unflinching dedication.
Turning from this aggrieving memory I shall now resume my trail.
My mother was the only child, her father having passed away when she was two years old. Her maiden name was Agata Taddei. Her father came from a family of old time land owners, simple, generous people. He left a comfortable estate but, owing to his nonchalant way, there were many entanglements which my father straightened out in due course.
My mother’s mother, Carolina Lombardi, was a saintly little woman, with delicate features and a heart of gold. Her brother was the senior priest of our church, a regular fellow, full of humor. The religious training in her family helped to carry my poor grandmother through sorrow and suffering.
Losing her husband in the third year of marriage, my grandmother devoted herself entirely to the bringing up on her child. With the help of the priest, she put away considerable savings. My mother’s dowry was rather unusual for those times. Having opposed the marriage, my grandmother did not wish to live with her daughter and lonesomeness drove her in later years to marry a dashing, but irresponsible fellow who made her life nightmare.
I loved my grandmother dearly. Until her death, at the premature age of forty-eight, she always gratified every little desire of mine. May her soul enjoy eternal peace.
Next: Chapter 5
