As a kid I thought I remembered watching a television series called “I Led Two Lives.” It was a series about a person who was a double agent: a spy and an advertising executive. When I Googled it today, though, it turned out that the show was called “I Led Three Lives,” which really screwed up this introduction because as a kid I only led two lives: Italian and English.
During the week we lived with my mother’s parents — a British/Scots-Irish couple, immigrants to the United States back in the 1600s. They were sons and daughters of the American Revolution, and the entire family was made up of Presbyterians who had converted from being Quakers. One of my grandfather’s way-back grandfathers, Jacob Beeson, founded Uniontown, Pennsylvania. My mom’s father was an engineer on the railroad, a high-paying and prestigious job. Two of my Anglo-Saxon uncles were also railroad engineers, and one was a stockbroker/business executive.
The other side of my family tree was filled with olives because my dad’s folks had immigrated to the United States in the early 1900s from Alvito, Italy, when jobs for immigrants were plentiful. At age 13, my Italian grandfather began work in a toy factory. He was a logger in the Midwest and helped to build the Highland Park Zoo and Mellon Square Park in Pittsburgh before ending up in Dawson working for a millionaire coal baroness.
During the week I lived on one side of the tracks, and on the weekends, I got to hang out on the other side with my Italian grandparents. Needless to say, the vast majority of my fun took place on the weekends. They had chickens, ducks and geese, a creek that ran through their yard, and 500 acres of woods to play in on Sundays.
During the week I studied, practiced my trumpet, delivered newspapers, kept my nose to the grindstone and also kept the noise down so that my elderly grandmother was not overwhelmed with my playfulness. On the weekends, however, everything was fair game as we played in the woods, chased the chickens and laughed. One house was alcohol free and the other house had plenty of homemade wine. One house was proper, and the other house was replete with ornery fun and mischief. One house was Presbyterian and we sang “That Old Rugged Cross” while the other was Catholic and we sang Gregorian chant in church and still said our church prayers in Latin.
It was the best of both worlds because my dad had adapted his life to the proper English way becoming a respectable businessman and community leader, but he also made sure that we experienced the fun, food and warmth of Italy on Sundays. My Italian grandparents were very poor, but except for the fact that they didn’t have a car, there was no way of measuring their poverty. They had a television set, plenty of food and more love to distribute than any four families. Their home was warm and comfortable, and happy and kid cuddling was mandatory.
Although my home had plastic covers over the lamps and furniture because my grandparents had raised eight children there, my English grandfather’s money was spent wherever it could do the most good. They were kind, caring, good people. It was just a more refined, calmer form of love: less hugging, kissing and open expression, but still filled with deep commitment.
It wasn’t until decades later that I realized what a gift my multiethnic upbringing had been. It opened my mind and my heart at some basic level to those who came to America to find a better life and to embrace the freedom of this amazing nation. As we enter this season of giving, let’s remember the immigrants because, except for the Native Americans, we all came here from somewhere.
