Antonio's Journey

CHAPTER 1

THE LONG JOURNEY

My story began in a small village in northern Italy named Valperga. This little town with a population of less than two hundred was surrounded by low gentle hillsides covered with rows of grape vines. My name is Antonio La Desma and my family had a small farm just south of the town. My father built our home when he first moved to the area. The walls were stone and mortar and the windows and doors framed with oak taken from the surrounding hills. The living area was divided into three rooms, the most popular being the kitchen where my mother spent most of her time cooking on the large hearth. We had three windows with shutters and an oak door that faced south. Our roof was thatched with bundles of hay in such a manner to ward off the winter elements. The house had a wooden planked floor raised maybe two inches off the ground. The house was comfortable but was cold during the harsh winters and very warm during the long summers.

My father led a group of farmers who worked the vineyards of the region. They called him the Maestro, as he was the leader and most knowledgeable grower in the valley. The area was referred to as the Piedmont region near Turin. Nebbiolo grapes were grown there and from these grapes two red wines called Barolo and Barbaresco were produced. He also processed a crisp tasting white wine called Gavin.

My early years were spent learning the art of growing and caring for grapes. This was an impressionable period in my young innocent life and lessons learned were forever filed away in my mind. My father taught me how to prune and graft vines and the art of tasting the ripened grapes. He also tutored me in the methods used in pressing grapes, and the various stages of fermentation, which transformed the juice into fine wines of the region. My greatest passion and boyhood dream was to have my own vineyard and create fine wines. My second passion was to travel to the New World and share my knowledge for growing grapes with the people in America. This was a dream that I never thought would come true.

My older brother Peirtro did not take an interest in growing grapes but did show a talent for preparing delicious Italian food. His culinary skills were honed under the watchful eye of our mother who was an excellent cook. His dream was to own an Italian restaurant. He married His childhood sweetheart and took a job as an apprentice cook at Petrocelles, a small family owned Italian style restaurant in town. We spoke often of our dreams,

Peirtro one day I will travel across the vast ocean to America, where I will grow grapes in my own vineyard.

My brother would laugh,

Antonio if you do as you say, I will uproot my family and join you in the new world and who knows I may start my own restaurant.

The children of our community attended the local catholic school, Our Lady of the Snow, and most worked in the vineyards with their fathers. My formal schooling started at the age of six and continued for six years. It was during this time my desire to travel was nurtured. Our teacher read to us about the New World and America. Father Marino, a Catholic Priest, and in a previous assignment, had been a scholar at the Vatican in Rome and had traveled to the New World. In fact, he had written two books on his observations while traveling to America. He said on many occasions that America had a vast amount of virgin land that could be settled with little or no money and that many Europeans were taking advantage of this. He was aware of my dreams and encouraged me by describing the country and the people who populated this vast area. This one man exerted a great deal of influence on the molding of my character and my future plans, and the more he talked about the new world the more enthusiastic I became about my plans for the future. The desire to travel to the new land became an obsession and my growing passion for travel and adventure filled my dreams. He would also help me after school with my English lessons. He said one evening after our English session,

Antonio I believe in your dreams and I think you will make them come true.

In my eleventh year I was trying to speak, read and write English and spent hours practicing my new second language on our farm animals and the grapevines. Sometimes I would get discouraged at my progress and threaten to abandon my dreams. But these brief periods of frustration would pass and my anger would be vented on the farm animals. My family and neighbors thought of me as crazy for speaking to the animals and, especially in a foreign language.

My father took me out of school at the age of twelve to help in the vineyards. This turn of events devastated me and my opportunity to continue my education slipped away. Life became hard as we worked in the vineyards from dawn to dusk. What short childhood I had was gone forever and I was destined for a life of hard labor. From that point on there was rarely an opportunity to learn about the history of the New World. Working in the vineyards was hard work and with each day made me more determined to get away.

In my fourteenth year I told my father,

Poppa I would like to leave Italy and travel to America and start a new life and maybe a vineyard of my own.

He did not like the idea but was gracious,

Antonio you must do what pleases you and I give you my blessing.

He was gravely disappointed in my decision, as he wanted me to follow in his footsteps. During harvest time, extra work was no problem and saving the extra money was easy. Land in our region was at a premium and was very expensive. This set of circumstances alone made it virtually impossible for my generation to improve our lot. Leaving my homeland was my only solution as there was no chance of me owning property or starting a business.

On a chance meeting with Father Marino I said,

Father I have made the decision to leave for America.

Father Marino replied,

Antonio you have made the right decision, may you go in peace and have a safe journey.

I said,

Thank you father I will always remember your advice and your words of encouragement.

My plans were never discussed again with the good Father. However, during Sunday masses the Father would glance my way during his sermon and there appeared to be a twinkle and a look of envy in his eye. This gave me a warm feeling that he still approved of my plan.

My plan was discussed with my childhood sweetheart, Angelina, who from the offset did not share my dreams. Our relationship wasfine as long as she thought I would change my mind about leaving. But she soon realized the seriousness of the situation and began to see less of me. And then on one fine moonlit evening she said,

Antonio I am not leaving Italy and I have found someone that is willing to stay here and be happy.

Angelina I understand.

From that day on our only contact was a friendly hello in mass on Sunday.

Gradually a plan took shape in my mind. My first thought was to travel east to Venice and catch a merchant ship. But this would require a great deal of money and a long sea voyage. That plan was quickly discarded and, I decided to journey northwest across the Swiss Alps and France to England and catch a ship there. This was the least expensive route. This would require a long journey on foot but hopefully allow work along the way to supplement my meager savings.

My journey began late in September 1843, during my eighteenth year, after saying goodbye to my parents, family and friends; my journey to America had begun. Parting with my family was an extremely emotional event in my young life. My whole life so far was centered about this little community and leaving left me frightened to a point of being physically sick My mother showed a great deal of emotion and repeated over and over,

Take care of yourself and think of me often. Make sure your feet are comfortable and keep your socks dry.

My father said very little but it was evident there was a great deal of hurt in his eyes. We hugged and I stammered,

Poppa I will be careful and I will make you proud.

Parting was a tearful occasion that left me emotionally drained. I would not make myself look back after leaving the small town. The one question that would remain in mind was,

Was I doing the right thing?

This phrase would be repeated over and over again well into the trip.

I climbed the hillside to the north of town and looked back at our little town. All my Childhood memories returned and flushed me with emotion. My skin became prickly and broke out in a cold sweat. All the good things were remembered about working alongside my father in the vineyards. He would tell me stories of his childhood and his introduction to the grape growing industry. He especially conveyed to me his great love, devotion, and admiration for my dear mother. He surely loved his job and his life. With those thoughts, a little sick crept into my stomach and my eyes filled with tears. My thoughts turned to the lazy sunny days and warm summer evenings my family spent eating at the restaurant in the Piazza. After dinner, my father joined his friends and they enjoyed their wine, smoked cigars and pipes, and told many stories. Sad thoughts of my childhood sweetheart popped into my mind and the fact she was smitten with afriend slightly angered me. All were cherished memories and, pleasurable or sad, would remain with me for a long time.

To summarize my home and life in Italy would be very difficult. We were in no way rich or were we members of the ruling class. But, we were comfortable and I cannot remember ever missing a meal or not having any clothes to wear. My mother was there when we needed her and I can remember her scent when I buried my head in her skirts and apron. She was always there to make sure that we knew we were loved. My father was stern and meted out the punishment as required by bending us over the hitching rail and hitting us with his razor strap. Some times we would lie in bed at night and scheme on how we would remove the weapon from the washroom and burn it. All of these memories were priceless and could be brought to the front in a flash.

The countryside to the northwest became hillier and it was difficult to end the travel days along the roadside alone and, sometimes cold. The roads were lined with tall and majestic Italian Cypress trees some of these reaching heights of over sixty feet. My journey took me northwest through Northern Italy to Bellinzona, Switzerland. Crossing the Alps would prove to be difficult. The crossing was made afoot with a large backpack and a heavy layer of clothes to keep me warm. My mother had tried to fill the pack with sufficient food to get me through the mountains. At the Swiss-Italian border the mountains looked very high and foreboding.

The Italian border guards were a welcome sight, and a good hour was spent with them chatting about my journey and their jobs. They gave me good directions, and the older gentleman said,

Young man use extreme caution in the mountain passes as the walking trails might become slippery with ice and the weather could change for the worse with little or no warning.

This was the last time I would see my homeland? This was the last jumping off point from my past and a crazy thought crossed my mind,

Am I doing the right thing or should I turn back?

Cajoling myself,

Don’t panic, there is still time to abandon this journey and return home.

My pride took over and I shrugged off the home sick feeling and forging ahead gave a little sigh and prayer,

God help me do the right thing.

The climb started into the Alps. Climbing was difficult as the paths were narrow and steep. The increased level of exertion was taking its toll, requiring me to stop often and lower my pack to the rocky path and rest. The border guard’s directions were followed to a fault. But at some point, I took a wrong turn on a steep mountain trail and became lost. A strange tiredness filled my days and a scared feeling began to take over my mind and weary body. The nights were very cold and the passes were getting a light dusting of snow and a decision was made to make camp. I cut pine branches and carefully placed them on a downed tree limb to make a makeshift shelter thusenabling me to light a fire and have some warm chocolate. This lean-to broke the wind, protected my campfire, and served as a shelter from the light snow.

The makeshift campsite was cozy and gave me hope that someone would find me. My meager supply of food dwindled and thoughts of starving began to creep into my mind. Dreams included my mothers’ warm kitchen and the smell of her cooking. Jerking awake I realized that this was the first test of my mental and physical strength. The question arose again,

What am I doing here?

With that thought I made the decision to move on and take my chances with the elements. While breaking camp on the fourth day of my ordeal, I heard clanging cowbells and a dog barking in the distance. I worked my way down a steep slope to a small clearing and there found a flock of sheep, a sheepherder and a small boy. The sheep dog came out to greet me and led me to where the sheepherder and his son tended their flock. The shepherds were greeted in both Italian and English and luckily they could speak Italian. They were surprised to find any one so high up in the mountains so late in the year. The old man asked,

Young man what in the world are you doing so high in the mountains alone?

I explained my journey and asked for their assistance. They offered me food and shelter, and said they were in the process of bringing their flock down to the valley for the winter. I offered to helpthem round up the sheep in turn for their help. We moved camp twice in three days and the old sheepherder maneuvered the little camp wagon each time. This little wagon served to provide shelter at night and carried all their supplies while they were in the high mountains. A small horse, that appeared to be fifty years old, pulled the wagon. We gathered the flock and slowly began the journey down the mountainside to the town of Zurich. The trip took two days and I was amazed at the ease in which the sheep dogs manipulated the flock, keeping them together and running down stragglers. I stayed a week with the shepherds and they made sure that I was rested enough to continue my journey. They also made sure that my knapsack had a good supply of French bread, wine, and some goat cheese. The old man thought it was crazy to undertake such a journey as a lone traveler. We discussed my plan to cross France and he provided directions the best he could.

I finally said good-bye and thanked them for their hospitality, their company and the food. As it proved out, the old sheepherder provided very good directions to my next destination, which was Basel, close to the French border. Very few problems were encountered for this short journey to Basel other than fighting the cold nights. Basel was found and a farmer, that spoke Italian, invited me to stay the night in his animal shelter at the rear of his property. Early the next morning, we milked his cows and in turn he invited me in to share some wine, cheese and French bread. The farmer’s home was built similar to my fathers. The big difference was the exterior wallshad been whitewashed and the interior floor was dirt. I was beginning to the see the difference in the way people lived. After the morning meal and a hearty good bye, I started down the road to the French border. I was beginning to feel a little better about my travels as the people I had met so far seemed to treat me fairly well. With the exception they all thought me crazy for undertaking such a long and dangerous trip. Enter a new thought,

What did they mean dangerous?

Some how I never thought the trip could be dangerous.

The trip across the Alps had been very hard on me. Climbing the mountains left me sore and feeling cold. Neither of which could I shake. Walking was stiff and the cold seemed to penetrate to my very bones. The trip was not getting any easier and I was always hungry. Again the question arose,

Should I have left home?

At least at home there was a warm bed to sleep in and hot food every day.

Ahh…what the hell, I made it this far might just as well keep going.

The trip across France to the French Coast on the English Channel was about to begin. I crossed the French border and showed my identity papers several times as the French government was having trouble and they were checking everyone. The French border guards spoke neither Italian nor English and this compounded my travelproblems. At each security checkpoint I was singled out and searched for weapons and some sort of contraband. The searches were not always friendly and the soldiers seemed to take delight in shoving me around. Fortunately they did not take any of my money or personal belongings. It took me several days to make my way across central France to the city of Paris on the Seine River. The trip was made more difficult, as all foreigners were suspect at every roadside stop. After three days of travel, the weather turned very cold and the rain was freezing. The dirt roads became a sea of mud and the deep ruts in the roads kept causing me to stumble. It was hard to remain dry and eventually, I had to find a place to keep me from freezing to death. Shelter was finally found by stopping at a small farm. By means of me shivering and a barrage of hand signals, I was able to secure shelter from the cold. The farmer motioned to the barn and I was finally able to get out of the dreadful weather. The loft was filled with hay and my wet clothes were hung over the rafter timbers to dry. I bore deep into the hay and rolled up in my blanket to ward off the cold. I must have dozed off and suddenly, a warm body next to me awakened me. When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to find a young woman beside me. I spoke to her in Italian and English but she did not understand, but I did manage to find out her name, Renee. She lit a lantern and I could see that she had soft long blond hair and skin that was creamy white and velvet smooth. She had brought me warm dry blankets and food, and when she found me asleep, decided to join me. I did not object. I ate the warm food, and Renee provided me with all the body warmth I would need for the night. She was thefarmer’s daughter and the next morning, she was gone. I dressed quickly, fed the animals and milked the cows.

When I brought the milk to the back door, Renee met me. She had an impish smile and quickly placed her finger across my lips shaking her head from side to side signaling for my silence. She ushered me in and sat me on a hard wood chair by the warm hearth. She swung a large hot blackened pot away from the hearth and served me a large metal cup of strong coffee. Her mother gave me several slices of fresh baked French bread and a large piece of goat’s cheese. Renee’s home was very warm and reminded me of my own. The floors were dirt and there were two large rooms the one we were in was used as the living area and the second room was the sleeping room where Renee slept with her parents. The inner walls were white washed as were the exterior walls and the roof was thatched. The barn was similar with the exception that there was a loft. The animals were all herded together on the bottom floor and they were kept in at night by closing the two large barn doors.

Renee’s secret was kept and my stay was extended for three days. Each night Renee would bring me food and later return to join me in the loft. There, we would spend the night exploring each other’s young bodies. Renee was surely a lovely girl but it was indeed time to move on. My stay was extended until the