The Shoebox

The Shoebox

Bikerider

          During one of my last visits with my father, before the cancer took him away, I learned he was capable of raw emotions he had never before displayed.  We sat in his third floor apartment; the open windows allowed street noise into the room.  He cradled a box with a tenderness I had never seen. When he lifted the lid I saw a mound of photographs, all of them black and white, some were faded.  A few pictures were banded into small bundles, others just a single picture, disorganized. As my father lifted a scallop edged picture he looked at me with sorrowful eyes, his hand shook as he passed it to me.

          “Your grandmother, Emma, she was my mother.” His eyes were turning red and his voice wavered but I knew he wanted to do this. I had never met my grandmother; I’d never even seen a picture of her. I had never seen any of these photographs before. I grew up in a broken home and spent little time with my father, I didn't meet him until I was a young adult.

          “She’s pretty.” I said while holding the photograph and hoping to lighten the heavy mood that had crept into the small room. My father ignored my comment and continued to sift through the collection in the shoebox. Finding the picture he was looking for he raised it close to his eyes and studied it. When he handed it to me I noticed his eyes were filled with tears. He reached across to me, the transparent skin on his old hands appeared nearly as fragile as the photograph he held.

          “This is your grandfather, his Passport picture from 1929.” He seemed to choke on his name; his voice was laced with anger.

          “What is it Dad?”

          “He was a bastard, a mean, rotten no good son of a bitch. He never cared for me. I don’t think he cared for anyone.” The anger overflowed with overtones of hatred. I hadn’t known my grandfather. I didn’t know what to say. My father was clearly upset and I searched for a way to end the conversation.

          “Maybe we should put all this away for another time.”

          "There may not be another time, we both know that.” He said that with a hint of pleading. He was determined to walk this path, face down any unfinished business.



I reached for a stack of pictures from the box reassuring Dad that I was willing to travel that road with him, wherever it leads us. I watched his fingers work their way into layers of pictures, through layers of years actually, digging back through time. He pulled out several pictures and after looking at them he placed them gingerly back into the box. These pictures were very important to him and I knew that someday I would look at all of them, but I would sit by myself when I did. Thinking of him gone caused a lonely feeling to sweep over me like a hot breeze. My father took out some pictures that put a smile on his face. I could see the happy memories playing in his eyes like a movie. He showed me the pictures, some were dog-eared, some were badly faded.  I saw a small boy in shorts, his mouth open as if he was saying something, misty mountains in the background. There was a girl of maybe ten with curly hair who wore a white dress and white shoes that matched the ribbon in her hair, a church with an open door in the background, a clergyman standing next to her. I took my time looking at the pictures. I knew the one’s he wanted me to see were the one’s that were most important to him.

          “That’s my brother Gino, he was only 19 when he died. The girl is my sister Emma. My sister is still alive, she lives in the old country." His smile was still in place but beginning to waver.

          “You should go see her.” I could hear the hope in his voice. My father gently dug his fingers through the many years and many memories contained in the shoebox. I could tell each time he found another significant image. He took a long look at a picture as he held it up to his weakening eyes. His hand began to shake more than usual and I could see his chin begin to stammer. Tears rolled down his cheek, spotting his pants. I knew he held an important memory in his trembling hands. The tears told me it wasn’t a happy memory.

          “This is the house where we all lived, all five of us. Life was hard then but we were all together.” He slowly handed the picture to me; as I took it from him he seemed reluctant to let go. The house was old, made of rough rock. A small patch of dirt spread in front to a rock wall. It was apparent the family living there was poor. At the end of the rock wall I could see three rock steps that ended at the stone street. I asked him if the house was still there.

          “Your Aunt Emma told me it is. After I left I never went back.”

          “Maybe one day I’ll see it.” I told him.

          “I hope you do, living there was the happiest and the worst days of my life.” He went on slowly, his words wet with tears, “We only had each other then, but we were all important to each other. We had little, but my mother always made sure we had food.  She was so loving, and so caring. My heart breaks when I think about what happened to her.”  He was openly crying now. His sobbing prevented him from continuing. I took the shoebox from him and helped him into bed. His eyes were red and wet. He fell asleep quickly, his breathing shallow. My father died a short time later and I took the shoebox and put it away for safekeeping. Determined to protect the years and memories that seemed like treasures now.

       

          I did go to Italy and I visited the humble house in the photograph that contains my father’s happy memories. The village; picturesque. I stood on the three steps and took a long emotion filled breath, taking in the sights, sounds and aroma of my Father’s boyhood home.  My aunt, a gentle and peaceful woman lives in a small ancient village in the mountains in northern Italy.  Her denim blue eyes were bright.  They were surrounded by lines that tell of a hard life, a life of struggle but one of abundant laughter as well.  Her hands strong tools of work, they were also tender tools of love.  One night we looked through the pictures in the shoebox.  I saw her eyes twinkle; a soft soulful look transformed her face when she picked up the picture of that ten year old little girl. The one wearing a white dress and shoes.  She looked at me and said “my confirmation.”  I smiled at her, nodding.  Sorrow flowed into her eyes when she saw the boy in shorts, Gino.  Her feelings obvious when I saw how lovingly she replaced his picture back into the box.  When she picked up the picture of her mother her reaction was immediate.  Her soft dark eyes filled with tears, her small loving hands trembled and with a gasp and shoulder to shoulder, forehead to lips, she formed the sign of the cross. I told her my father said she had suffered a terrible life, did she know what had happened.  Through her tears she said her mother had died horribly.

         “My mother was placed in an asylum in 1937.  It was a horrible mistake."  My aunt’s hands were trembling; her eyes became dark pools of tears.

         “Why was she sent there?  What had she done?”  The room became quiet, I could almost hear my aunts tears. 

         “When I was very young our house burned. We were all inside at the time. All but my mother.  My mother said It was an accident but the village officials refused to believe her. 1937 was a bad time for Italy, Mussolini was in power.  People barely had enough to eat.  My father was living in America.  My aunt seemed to be searching my eyes. Maybe she was searching to see if I understood, or if I believed the fire was an accident.  Slowly she went on.

         “Back there there was Pellagra.  They used that excuse to lock my mother away.”  My aunt had stopped crying, but she was still trembling. Her warm soft hand slipped into mine, her trembling transferring to me.

         “What is Pellagra, is that a disease, an illness?  I asked.  My aunt seemed confused by my question.  Understanding flickered in her eyes and she shook her head.

         “No, no, it’s not an illness, your grandmother was not sick. Pellagra was nothing more than extreme poverty.  My mother was locked away in that horrible place because she was poor!”  She broke into tears, her shoulders shook.  I thought I should end the conversation. I put my arms around her, gently pulling her to me. She rested her head on my shoulder, her long grey hair flowing across my arms. I could feel the soft tremors shaking her body. I thought it was time to stop. Seeing her like that stung my emotions. 

         “Aunt Emma, thank you for telling me about this, but let’s stop for now.”

         “No, please, I want you to know... after my mother was there for twelve years I was old enough to visit her. I went to see her.  It is unbearable to think about what I found.  She was unable to care for herself; there was no life in her eyes. The hospital was a terrible place, unclean and very few staff. I couldn’t find a Doctor.  My mother was barely conscious, and she was much too ill for me to remove her from the hospital.  After I left her I went to the top of Mount Rosa. It’s one of the highest mountains, a beautiful place, close to God. There I, God forgive me, I prayed that God would take her to him.”  Tears were flowing from my eyes as well as my aunt’s.

         “Did she die peacefully Aunt Emma?” I asked softly.

         “She died alone, during the night just days after I prayed.  She was buried in an unmarked grave near the hospital.”  Her eyes fixed on the table where we sat. A tissue in her hand was soggy and twisted to shreds. Remembering something my aunt said a few days earlier about my grandmothers love of the mountains, I tried to bring some relief to the sadness that made the air difficult to breathe.

         “Didn’t you tell me my Grandmother loved the valley and the country here where she lived?” I asked my aunt, our eyes meeting. A slight smile flashed across her lips remembering how happy her mother was then. 

         “Yes, she always said the valleys were beautiful, she would tell me the rivers and lakes were like jewels. She wouldn’t go to America with my father because she didn’t want to leave the home she loved.”

         “Well then, let’s both believe that in her unmarked grave she became a part of the beauty she loved so much.”  I asked cautiously, not wanting to offend her. With a hug held long she made me understand she found peace in the vision I suggested.  We talked of other things that night but we had established a bond. A bond of hearts maybe, one that would last always.



A few days later I returned home.  My last day with her, I gave my aunt the shoebox.  Handing it to her I saw her eyes grow warm.  I could see how much she valued the gift by the way she held it to her breast, a gentle but protective hug.

              “Per lei, Zia Emma.”  I wanted her to know for sure the box was hers.

              “Grazie, Grazie,” my aunt responded, her face becoming wet with tears. 

As I watched my aunt tentatively raise the lid on the box of pictures, her lower lip trembling, her liquid eyes now lighter, I understood the treasure contained in the shoebox belonged to her.  All of these pictures belonged to her.  They were her past, both happy and sad.  She was the one who recognized the people in the pictures; she knew about the places where her loved ones stood; unknowingly becoming treasures.  She was the person who could take you to the open door of the church behind a little blond girl with a ribbon in her hair.  Seeing how much these pictures meant to my father and now to my aunt as she held them protectively, I came to the realization that iIt was now my turn to fill a shoebox with pictures.  To fill the shoebox with what would become a treasure to someone not yet born.