Homage to 176 Political Prisoners

October 28, 2014

SNOWDEN_LRGI’m reflecting on the bravery of individuals willing to stand up for something so important they sacrifice their freedom. Here is Edward Snowden at the Ai Weiwei exhibition on Alcatraz Island in San Francisco, one of 176 political prisoners featured in the exhibit. Neither Snowden nor Ai Weiwei are permitted outside the countries where they reside, but their impact knows no borders. And the issues they fight for affect us all.

It gives me great hope when a person pushes against a powerful, sometimes unseen enemy. There is so much beauty, and much to admire in that. I can’t imagine losing my freedom.


What I Love

October 8, 2014

FaithSeed2_FotorWe couldn’t believe John McPhee was writing about us. All we knew was we lived in invisible south Jersey, too far from highways, too far from New York, too far from everything.

John McPhee’s classic continues to inspire readers, writers, naturalists and historians.

Two of my all time favorite books and inspiration for my upcoming novel HEADFIRE. One is about home, The Pine Barrens of New Jersey as it was almost half a century ago, the other is a 19th century field guide with Henry David Thoreau as observer and teacher.





PineCone_Fib#From an article by Brother Alfred Brousseau, “Fibonacci Statistics in Conifers”:

“The Editor of the Fibonacci Quarterly has received an urgent phone call from a Houghton-Mifflin representative: ‘Is the picture of the pine cone in your manuscript spiraling correctly?”

“With such questions in mind, an investigation was begun in the summer of 1969. Very quickly it was discovered that spirals on cones go in both directions.”







October 7, 2014

John Bertino’s Variety Farms, 1964                               photo by: Patty Ann Bernard,  pictured far left


We were all girls in the packing house. Grandfather’s blueberry farm didn’t have a conveyor belt. Everything that had to be lifted–like the heavy flats of berries–was done by us. But we were young and strong, and we ate a lot of berries while we packed.

On Pop-pop and Grammy’s farm I loved being with people so removed from the Italian American pecking order of Hammonton, and I loved the hard physical work.

What a good crop looks like

What a good crop looks like

A full pint packed and ready was dropped into the splintery crate. The hairy wood was scratchy and hard on our hands, snagging our knuckles, and our fingertips were black with dirt, the nails stained a deep blue around their edges. Another girl and I competed to see who could pack the fastest, an undeclared contest, fierce and determined, but occasionally one of us would grab a quick glance at the other and we’d burst out laughing.

Sometimes at the end of a day we’d sit for a while before stealing out to the tomato patch to pick the ripest of the ripe to eat on the spot. Grammy and Pop-pop kept a saltshaker on top of the refrigerator and we took this out to the field so we could salt up before every bite.




MarioLanza1 The most famous blueberry picker to come to Hammonton was Mario Lanza, a famous tenor and a movie star. Born Alfredo Arnold Cocozza in Philadelphia in 1921, the same place and year as my father, I remember Dad occasionally launching into his own rendition of  “Be My Love (For no one else can end this yearning…)” – never failing to crack us up.


Pop-Pop and me in the living room at home.

Pop-pop had dark skin, the result of being outside working on his farm. He wore a hat but the sun found him anyway and turned his already Italian olive a deep flat chestnut brown. He was handsome, tall and blue-eyed. And once a man in Hammonton mistook him for a black man. Grammy was indignant, thinking that what they were really saying was, you look like your pickers. It wasn’t the racial implication our grandmother found disparaging, but rather a comment having to do with working on the land and being looked down upon for being a peasant. There was an unacknowledged shame in being a farmer.


May 24, 2014

Looking deeper at a pine cone…

From an article by Brother Alfred Brousseau, “Fibonacci Statistics in Conifers”:

“The Editor of the Fibonacci Quarterly has received an urgent phone call from a Houghton-Mifflin representative: ‘Is the picture of the pine cone in your manuscript spiraling correctly?’
“With such questions in mind, an investigation was begun in the summer of 1969. Very quickly it was discovered that spirals on cones go in both directions.”

Beautiful Italians

May 20, 2014


How could we have been embarrassed
to call ourselves Italian?








Could this be why?








Cecilia Bartoli_Fotor

No one sings Rossini like Cecelia…












We had a special affinity for the Rat Pack, who frequented Atlantic City, and my parents always made sure they sat ringside.




The Scotch Broom is in Flower !

scotchBroom1I remember Mom’s calls to me from New Jersey in Spring:

“You should see the broom. It’s in flower!”
To her, scotch broom wasn’t an invasive foreigner, but the view from her kitchen window where my father had planted a long row between our house and that of my old piano teacher, Mrs. Wood.

Neither of us realized then that it came from Europe, nor that it was such an important feature of the southern Italian landscape. There, it is sometimes spun into yarn and made into a linen-like fabric.


I imagine scotch broom to have been my great grandfather’s view where it grew on the slopes of Vesuvius, outside of Naples.


The son of a Count, the 19th Century Italian poet Leopardi was born in Recanati, central Italy in 1798 and died in Naples in 1837.

My favorite poem of his:

La ginestra from The Canti. Translated, la ginestra means scotch broom or the flower of the desert.



Here on the arid back
of the formidable mountain
Vesuvius the destroyer,
which no other tree gladdens nor flower,
you spread your solitary clusters,
odorous broom,
content with the desert. I saw you also
embellish with your stems the lonely ways
that skirt the city
which was mistress of mortals at one time

…  from “La ginestra”

In California, where I live, broom is considered a pernicious weed, and we get busy in the winter pulling it out. Because it has deep roots, it is easiest to pull when the ground is wet.

Growing up in the NJ pine barrens

April 8, 2014

 The Harbour

Our house seen through the tall pines of The Harbour, the beautiful 16 acre property we shared with Aunt and Uncle.


The Girls_Fotor

The Reitano girls off to school on a typical NJ winter’s day.


5 of us_Fotor

Mom and Dad and the three of us: me and my sisters Donna (middle) and Lisa (right).



Margaret Mead spent her childhood summers in our town, because her mother was researching Italians for the US Bureau of Immigration.

“We had five whole acres, a good part of which was second-growth bush, studded with blueberries, which the little Italian children who were our neighbors picked and sold back to us.”        –from “Blackberry Winter”

At my most sensitive I thought Mead hinted at a kind of childhood villainy, an early demonstration of criminality.

We knew that our neighbors, the Seeleys, were friend’s of the famous anthropologist and that she sometimes visited. We could just make out the Seeley’s sunken Victorian in winter after the trees had lost their leaves.

It was a blustery cold and overcast February morning, and Mom streamed into the kitchen. “Margaret Mead is out on the paddleboat with Mrs. Seeley!” Mom tried to get me to go back outside with her and down to the lake. But it was too cold and I protested.

Mom, who had never gone to college, whose knowledge was gathered exclusively from books, nevertheless knew exactly what Margaret Mead looked like. Just as she would have recognized John Kenneth Galbraith or George Plimpton, just as she had once seen Lillian Hellman in the sculpture garden of the Museum of Modern Art in New York and had almost spoken to her. “I wanted to say how much I loved Pentimento but she was eating her lunch.”

A week later the local paper documented how Mrs. Seeley had indeed taken Margaret Mead out on her paddleboat on the Hammonton Lake.

View of the Hammonton Lake from our dock at The Harbour, the place where my sisters and I grew up.

The view in winter, with the lake frozen enough for ice skating.


The elder Meade compared Italians’ heights and weights and our mothers’ sewing skills to those of Americans. She’d conducted intelligence and I.Q. tests among Italian school children, and published her findings in, “The Italian on the Land: A Study in Immigration.”

We did not know this until Mom’s friend, Jeanette La Rosa Feeley, President of the Hammonton Historical Society, published “The Italian on the Land” for all to see. Thank god we were already with our feet up in our comfortable houses before we read what she had to say:

“Italians show little judgment in the feeding of children, allowing them to eat such things as green apples and cucumbers without protest.”

“Italian babies are often clothed in the old-time swaddling clothes, and are not well cared for. Babies and little children are allowed to go naked, or clad in short garments in summer, the mothers having an idea that it is less trouble not to clothe small children below the waist.”

—Emily Fogg Meade, from “The Italian on the Land”



Dad used to take us crabbing at Mystic Islands. Not far from these houses were seemingly endless salt marshes.




“Now they’re biting like mad and before long they have half a bushel. As the action slows, they’re determined to fill the bushel, so they keep at the work, moving down by a few feet where they can see some crabs moving around the shallows. It’s harder here because the railing has almost collapsed, but they haul over a plank and jerry-rig a place to stand.”

                                                                      –from my upcoming novel HEADFIRE                                                                              


Seafood of any kind would remind Dad of Bookbinder's Restaurant in Philadelphia which his father owned for a brief time in the 1940's.

Seafood of any kind would remind Dad of Bookbinder’s Restaurant in Philadelphia, which his father owned for a brief period in the 1940’s.


Whenever Dad felt the need to impress someone, including his three daughters, out came the story of how his father had once owned the famous Bookbinders Restaurant in Philadelphia. Each telling of the story was embellished with the names of famous ball players and the ball club owners to whom his father, Jimmy, once served dinner.

In 1946, my grandfather, Jimmy  Reitano, had Bookbinder’s appraised, and he approached a man named Hyman Cycle at a time when very few people had any money. Mr. Cycle had made his fortune in mattresses, through lucrative war contracts where he provided every mattress that went on board every navy ship at Sun Shipyard in Chester, Pennsylvania. He liked my grandfather and backed him in the business.

Dad’s father, Jimmy Reitano, on the day of his wedding to my grandmother, Anna Grisillo, in 1919.

Jimmy rose early to go down to the docks, where he hand picked sirloins, fillets, ribs and chops. He did all the meat buying, and he had a natural talent for spotting the right degree of marbling, the most tender cuts. In the realm of food his unerring judgment and skill attracted a first class clientele, and put Bookbinder’s, what had been a losing operation, into the black in the first year.

Jimmy’s first job had been counting ice cars arriving by rail into Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station. But when he became the co-owner of a famous restaurant he began driving a Peerless.


Dad would never take us to Bookbinders. There was some painful history there regarding how Jimmy “lost” the restaurant. I remember once Mother suggesting we all go. “Why not take the girls,” she said.  “Nooo, Lorraine.” he shook his head, which was her signal to drop the subject.




Grammy (Mom’s mother), Aunt Helen & Mom. The white gloves indicate a trip to Church must have been involved.


Samuel Frank built the Rivoli Theatre on Hammonton’s main street in 1927, with a façade that was designed to imitate the Ducal Palace in Venice. Named after the famous Rivoli Theater in New York on 49th and Broadway, the theatre boasted 450 seats, including 250 balcony seats.

According to an historic Manager’s Report (below):

Type of Patronage: Small town, farmers and mill workers. Poor class of Italians.

In answer to the question, Balcony for Colored?:  The manager typed Yes.

Rivoli Theatre_Fotor

I was very young on a beautiful spring day in 1961, when Mom and I stood next to Uncle and the three of us looked up at the façade of the old Rivoli Theatre.

“I’m buying it, Lorraine,” Uncle said.

I tugged at the soft fabric of his jacket. “What about the movie theater, Uncle Lew?”

“What about it, darling?”

“Are you going to open it again?  So we can go and see movies?”

Uncle ignored me, and I knew by the firm way Mother held my hand that I wasn’t to insist.

In 1961 Uncle bought the Rivoli and turned it into his office building on the main corner in town.

In 1963, Uncle converted the old Rivoli into his new offices on the main corner of town. Television would be blamed for killing the neighborhood theater, but the automobile did just as much to end local cinema, and so it was fitting that Uncle would be replacing the beautiful old theatre with his new automobile finance company.


Atlantic City Race Track Riding high in the post-WWII boom, Uncle's automobile finance company, HIMCO, owned race horses.

Atlantic City Race Track
Riding high in the post-WWII boom, Uncle’s automobile finance company, HIMCO, owned race horses. (Uncle pictured to the right of his jockey.)



Uncle gets behind the controls of his new Beechcraft Baron, 1962.

“Watch for me around twelve-thirty, darlings,” Uncle said.

My sisters and I were in the pool, ready to wave.  My arms were half out of the water as I heard the small plane droning in the distance. It made a wide loop and buzzed us twice. Uncle flew frighteningly low over the tallest pines, and I tried to pick him out behind the glass of the cockpit. But he was gone in a second, and the plane’s departure left a hole of sound I filled with energetic strokes, as I pulled through the water with greater purpose.


Taken from a fire tower, but this must have been what it was like when Uncle flew his plane low over the pines.

A photo taken from a nearby fire tower. I imagine this was what Uncle would have seen as he flew his plane low over the pines.


Gigging Frogs

It was a warm night with fire flies lighting like stars, and they swirled around me, waist high, as if I were a giant. Dad came outside and asked me if I wanted to gig some frogs. I said I did, even though I didn’t know what gigging was.


We used a three-pronged spear like this one, attached to a broom handle.

Ransom’s pond was a huge oval still as glass, and there was a worn path along the waterline where a fringe of grass harbored mosquitoes. Without a word Dad handed me a contraption he called a “gig.”  At the end of a broom handle was a three-pronged metal tool fastened to the end like a miniature pitchfork. He whispered that I was to hold it with both hands, like so, and demonstrated.

I stood with knees bent and both arms high on the broomstick like some warrior, the gig pointing straight down, while Dad dragged the flashlight’s beam along the pond’s white bottom.


Our prey: the New Jersey Bull Frog.

Dad caught sight of a frog, and with a stern look directed my gaze to where the beam had frozen the poor creature. I crept forward on the balls of my feet, following him to where the frog finally settled.

“Aim,” he whispered. I crouched, took position, and pointed the gig at what I estimated to be the dead center of its back.

“Now!” he ordered.

I plunged the stick down, but in that instant time seemed to stop and my second’s hesitation was enough to allow the frog to spring away in a blur of shimmering water.

“You missed it!”

We trudged around the pond a third time, but I knew that Dad would take over and I wouldn’t get another chance. Over the next thirty minutes he got four more big ones, and we were still walking around the pond and I was feeling bad, wondering whether, had I been a boy, I would have cut out all second thoughts and plunged when he’d told me to. Plunge, gig, shoot, throw. He had tried to teach me, but I couldn’t do any of them.

But now, with the food safely in our sack, Dad didn’t seem annoyed any longer. He turned and smiled, “We’ll get a couple more and go home.”

Frogs' Legs

According to him the frogs had to be skinned alive. But after watching him skin the first two, I had to go into the house. I couldn’t watch that hasty slice across the frog’s middle, then clear around its back like halving a peach, and how Dad’s strong hands with the sprouting black hairs, pulled the skin down in one great coat. The frogs twitched the whole time, until their lower halves hung denuded and gray.

“Look at that!” he exclaimed, coming into the kitchen and holding the bowl full of legs for me to see. It looked like a small pile of meat for all that effort, but Dad was excited.

He moved quickly, salting and peppering before tossing the legs into a swirling pan of butter and garlic.  Minutes later we sat across from one another at the kitchen table scoffing them down.

“The biggest frogs are at Sunshine Errera’s out on the Pike,” Dad said between bites.

“Why didn’t we go there?”  I asked, making conversation.

He clicked his tongue and shook his head, “God Gail, you are never satisfied.” I felt shame, as if I were being greedy, when I only meant to make conversation.

“These are good, aren’t they?” he said after a minute.

“They really are, Dad.”

He smiled, pleased.