Tag Archives: Maurizio Lamberti

By the mid-1950s, people of Italian descent largely owned and managed the Highwood shops that dotted the main streets. Those who owned or worked at the establishments could speak Italian to their customers if needed. Not all, however, were from our region in Italy. They all spoke Italian but in dialects unique to their towns of origin. The Napolitano and Sicilian dialects felt harsh to our ears — they had a staccato sound — whereas the Tuscan dialect had a rhythmic flow whose singsong-sound was more pleasing. Immigrants from Piandelagotti spoke their own dialect, substantially different from even the mountain …

As I grew up in Highwood, visiting my friends was like being in my own home: the same foods were served, I sat on the same style furniture, and I saw pictures of relatives on their walls posted in a fashion similar to mine at home. The promotional calendars of the local Italian insurance firm hung right next to the pictures of the pope in all our kitchens. My friends’ parents spoke broken English with the same Italian accent as my parents. They imposed identical rules and doled out similar discipline. We all saw each other at Sunday Mass, after …

Twenty-eight miles north of Chicago, Highwood was home to a large, Italian-immigrant community from the early 20th century up to the late 1980s. Many families from our home province of Modena settled there. As is usually the case in mass immigration, it started with families calling connected families, who in turned called others to their new home. Highwood was a place that offered plentiful job opportunities for men with trade backgrounds — that was because of Fort Sheridan. Fort Sheridan was home to the United States Fifth Army, a base supporting 5,000 military and civilian personnel at its peak. It …

The bus to Pisa from Piandelagotti negotiated the tight turns down the mountainside. With every passing kilometer my parents knew there was no turning back. They stayed to themselves. My mother kept crying while my father was stoic, and my sister and I remained silent. Pisa would be the first stop. There, we would change buses to continue on the final bus leg to Genova, the Italian port city. We stayed the night in a hotel near the docks.  Early the next day, we boarded the Andrea Doria, the principal Italian, luxury ocean liner. All travel arrangements had been made …

Franco entered the barn to gather the cows and lead them out to graze.  A few chickens followed him clucking and prancing at his feet. The 14-year-old boy gave three crisp, high-pitched whistles announcing his presence to the cows, which rustled in their stalls, turning their heads toward the piercing noise. They had been milked three hours ago and knew it was time to go outside. “Good morning cows! A new day is here. More fresh grass to eat and milk to give. You have me today so be on your best behavior!” Franco unlatched them one by one from …

Hear the band as they play a resounding rendition of the Italian National Anthem. Listen to the Marche Reale performed by the Piandelagotti band in the town square with vim and vigor reflecting their youthful enthusiasm. The coordinated effort offered a splendid meshing of alto and bass horns, beating drums et al. as the music resonated throughout the town’s center piazza and well beyond. The townspeople loudly applauded accompanied with shouts of bravo as the song hit its stirring ending. The town’s photographer, Signor Batti Piancentini, moved in to ready the band for a photo. He had positioned the big …