THE SECRET OF GRANDMA'S SUGAR CROCK

Through the years, I've discovered bits and pieces of the past that when put all together, make up my extraordinary grandmother Maria.

I knew that she came to this country as a young immigrant from Italy and married my grandfather Antonio Curci in 1910. A few years later, she was widowed with three children. I had heard family stories of how Grandma had struggled to find work, to pay her debts and to keep her family together during those difficult years. In all of these stories, one fact remained prominent - Grandma's deep religious devotion guided her through each problem and task.

But it was only recently that I would discover yet another missing piece to Grandma's past that would help me know her just that much better.

My memories of Grandma begin on an Almaden ranch in the heart of California's prune country during W.W.II. By then, she had married her second husband, Grandpa Tony Dinapoli, and had settled into rural ranch life, rasing a family of seven boys and one girl.

During World War II a government-issued flag imprinted with five blue stars hung in the front room window of my grandparents old farm house. It ment that five of their sons were off fighting in the war. Without the boys to work the land, the ranch was short handed. Grandma and grandpa had to work twice as hard to produce a bountiful fruit crop.

During harvest time, every member of the family pitched in to help, including grand kids like myself. Even so, it was a difficult time for Grandma: rationing was in effect, there was little money, and worst of all there was the constant worry over whether her five sons would come home safely.

The ranch was a lovely place, especially in the spring when the orchards were white with plum blossoms. During the summer, while we harvested the prune crop, Grandma cooked up fine Italian lunches. We would all sit on blankets spread out on the orchard ground, enjoying not just the wonderful food, but also the satisfaction of being a part of such an important family effort.

To encourage the ripe fruit to fall, Grandpa used a long wooden pole with an iron hook at the top to catch a branch and shake the prunes loose from the trees. Then the rest of us would crawl along, wearing knee pads that grandma had sewn into our overalls and gather the plums into metal buckets. We dumped the buckets of plums into long wooden trays, where the purple little plums were soon sun-dried into rich, brown prunes.

After a long, hard day I would walk hand-in-hand with Grandpa through the orchards while he surveyed what had been accomplished that day. I'd enjoy eating fresh plums off the trees, licking the sweet stickiness from my fingertips.
On each of these walks, Grandpa would stoop down and pick up a handful of soil, letting it sift slowly and lovingly through his strong work-calloused hands. Then with pride and conviction he would invariably say: "If you take good care of the land, the land will take good care of you."

As dark came on the ranch, we'd all gather together on the cool, quiet verandah of the front porch. Grandpa would settle comfortably into his rocker, under the dim glow of a flickering moth-covered light bulb, and there he'd read the latest war news in his newspaper. Grandma sat nearby on the porch swing, swaying and saying her perpetual rosary. The quiet squeak of grandma's swing and the low mumbling of her prayers could be heard long into the night.

 

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