When I began the journey as a novelist 24 years ago, I couldn’t know how deeply connected I would become to the women who read my books. (There are two men out there who also read my books, you know who you are, and I’m on my way over to make you a casserole.)
In a sense, being an author is also being partly a librarian, because the central goal in all of this, is to encourage you to read. My mother, who was a librarian, always said that the answers to any questions you have can be found in the library. I return to libraries of my youth as I do churches- sensory memory is an essential element in finding peace and in writing fiction. My hope is that when you read one of my novels, you are in world of the characters, so deeply, you don’t want to reach the end.
When I was writing television, I was a gun for hire- I learned the show bible, joined a river that was already flowing, attempting to add humor to the proceedings, in what I hoped would be well crafted story telling. When I wrote screenplays, it was to blend vision of those who had hired me, with the vista I saw ahead- but I was forever subjugating myself to the job I had been hired to do, sneaking in, here and there, the Italian.
So, when I wrote Big Stone Gap, that had its birth as a screenplay which I was to direct, I was encouraged by a beloved friend and fellow novelist, Thomas Dyja, to sit down and bring the worlds of Appalachia and the Italian Alps to life. He said, “tell me the story, just like you tell a story anywhere, anytime.” When he would read pages, he said things like: “Where is Ave Maria right now? Tell me.” I fell in love with the craft, the solitude, the serious nature of it- for someone who made her living as a comedy writer, it may have seemed odd. But, in fact, I had come home.
As a novelist, I could also deeply explore my roots as an Italian American woman, which was not only encouraged, but honored by my publishers. I was carrying a secret- that along with the great Helen Barolini, Elizabeth Christman, and Italian American writers of non-fiction, I knew what the Italian American male writers didn’t acknowledge- that women, had in fact done the heavy lifting all along. I wish I had met Mario Puzo- but remember, he wrote The Godfather because he had a family to support and some debts to pay off. Maybe, given a wider berth, Mario too, would have recognized the role of women beyond the silent wife and the secret lover. The Godfather is a page turner, but when I searched for the matriarch, she was sorely missing. Women were the font of strength in my family, and those of my large, extended family, maybe we could attempt to tell their stories. Maybe we should.
If I believed in God, it was because of my mother, if I knew how to make macaroni, it was because of my aunts and cousins, if I have a work ethic, it’s because both of my grandmothers ran their own businesses, and if I had a moral compass, it was because they did. Simple. Their immigrant example of tenacity, dignity and beauty was inculcated in me as surely as language. Please forgive me in advance, I have not lived up to their dreams for me yet. I fail and daily- that’s where faith comes in. I promise you, I keep trying. Immigrant, migrant, American- these are words of honor in my home: to be working class was the definition of class. If you could survive by the artistry and labor of your own hands, you could live a purposeful life, a beautiful life!
So imagine what it meant to me when I met Connie Giordano Owens. She was born in New York City on March 28, 1926 to Francesca Battaglia Giordano and her husband, Rosario- both from Sicily. She graduated from Washington Irving High School in 1944, during the second World War. She studied Dressmaking and Dress Design. She saw herself in Lucia, Lucia, the story of a young Italian girl who worked at B. Altman’s when a keen eye and talent could propel you in the world of fashion.
Connie worked at Henri Bendel as a bookkeeper. But she kept one foot firmly planted in dressmaking and fashion, spending time in the workshop, staying current on design and technique.
Her son Bob and daughter-in-law Karin drove her to the B&N in Hackensack and a few times to Kenny’s Books and Greeting in Northvale, NJ whenever I had a new book release. Connie even came when The House of Love, my first picture book for kids, was published. It was a sea of kids and Connie. That’s how I remember it.
Connie’s family, her husband, Frank and three sons were the center of her universe. She found a job with the school board, as an accountant, she became Treasurer of the Pearl River School District. She did what we all do, which was to find a career that was simpatico with family life. Her three sons, Wayne, Bob and Steven married wonderful women: MaryLou, Karin and Jacqueline- eleven grandchildren, four great grandchildren, with a fifth on the way. She talked a great deal about her family, they were her purpose. She adored her husband Frank, and lost him too soon, he was only 61 years old when he passed in 1987. Connie was heartbroken, but she didn’t give up. She knew her work wasn’t done. Her family and friends needed her, and she needed them.
Connie, like all Sicilian powerhouses, did not look her age- ever! She kept moving, and because of that, her body kept up with her. She told me she had typical aches and pains, but ignored them. Connie sought perfection in everything she did. She was so happy when she sent me a tin of her Italian Christmas cookies- delicate and delicious. She had wrapped them so carefully, not a single cookie broke. She was thrilled when I told her they arrived as she had packed them!
Connie loved to read. She was so happy when she saw her brother, her parents and the world they lived in celebrated in books. Her identity as an Italian American, an American of Sicilian descent was important to her. She learned everything she needed to know from the family enclave in New York City. The world she entered was in peril, the Great Depression and World War 2 were on the horizon, but Connie was safe, surrounded by love. She was made of something and she was going to use her talents. She was determined to work hard, to learn and to grow. She worked steadily from the moment she graduated. Her example would inspire her sons, their wives and children. Connie brought stability and wisdom to her family, but all lessons were taught with love. When she baked, it was a recipe handed down through the women in her family; when she cooked the classics, her grandchildren and great grandchildren experienced authentic dishes, perfected over time in the kitchen of their Sicilian ancestors.
Karin shared that last week, Connie was asking when I had a new novel coming out. I was thinking of her too, as we were sketching the first notes for a book tour in 2025. Sadly, I won’t see Connie with Karin and Bob on the next tour, but I will never forget her. Connie will stay with me, in my heart for all time. And someday, I hope to meet all her grandchildren and great grandchildren, if only to remind them that their roots are their treasure, and tradition was Connie’s (Mama-O’s) gift to them.