Good Peasant Stock

This is a guest post by my sister, published posthumously with love and respect. As readers of this blog will know, her birthday was this week, and she has been in my thoughts and heart more than ever. Then, just today, while searching for something else, I came upon this lovely essay, beautifully typed. I think she wanted to submit it somewhere for publication, and it pleases me to know it will finally see the light of day here.

Good Peasant Stock by Assunta Marlene Esterly

My sister Cynthia tells me that it is “our good peasant stock” that has enabled me to keep trudging on, despite my daily battle with a congenital illness. The more I think about it, the more inclined I am to believe her.

It is my father’s Italian heritage, in particular, for which I give thanks and credit for my endurance against all odds. His ancestors were struggling farmers in southern Italy. Knowing this, I envision the strong women who came before me. I see them working in the fields for hours on end, under a blinding sun in scorching heat. From sunrise to sunset, there is a steady stream of backbreaking chores to be done with none of the modern conveniences of today. They live by the words which they have heard for their entire existence, that no one owes you a living, and nothing comes easy in this life. But they awaken each day with renewed strength and determination. They see the rewards of their efforts in their children’s smiles.

When I was hospitalized as a child, my seventy-five-year-old paternal grandfather came to visit me. He was so exhausted, that after a few minutes of sitting in the chair beside my bed, he fell deeply asleep. Even at his advanced age, he continued to work long hours at his pizza parlor, making pies throughout the day next to a huge, blazing oven. Now I just sat up in bed and watched him, grateful that he was finally taking a break. When he awakened, he handed me a small brown paper bag and said he had to go back to work. Inside the bag, I found what I knew my grandfather sincerely believed was a perfect and loving gift for his sickly grandchild. It was the ideal red, ripe tomato, grown in his little garden by his own husky calloused hands. Perhaps like his ancestors in Italy, he thought nothing could be finer than a gift from God’s earth, loaded with nutrients, and so lovely to look at before biting into and savoring the pleasing juice as it dribbles on the chin.

As children, my siblings and I loved Grandpa’s pizza. It was the best in Brooklyn, as far as we were concerned. But much to our dismay, oftentimes when we stood at the counter awaiting our favorite meal, we were informed by Grandpa that he had cooked something special––”better than pizza”––just for us. It was always fish, fresh from the Fulton Fish Market, which he had picked up early in the morning. And it was always prepared the same way. Grandpa baked a bass with olive oil, lots of garlic cloves, bay leaves, and some plum tomatoes. (At least these were the ingredients that were visible in the pan.) Although my brothers and sisters did not share my opinion, I actually grew to enjoy Grandpa’s oily fish dish. I only wish that I had his exact recipe today, because I have never been able to duplicate that distinct flavor in my own kitchen. Again, my grandfather had reached back to his good peasant stock roots and bestowed on us a perfect gift, a meal better than pizza. Indeed what could be better than to feed loved ones a piece of the freshest fist, simmering in healthful imported olive oil, and huge fresh garlic cloves, the liquid gold and jewels of my family.

When my grandfather visited us on Long Island, he would head straight to our backyard and tend to our neglected greenery. Miraculously, whatever withered plant he touched soon came to life in spectacular bloom. I helped him collect dandelions one day, only to discover later that he was using them in a salad which we were to have for dinner that night. The pear tree that he planted still gave us sweet, succulent pears long after his passing. But eventually, with lack of care and my grandfather’s special touch, it began producing less and less fruit, and sadly, one summer when I returned to my childhood home, I found it brown and bare and lifeless.

My father too was no stranger to hard work, but although he rarely had time to apply his creative side, he was a talented artist and writer. To be able to leisurely paint a seascape or compose an eloquent poem or letter was pure tranquility for him. However, he was the provider for six children, and on top of earning a living by day, he chose to better himself by studying chiropractic medicine in the evening. He had tremendous drive, and of course that good peasant stock. I can still hear my father’s words to me, so many years ago, as I was complaining about some minor teenage dilemma. He calmly instructed, “You have to learn to roll with the punches.”

And I suppose that I have. It must be that good peasant stock.