L'Italo-Americano

THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 2017 www.italoamericano.org 24 L'Italo-Americano LA VITA ITALIANA TRADITIONS HISTORY CULTURE D ear Readers, Father's Day has become a day to not only honor your father, but all men that act as father fig- ures. Stepfathers, uncles, grandfa- thers, and adult male friends are all honored on Father's Day. Father's Day is always the third Sunday in June. This Father's Day is June 18. Father's Day is the fifth largest card send- ing occasion with more than 2 million Father's Day cards expected to be given this year in the United States. A top-selling and important category is "from daughter to Dad," but 20% of Father's Day cards are purchased for husbands. Mrs. John B. Dodd, of Washington first proposed the idea of "Father'd Day" in 1909 to honor her father, William Smart, a civil war veteran widowed when his wife (Mrs. Dodd's mother) died in childbirth with their sixth child. Mr. Smart was left to raise the newborn and his other five children by himself on a rural farm. It was after Mrs, Dodd became an adult that she realized the strength and selfness her father had shown in raising his children as a single parent. The first Father's Day was observed on June 19, 1910 in Spokane, Washington. In 1924 President Calvin Coolidge sup- ported the idea of a national Father's Day. Finally in 1966 President Lyndon Johnson signed a presidential proclamation declaring the 3r Sunday in June as Father's Day. *** Italy, Texas, located in south- ern Ellis County, is a small town. Italy was found in 1879 by set- tlers who found the surrounding land suitable for growing cotton, corn, sweet potatoes, and wheat. The Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad reached Italy in 1890, with the railroad stop making the town an important market center. The population grew steadily, from 1,061 in 1900 to 1,500 in 1925, until the Great Depression sparked a decline lasting over three decades. The town began to see economic growth again in the 1970s, with the population rising to nearly 2,000 residents, but with few "Italians" among them. Father's Day is coming up so June is a good month to recycle the story of how the only town in America called Italy got its name: Giorgio saw sadness in his father's eyes as he sat beside the campfire on Houston Creek. The old man wasn't afraid of dying. The old man wasn't afraid of the devil himself and had always said Hell was just a place to cool off from one of those Texas sum- mers that sapped the soil and fried his vegetables on the vine. A month earlier he had come to Giorgio, his first born and said softly "I'm dying". It was all right, the old man had said. He had expected to die someday. His years had been long enough, and they had been good and bad but mostly good Giorgio nodded. And his father looked out across the gently rolling plains as he had done for the past 46 years. He knew them well, But they didn't belong to him. They had kept him alive and their dirt had stuck beneath his fingernails and their rocks had dulled his plow, But they were foreign to him and he wanted to go back home. Lately the old man had been thinking a lot about the home of his child- hood. "I want you to make me a promise, Giorgio," he said. "What, Papa?" "Don't let me die here. I want to be buried in the earth of my fathers. Carry me back to sunny Italy, before I die." "It's a long way, Papa?" "Promise me, Giorgio" "Yes, Papa." The man kissed his children and grandchildren good-bye, placed a handful of wild flowers on the grave of his wife who had left him so many years ago, and climbed into the oxcart. He heard the old man whisper, "Italy". And he seemed stronger than he was before, and the grey cloud had faded from his eyes. "Italy". The old man couldn't wait to touch the soil of his homeland and let it hold him close forever. The jour- ney turned south-ward, toward the port of Galveston. There Giorgio knew, he could find a ship to carry his father home. For the first few days, the old man spoke loudly and often of his years in the fields outside Rome, of his family and his mother who wept and refused to see him the morning he sailed away to seek his fortune in a new land of promise. He wondered if he would be able to find any of his kin and if they remembered or had even heard of him. He suddenly felt very tired. The miles were taking their toll. He grew weak, then silent. He sat staring at the campfire on Houston Creek, "Are we going to get there?" he asked his son. "Yes, Papa". The old man closed his eyes and Giorgio thought the old man had drifted off to sleep. He pulled the blanket tighter around his father's shoulders and threw another dried oak on the fire. *** Beyond the grew, Robert Aycock sat in the dim candlelight of a house that served as both a grocery store and post office for the settlers scattered along Houston Creek. Around him were the makings of a good town, and all it needed was a name. And he was having a tough time finding one. Most of his neighbors wanted to call the ham- let Houston since they all believed that old Sam Houston used to camp out along the creek that wound among their farms. So, Aycock, being the postmaster, had applied for the name, but, alas, the post office rejected it. Texas already had a Houston, the letter said, and one was plenty. Aycock was too frustrated to sleep, and he heard someone knocking on his door. He opened it and saw a frightened Giorgio. "My father's extremely hill," the young man said, "Can I bring him inside?" Robert Aycock rushed with him back to the oxcart and helped carry the old man into the darkness of the bed- room. For days, Giorgio sat beside his father and held his hand, wait- ing to see those gray eyes open again, On a Thursday morning, Robert Aycock walked into the room as the old man eased out of his coma. He turned his head toward the window, watching as sunlight streaked across the prairie. His voice was faint and drifting. "Italy", he said softly, "Sunny Italy". Aycock saw Giorgio close his eyes and wrestle with his con- science before speaking. Then the young man answered, "Yes, Papa. It's Italy." The old man smiled broadly and tightly grasped Giorgio's hand. "Thank you son" he whis- pered. That afternoon, Giorgio found a shovel and dug his father's grave beneath a live oak on the banks of Houston Creek. He grieved, but not for his father's death. "I lied to him," the young man told Robert Aycock. The old man had depended on his son to return him to Italy, and Giorgio had failed. Then he had lied. It would be a burden and a sin that he would have to shoulder for the rest of his life. Aycock shook his head. "You did your best," he said. "And I'll make sure you did- n't lie to your father". That night in March 1880, he sat down and wrote the Post Office Department a letter. His hamlet at least had a name. It was then as it is now, the only town in America called Italy. Originally known as Houston Creek, Italy became a town and assumed a place on the map. And, remember dear Readers, the welcome mat is still always out for you, deep in the heart of Texas. ***

• Cover