Sicilian needlework stories wait to be told

My grandmother Rose Russo embroidered
this in the early 1900s. 

Maybe I'm not looking in the right places. Dig as I might, I find little about the cutwork embroidery and other needlework done by immigrant Sicilian and other Italian women in early 20th century Florida. Yet I know it was being done.

I wonder where those works of art are today. Handed down in families? Or are they the pieces I see for sale on eBay, Facebook and elsewhere online?

The question arose after I recently took out and refolded the family heirloom linens I inherited. My Sicilian immigrant grandmother created them in New York City between 1910 and 1918. In the same era, a sizeable cluster of Sicilian immigrant women lived and worked in Tampa's Ybor City. Information about their role in the city's cigar-making industries is fairly easy to locate. Information about their domestic lives, not so much.

Yet, as historian and USF professor emeritus Gary Mormino pointed out in a 1983 Florida Historical Quarterly article about Ybor City Italian women, it was family - not work - that was the primary focus of these women. That was true even when they worked outside the home.

Everyone labored to ensure the family survived and thrived. In the early 20th century, Sicilian children routinely were pulled from school and sent to work. My grandmother had only a third-grade education. Her counterparts in Florida had similar experiences.

Mormino's article isn't about needlework. But within it, a sentence tells me how much the traditional and cultural Sicilian skill remained an integral part of immigrant life in Ybor City: "While at home, Italian women somehow found time to continue the handicraft arts of sewing, crocheting, and embroidering."

My Sicilian grandmother worked in a sweatshop, yet turned out beautiful embroidered needlework including the piece pictured with this blog. She was from the same region of Sicily as most of the Sicilian women in Ybor City. Needlework was an important part of their lives. It wasn't a hobby as it is today for me. They were making bed and table linens for their trousseaus. They were preparing for future family life.

So, I have a lot of questions. Did these women in Tampa sit and sew together? Did they bring handworks-in-progress to community outings? Did the needlework provide cultural closeness to all they'd left behind? Where did the designs come from? What stores supplied the fabric and thread? Were the materials mailed to the women by relatives? 

Above all, where did all that beautiful cutwork embroidery and other needlework go? I speak of the pieces that were special, not the everyday ones used until threadbare. Some of the fine needlework is artistic and belongs in museums. Is it showcased anywhere?

Traditionally, the finest pieces were handed down. But even that practice is fading. Younger generations aren't as interested in the heirloom linens. Yet each piece has a face, a life, a story behind it. They cry out to be remembered.

Digging up the past

Shards give tantalizing glimpse of life on
Tick Island. Photo credit and copyright:
Florida Museum of Natural History

Last month, I wrote about historical facts surrounding the life of the heroine of my new novel, Growing A Family in Persimmon Hollow. This month, I do the same for the hero.

He's an archaeologist who's fascinated by the pre-Columbian history of the novel's Central Florida setting. True enough. The time and place intrigued scholars and amateurs in the late 1800s. But I had to stretch historical truth. The hero is the son of Italian immigrant parents who own a produce market in the Northeast. It's doubtful such a person would ever have breached the academic firewalls of the era's Ivy League.

In the novel, he's mentored by an eccentric, now-retired professor unusually free of the biases found in elite academia at the time. And the hero reached college only because a teaching sister in Catholic parochial school noticed and nurtured his intelligence.

Such individual attention in elementary school also would have been hard to come by in reality. Both my parents were the children of immigrants in the early 20th century. There were 30 to 40 children to a classroom. Many raced home after school to help their parents so the family could survive. My father did manage to get a college education, but he did so by attending night classes at a Catholic college while working full time during the day. He chose a business major that would lead to a staid career. I suspect he would rather have been an artist. It became a hobby.

I think I better plan some future blog posts about immigrants and education. Back to the novel's topic for now. In real history, archaeological remains suffered indignities in 19th century Florida and elsewhere. Then, as now, scholarly controversies and debates raged. So I imagine some archaeologists were sensitive to the humanity behind the findings. Others, not so much.

Burial and trash-filled shell mounds left by former civilizations were leveled in the name of scientific discovery. Professionals occasionally boasted about how quickly their workers demolished a site. They crowed over the number of artifacts unearthed. 

Amateur pot-hunters were busy then, too, and did serious damage. Untold numbers of artifacts were carted off. On the plus side, some scholars of the time recorded their findings meticulously. I could spend hours paging through The East Florida Expeditions of Clarence Bloomfield Moore. 

That was in the late 1800s and very early 1900s. By the first decades of the 20th century, town officials got involved. They viewed shell mounds - many still existed then - as free road-fill and paving material. 

When I worked in print journalism, local history stories were among my favorite assignments. I'll never forget one interview. An elderly gentlemen recalled youthful days of riding his bicycle behind trucks that were hauling shell into town for use on roads. He and his friends scooped up the artifacts that fell, literally fell, out of the trucks. He said town leaders  were proud of themselves for using the shell to pave roads. They were saving tax dollars.

The novel's hero learns the true 
value of archaeological discoveries.

Yes, it makes us cringe today. In the novel, a secondary character of Seminole and European descent points out what the hero doesn't want to see and what other characters don't realize. The hero's increasing awareness is part of his character growth. 

Much was lost in Florida before scholarly approaches changed and protective laws were passed. As late as the 1960s, dredging, pot hunting, and archaeological expeditions were simultaneously taking place on Tick Island in the middle St. Johns River valley. An estimated 175 burials were found along with numerous artifacts that made their way to museums or private collections. I've heard old-timers say that boxes - boxes! - full of priceless artifacts were hauled away. Local belief is that only a percentage of what's there has been found.

This important archaeological site is closed to the public today. Luckily for history and humanity, there's a good reason for the island's name. The place is also hard to access. And home to many alligators and poisonous water moccasin snakes. 

Tick Island seems to have been a significant ceremonial site. Perhaps someday, modern mapping tools, ground-penetrating radar, and other archaeological methods can tell us more about the people who once lived there. And do so without disturbing or harming anything on site. We can hope. 

In past, pregnant & unwed spelled doom

Growing a family is a heartwarming romance novel

Do a search for "unwed mothers 19th century" or "unwed and pregnant 19th century."  You'll quickly learn some harsh facts. These women suffered greatly because of the social climate of the times. It didn't matter what circumstances surrounded the pregnancy. Even in the case of rape, the woman was the one who paid.

Respectability, when it came to motherhood, hinged on marriage. Single and pregnant meant automatic loss of virtue, social standing and chances of a "good" marriage. Forever. Most women in that position faced ruined lives from that moment on.

Options were limited. The term "shotgun marriage" came from, literally, the woman's family threatening the man involved in the pregnancy. The couple sometimes had been courting but were unmarried when they became intimate. The woman's family forced the man to accept responsibility through marriage. Other times, the family paid the guy to marry.

Situations were worse in cases of power imbalances, such as when a servant became pregnant by a man of the household. Even if the relationship had been consensual, it didn't survive public scrutiny. The woman lost her job, her standing and her ability to secure future employment. That held true even if the pregnancy had resulted from rape.

Date rape is how the heroine of my latest novel, Growing A Family in Persimmon Hollow, became pregnant. Date rape wasn't a term that existed in the 19th century world of the novel. But it best describes how the heroine was drugged and taken advantage of. (The scene isn't depicted in the novel - it's referenced as something that already happened.)

As was typical of the times, her family was scandalized. They sent her away to the frontier Florida town of Persimmon Hollow to hide for the duration of the pregnancy. They also arranged for the baby to be given up for adoption.

Going away and then giving up the baby was a common option, frequently chosen in real life in those days. Sometimes the baby and mother returned home, where the baby was raised by a married sibling or the grandparents. The mother in those cases was relegated to the role of  aunt or sister. 

In the novel, the heroine - in her shock and confusion - initially goes along with her family's plan. But as she comes to know and love Persimmon Hollow and its people, she undergoes a change of heart. She starts thinking about keeping her baby. And of adopting an oprhan. Things get even more complicated when she grows close to a visiting archaeologist who is unaware of her pregnancy until she physically can't hide it anymore.

The novel is a historical romance, so you know it has a happy ending. The love, faith and community found in the fictional town of Persimmon Hollow surround the heroine and help her find a new path in life. She finds a new family and reconciles with her relatives.

As with current events, real-life history can be harsh in what it reveals. I like to help modern readers understand how life was lived back then. But I also like to offer a warm respite from day-to-day difficulties. A way to relax into another time and place and find joy along the way. I hope you enjoy the book!

What's normal? Depends

Local paper gave a snapshot of life in 1917

Old newspapers are great sources for discovering how people lived day-to-day in earlier eras. I picked a random date in the online newspaper archives hosted by the Volusia County Public Library to see what was going on: the March 16, 1917 edition of the Volusia County Record, "The People's Paper."

World War I was raging but the United States hadn't yet entered the conflict. (It would, less than a month later.) War news from abroad shared space with local updates about actions taken by the school board, county commission, and city commission. The latter two were heavily focused on roads and transportation.

Gems relating to domestic life were clustered on the then-called Women's Pages. They help us figure out, a century later, what was considered normal then. Almost all papers at the time had women's sections. They included tidbits about who was visiting whom, who'd vacationed and where, and who was recovering from illness. News about club meetings, gatherings, and outings shared one similarity that's long gone from society. Sewing, knitting, and other handwork was a regular feature of women's daytime get-togethers, no matter what else was on the agenda.

"Hints for the Seamstress" was one feature on the Women's Pages in the 1917 paper I reviewed. The hints, along with a handful of other items, were grouped under the heading of "What Women Like to Know."

If you'd like to know, here are the sewing hints:

• sit with both feet on the floor
• make sure light comes over the left shoulder
• don't let bright daylight splash onto the work itself
• avoid pinning work to the table or one's clothes
• keep a small tin of talcum powder within reach, and dust hands to keep the sewing work clean
• use the proper length of sewing thread - measure from shoulder to shoulder or from fingertip to elbow

I was a bit perplexed by the comments about avoiding bright sunlight and avoiding pinning the table or one's own clothes. But I was more befuddled by the next item the editors decided a woman would like to know: the ingredients of a sweeping compound.

Did women in 1917 wash floors less frequently than we do today? Why would you need a dry sweeping compound instead of a simple broom and dustpan? Especially a compound made from the following recipe:

Melt two ounces of paraffin wax and two quarts of paraffin oil over boiling water. Add six ounces of salt, five pounds clean sand, ten pounds sawdust and two ounces of oil of eucalyptus.

Where would you even store 15 pounds of sweeping compound? Closets were premium space in that era. Few people - at least not regular folk - had supply closets. 

Fewer still had walk-in closets, or whole rooms, in which to store clothing like the dress featured in the newspaper that day. It was strictly for "women with youthful figures," which actually meant young women. Age-appropriate attire was a way of life in 1917.

The dress shown in the newspaper photo was dubbed an afternoon frock. It was of navy silk jersey with a shawl collar and hand embroidery on the pockets. A row of buttons ran from waist to hem, which was ankle length. The frock's silk-fringe belt was considered a sign of spring.

It was definitely a dress best suited for a woman of slim build. She likely wouldn't have  guzzled the mulled cider made from the newspaper's recipe. The cook was directed to add "sufficient sugar" to three beaten eggs, then to slowly add boiled cider to the mixture. After stirring briskly, the whole mess went back into a saucepan to be heated almost to boiling. Then it was to be poured into serving glasses and dusted with nutmeg.

I can't get past the idea of combining eggs and cider for a mulled drink. To me, mulled cider is spiked with a hint of liquor. Or at least with wine. Which I might soon need after imagining what they were drinking in 1917.

Solitude walked with pioneers

Webb farmhouse in Mandarin

Family bubbles, social distancing, and online opportunities to connect eased my solitude during the height of our never-ending pandemic. A recent discovery of a small historical park made me realize that solitude walked beside every pioneer in frontier Florida, all the time. 

I realized that during a stroll through a historical site new to me. My husband and I were traveling side streets in the Mandarin neighborhood of Jacksonville when we arrived in town earlier than expected for a funeral. We found a hidden gem: the Walter Jones Historical Park, perched on the banks of the St. Johns River.

This being a pandemic, the site's historical buildings were closed to visitors but the park was open for walking. And it was during my walk along the nature trail, toward the river, that the solitude thought struck me. Everything was so quiet. Few people were out and about that day. It was easy to imagine that a hundred or more years had just been lopped off the calendar. Easy to realize that every day back then, the people on this and other homesteads were far removed from each other.

Mandarin is one of the older neighborhoods of Jacksonville, best known today as the place where writer Harriet Beecher Stowe wintered in the late 1800s. At first I wondered if the historical park contained her house. It doesn't. A historical sign marking the site where her home once stood is about a mile away.

The park features a collection of period buildings, one of which contains the Mandarin Museum and Historical Society. Others are the St. Joseph's Mission Schoolhouse for African-American Children, an old barn, a sawmill, barnlike winery and the 1875 Webb farmhouse.

The Webb farmhouse fronts the river. In its time, it was surrounded by 30 acres of farmland. The river, not the land behind the house, was the major highway of its day. It was a lifeline for people who lived in isolated pockets before rail lines reached them in succeeding years.

The quietness and isolation of those early lives seemed so real during my walk. My husband was on another section of the trail and I was alone. There was peace and beauty in the land and water around me. But the beauty of the human connection was made clear by its absence. I never noticed such a feeling quite like I did that day, in that place.

I like to spend a lot of time alone. But too much of even that good thing is unhealthful. We're made to love and help ease each other's journey through life. Much as pioneers did when they were able to bridge the miles between them. Much as we should still do today, even though the miles aren't always physical anymore. They're metaphorical. And it's crucial that we bridge them.

Marian shrine endures

The national shrine is in St. Augustine

October 2021 brings renewed attention to the National Shrine of Our Lady of La Leche at Mission Nombre de Dios in St. Augustine. 

The shrine was founded earlier than what's covered in the scope of this blog. But it was a fixture of Florida Catholic life in the time period I cover. It was so beforehand, and still is today.

Early Spanish settlers established this first shrine to the Blessed Virgin Mary in what is now the United States in the early 1600s. They did so at Mission Nombre de Dios, also a "first" site. It's where the first Mass in what is now the United States was celebrated in 1565.

In those early days, the sanctuary in the small chapel at Mission Nombre de Dios had a statue of Mary breastfeeding the baby Jesus. According to the Early History of the Catholic Parishes and Missions of  Florida, pregnant and nursing Spanish and native women started to make pilgrimages to the chapel in the 1620s. They prayed for safe deliveries and for the health of their children and themselves.

The Marian devotion continues at the chapel to this day. Pilgrims from around the world come to pray at Our Lady of La Leche and Buen Parto (Our Lady of the Milk and Happy Delivery). But the chapel that visitors pray in today isn't the same one those early women gathered in. A combined force of English and Native Americans burned down the church and stole the statue in 1728. 

The chapel was rebuilt of stone and another statue of Mary was brought from Spain and installed. But Early History points out that the chapel had to be rebuilt several more times after being destroyed by storms or other forces through the years. One of those destructive episodes took place in the 1870s. Another was in 1914, when anti-Catholicism was at high pitch in Florida. 

Each time, the chapel rose again and the Marian devotion continued unabated. Our Lady of La Leche is stronger than any evil force. Now, 400 years after small numbers of immigrant and native women first joined hands in prayer in St. Augustine, a larger group will gather Oct. 10 for a canonical coronation. It's a Catholic honor granted only by the Pope, in which a crown or halo is bestowed on a statue that is widely venerated. 

The coronation ceremony will take place at the cathedral in St. Augustine. It was to have occurred in October 2020, but COVID put a halt to that. A little earlier, in 2019, the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops granted national shrine status to Our Lady of La Leche.

Let's pray that the shrine remains holy and venerated for another 400 years, or more.

This murder no mystery

Fr. James Coyle. Credit: Starquest Media

I'm on a mission to get people to learn history. It's so important. Yes, it's written by the victors but the losers often find ways to air their story. It's important to learn about both sides. And to learn truth, not biased fabrications from anyone who has an extremist agenda, right or left. But learn. Please. 

Onward to today's glimpse of the past: the 1921 murder of a Catholic priest in Alabama. (I figure it's close enough to Florida.)

I'm a history fan and I knew nothing of this incident until a couple of weeks ago. The American Catholic History podcast did an episode about the killing of Father James Coyle. Find the show and episode on your favorite podcast platform or listen via the Starquest Media website.

In a nutshell, Fr. Coyle was gunned down by a Methodist Episcopal minister who was angry because his daughter had converted to Catholicism. And had then married a man who was Puerto Rican. And that Fr. Coyle had performed both the baptism and the marriage ceremony.

Pastor of the cathedral in Birmingham, Fr. Coyle wasn't even 30 years old yet. This being 1921 Alabama, the minister was acquitted at his trial. Apparently he and his court system cronies were all members of the locally powerful Ku Klux Klan. Wikipedia says the Klan even paid for the minister's defense.

But there's a brighter side to this sad story. People reallly were shocked. I mean, Fr. Coyle was sitting on his front porch and the angry minister strode up and shot him in the head. The anti-Catholic sentiment that was heavy and strong in that time and place started to wane slowly - very slowly. 

Pockets of anti-Catholicism remain, even now, but nothing like in the past. I went to a non-Catholic funeral a few years ago in a small town in Florida. The Penecostal pastor refused to shake hands or look me in the eye as we filed out after the service. He'd seen me make the sign of the Cross during the service. 

That was one person, not an entire congregation or denomination. But you have only to look around for a few seconds to see the division that separates people today. I'm firmly in the camp that extends a hand and wants to sit down and talk. I just buried my parents' cremains a week ago after a COVID-induced delay of many months (years in my mother's case). I'm reminded that life is short. And that love is what matters.