This is a story of an Italian man who was a skilled gardener. He nurtured his love for the earth to his death. In conclusion, that love was so strong, the earth grieved, as did his beloved fig tree.
The Seeds
My maternal grandfather, Antonio Savaiano, immigrated to Chicago in the 1914 from Pizzone, Italy. Pizzone is a small hill town located in the province of Molise. Like many Italians, he left southern Italy to find hope and prosperity in America. He was 17 years old, alone, and carried little more than a few personal possessions as he left Pizzone to start a new life in America.
His uncle, Frederico Papa, lived in Chicago and was his sponsor. Many immigrants who arrived in America ahead of other family members, set up rooms in their homes to help friends and relatives. They boarded, fed, and clothed them until they could get on their feet. My grandfather found work as a laborer and moved to what is referred to as the Taylor Street neighborhood of Chicago. The Taylor Street area, while much has been taken over by the University of Chicago, is still home to many immigrants and their descendants. My grandfather established himself on Forquer street where he met my grandmother, Elizabeth. Soon after, they married and started to raise a family.
The Roots
Antonio was born in Beaucaire, France. Many families from Pizzone left their homes in the spring each year, to work on farms in the south of France. They tended to vineyards and crops, not returning home until after the fall harvest. As a young boy, he became a skilled farmer. Cherishing his childhood connection to the earth, as a man, he continued to nurture that skill in his home gardens.
Growth
Growing up, my family had a large garden in the backyard. In 1959, our family moved from Chicago to Racine, Wisconsin where my father found a job working for large farm equipment manufacturer. My grandparents stayed in Chicago. On weekends they made trips to Racine to help us settle into our new home. My grandfather was given free reign of the garden. His own garden, on Harrison and California, in Chicago, occupied the entire back of his multi unit building. Consequently, it was common for him to have more than one garden. At one point he not only tended to his own, but to ours and the gardens of neighbors and other family members.
In two of his gardens, he planted fig trees. Our fig tree, centrally located in the garden, was about 4 feet tall. It was surrounded by tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, fresh herbs, beans, onions, and eggplants.
The Process
Today, you can walk into any Italian establishment, in the neighborhoods surrounding my own, and it would not be uncommon to hear a group of men discussing the annual burial of their fig trees. Similarly, it was my grandfather’s intention to bury our tree. Because Chicago is known for harsh winters. Fig trees, too delicate to withstand the winter, were buried before the frost.
At a very young age, I remember him enlisting the help of my brothers to bury the tree. He dug a grave-like trench and slowly bent the tree toward the trench. While the tree was bending, the tension of the earth and the snapping of branches made it seem like it would never lie down. However, with perseverance he got it to rest in its grave. It was then covered with plastic, wood, and anything that would weigh it down and provide insulation from the cold winter.
In the spring, they gently lift the tree back to a standing position. On some occasions, the branches had already started budding. This ritual went on for five years. Each year the tree not only grew larger, but flourished. It produced perfect figs that he savored with a glass of homemade wine, and his daily charcuterie board of homemade sausages and cheeses.
The Ashes
In 1965, he buried the tree for the last time. At age 69, on February 4, 1966, he died unexpectedly, of heart failure. My mother, deep into her grief, struggled with the idea of managing his garden. She felt his presence in our home and often called out to him. She thought, she heard him walking in the basement, or watering the garden. Wishing to honor him, she committed herself to digging up the tree. Her mind was on him, the gardens, and making him proud of her efforts.
I don’t know who was with her on the day the tree was lifted, My mother, recalling that day, told the story with tears in her eyes. She described removing the materials covering the tree. She recalled how beautiful the tree was and how it seemed to be budding, just as it had done in the past. Cradling the tree to lift it, the tree crumbled in her hands. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground in tears.
In a way, the loss of the tree was symbolic. I see it as a love story. My grandfather’s love of the earth and reverence for gardening produced healthy, thriving fruits and vegetables for the purpose of feeding the mouths he loved. My mother’s desire to nurture the tree could never replace the emptiness of losing someone she loved and admired so much.
The Rebirth
This year, we welcomed a small fig tree into our own family. In the same vein, I long to understand the process and I am committed to, at the very least, trying. I know we will have to feel our way through it and we may not be successful, but I think he would be excited to know that someone is trying and that the gift of his presence in our life lives on.
