Miracle on Elm Street: Christmas, 1933.

Recently my younger daughter, Victoria, and I were getting ready for our nightly bedtime ritual. We always end her busy day with some milk and crackers and then cuddle up with a storybook of her choosing. After brushing her teeth and saying goodnight to her father and older sister, she began the task of going through her books to find the perfect story for me to read.

But on this night, her decision did not come easily and she asked if "just this once" I could tell her a story that I "made up out of my head." As if that was not enough to put Mummy on the spot, she then asked if it could be a Christmas story! She did not seem to care that this was September and we still had Thanksgiving and Hallowe'en to go through before we turned our thoughts to Christmas. She was in the mood for a Christmas tale and was certain that I could provide one. Victoria was right. But it was no tale that I was about to tell her.

As Victoria and her teddy bear snuggled up under the Barbie blankets, I began to tell her a very charming and happy part of our family heritage. It was the true story of a long ago family Christmas in one of Peterborough's early immigrant quarters where my father, Tony Basciano, spent his childhood. It was there in the Little Italy of Elm Street (now Hopkins Avenue) in December of 1933 that our family learned the true meaning of Christmas. Victoria giggled with excitement: I was going to tell her a Christmas story about her Grandpa as a little boy.

The Basciano family arrives in Canada

The oldest son of Michele Basciano and Angela Marrocco, my father came to Canada from Rocca San Giovanni, Italy, in 1923, shortly before his second birthday. Within a few short years, there were four more sons added to the family. Andrew, Ernie, Eric and Michele Jr. rounded out the Basciano clan at 549 Elm St. It was a tough yet happy life for the family. Tough, due at times to a lack of money, longing for family back in Italy and both racial and religious bigotry at the hands of those who did not readily accept Italian immigrants of the Catholic faith.

But happiness came from the close relationship of the boys, the love of their parents, their Catholic faith and from the warmth and camaraderie shared by many Elm Street immigrants of Italian and Irish backgrounds.

Even with modest immigrant incomes, early Elm Street Christmases were happy occasions. Early in December, cedar boughs began to appear on front porches as did handmade replicas or pictures of the Virgin Mary signifying the impending birth of the Saviour. Delectable fruits, treats and Italian cheeses would show up in the window at Fred and Lucy Pepe's grocery story at 519 Elm Street.

Gus LeLaire would keep a bottle of wine behind the counter of his barbershop at 467 Elm and, after a haircut, offer customers a drink of Christmas cheer. Back at my grandparents' house, my grandmother would be busy knitting hats and sweaters for her boys while my grandfather chose just the right barrel of wine from the basement to celebrate the season properly.

Christmas of 1925 was a particularly happy one with the addition of baby Ernie to the Basciano family just one week prior. And 1929 and 1930 saw the Bascianos celebrating Christmas with family back in Rocca San Giovanni during an extended visit to the old country.

Tragedy hits the Basciano family at Christmas 1932

But, during the Christmas season of 1932, there was a strangely different atmosphere in the Basciano home. Although there were some Christmas preparations underway, the house was generally quiet as my suddenly pensive grandfather encouraged his five little boys to be as quiet as possible. This Christmas, while Elm Street bustled with the happiness of the season, my 38-year-old strikingly beautiful grandmother lay upstairs in her bed. With seven-month-old baby Michele sleeping at her side, her husband and young sons spoke to her in hushed tones as, one by one, they visited her sick bed. Not even the joys of Christmas could stop the cancer. Grandma Angela was dying.

That year, Christmas Day was uncharacteristically quiet. There were a few modest gifts and a Christmas dinner. There was even some laughter, a tough thing to avoid at Christmas in a house full of children. But there was also a certain tension that comes with impending loss. Finally on the evening of December 31, while celebrations of the coming New Year peeled through the streets of Peterborough, Grandma Angela closed her eyes and went to sleep. She did not wake up.

On the very first day of 1933, the Basciano family woke to a new life. Suddenly finding himself a single parent to a young family, ranging in age from seven months to 11 years, my grandfather turned his thoughts to the future. Could he be both a father and mother? Would the current economic depression of the 1930s that was ravaging many homes make a now unknown future even darker? Grandpa had so far been lucky. His job at Quaker Oats was holding and occasionally he was allowed to take home free sacks of oatmeal ensuring that his boys would always start their day on a full stomach.

But in the midst of all the emotional and economic uncertainty he was, strangely enough, worried about future Christmases. As Italian Catholics, Christmas and the celebration of the birth of Jesus was always extremely important to the family. But now there was a deep concern that the joy and happiness of the season would be forever tainted by the loss of a beloved wife and mother. As the saying goes "time would tell."

The family copes with its grief

Over the winter and spring following their mother's death, the family settled into a routine. The older boys went to school at St. Peter's while the younger ones spent their days with the Campanaro family next door. Of course, whenever he was working the night shift, their father was home with them during the day. Although they missed their mother terribly, things went seemingly well until late fall when my grandfather was served with a temporary layoff notice from Quaker. Fortunately, his worries were somewhat alleviated when he managed to obtain a temporary contract position with the city as a general labourer. This was a relief, not only because there would still be food on the table, but also because one of my grandfather's goals would still be attainable. After the tragic events of the previous Christmas, Grandpa was determined to make the coming one as memorable as possible. However, at that point, no one could imagine just how memorable the upcoming Christmas would be.

Disaster strikes again

During the walk to his new job on that brisk fall morning, my grandfather's mind was whirling. He was already thinking ahead to Christmas and wondering about gifts for his boys. He knew that dinner would be no problem. At Christmas time, Fred and Lucy Pepe always had a wonderful supply of sumptuous delights in their store. And the numerous barrels of wine he had put down were busy fermenting in the cellar ensuring there would be suitable libations for the season. But, just a few hours later, his joy once again turned to worry. On the first day of his job a load of stone and gravel fell on top of him, breaking his leg in several places. He was immediately taken to St. Joseph's Hospital--where the leg was set, a huge cast applied and where he would spend the next weeks worrying more than ever about the welfare of his family and the upcoming first Christmas without the boys' mother.

My father and his brothers took the news of their father's accident badly. Already deeply missing their mother, the thought of not seeing their father for an extended period of time, until the leg had healed, seemed almost unbearable. Initially they worried if they would see him at all. What if their father's illness took him in the same direction as their mother's had? All of these worries now rested firmly on the shoulders of my father. On the heels of his 12th birthday, Tony Basciano was now the man of the house.

At first, things were ok. The younger boys continued to go to the Campanaros while the older ones went off to school. But there were days when neither the Campanaros nor any of the other families could take the younger ones. On those days, my father stayed home from school to look after them. But supplies were running out. Unfortunately their father was not able to fill the woodshed before his accident, so wood for the stove had to be used sparingly. And the supply of vegetables that their mother had jarred the summer before her death was also running low.

Mrs. Murphy's casserole

In spite of the tough financial times, some of the Elm Street neighbours did attempt to help. One evening, Mrs. Murphy knocked on the door. Always a generous woman, the mother of future provincial court judge Sam Murphy seemed like an angel of mercy as she brought supper for the boys. Excited, they eagerly tore back the paper and uncovered a huge macaroni and cheese casserole. Their excitement turned to dismay. They had never seen pasta with anything but a rich red tomato sauce. Even in the face of hunger, it seems that kids will be kids.

Quickly the boys agreed that, hungry or not, they were not about to eat anything that looked like that! They hurriedly put the entire dish out in the back shed where they wouldn't have to smell or look at it. But Mrs. Murphy's kindness did not go to waste. Every stray cat in the neighbourhood feasted well that night in the back shed of 549 Elm Street.

By the beginning of December, my grandfather was near frantic in the hospital. His leg was still in an oversized cast and doctors were telling him that he would be with them for some time yet. He knew that the food supplies at home were dwindling and he worried about his boys. And, the Christmas that he wanted to make memorable was quickly approaching. But there was something else. Word was getting out about the family of young boys left to fend alone on Elm Street.

St. Vincent's Orphanage 

One early December afternoon, two people from St. Vincent's Orphanage, on the corner of Reid and London streets, close to Elm Street, knocked on the door. When my father answered he was quickly told to pack everyone up as the family was being removed to the orphanage. Panic hit quickly. With Christmas fast approaching, the boys would now be without not only their parents, but the familiarity of their home as well. Everyone cried as they begged to be left alone. It was agreed that the Campanaros would take little Michele, now 18 months old, and the four older boys would move into the orphanage until their father was able to return. In some ways my grandfather was relieved. At least now he knew his children would not be hungry and the older ones could get back to school. But like the boys, he despaired that the family was so apart as the Christmas season approached.

It was a mixed experience for the boys at St. Vincent's. On the one hand, there were kids to play with, and they did not have to worry about putting food on the table or filling the woodstove. But being the oldest, my father looked at the situation a bit deeper. He missed both his parents and was terrified they would never be reunited with their father. Being 12 years old, he was the only one old enough to attend at the hospital, and so, every few days, kindly Fred Pepe would pick him up at St. Vincent's and take him to St. Joseph's for a visit. It was during one of these visits, just two days before Christmas, that my grandfather made a momentous decision. On this particular visit, Dad was in tears and begged his father to come home so they could all be together. After watching his shaken son leave to return to the orphanage, Grandpa decided that, broken leg or not, his family had been traumatized long enough. He was going home!

Of course, this decision did not bode well with the medical staff. But there was no stopping Grandpa. After insisting he could not walk home as he was suggesting, the hospital staff called a cab, and Grandpa had a few cents to pay the driver as far as St. Vincent's. Once Grandpa left the front door of the hospital the miracles of Christmas began.

The miracles of Christmas

The reunion with his four oldest boys on Christmas Eve at St. Vincent's was, to say the least, a miracle in itself. Eric was five years old at the time, and recently told me he has never felt relief the way he did upon seeing his father that day. The cab driver was so overwhelmed by the tears of joy that he didn't charge Grandpa for the ride. Everyone wanted to walk the final distance from St. Vincent's to Elm Street. So, propping Grandpa up as he dragged his huge cast behind him, the five of them clung together almost as one person as they trudged through the streets. After stopping first at the Campanaros to pick up Michele, the family walked together through the front door of their home for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. That barren little house, without a single sign of any Christmas preparations, never felt more festive.

But, within an hour, Grandpa realized that the house was indeed barren. As he watched his family revel in the joy of being together, he silently began to wonder if he had made the right decision. After checking the cellar, he found only a few jars of preserved beans. Not much of a Christmas dinner. There was no Christmas tree and no gifts, things the kids would have been able to enjoy had he left them at St. Vincent's. But my Dad assured him that none of that mattered. He only had to look at how happy the kids all were to realize he had made the right decision.

A turkey and the trimmings

Events of the next hour our family has always considered to be nothing less than Divine intervention. As Grandpa stared at the two jars of beans, there came a knock on the door. It was a nurse from the hospital wanting to speak to Mr. Basciano. Sensing she was there to take him back to the hospital, Grandpa immediately got ready for another argument. But, instead, she was there with good news. It seems that while he was in the hospital, Grandpa bought a 10-cent raffle ticket on a Christmas turkey and she was there to deliver the turkey to the winner. Suddenly it was a Dickens Christmas. Like Ebenezer Scrooge's visit to Bob Cratchit, the family watched the nurse walk in and place a fat 25-pound turkey on the kitchen table. They were dumbstruck. It seemed now that there would be a feast!

By this time word was getting out on Elm Street that the Basciano family had returned. Within minutes, kindly Mrs. Murphy knocked on the door and, eying that prized turkey, she immediately ran home returning a few minutes later, her apron filled with potatoes. Fred Pepe also dropped by, and soon cheese and loaves of bread from his store sat on the table as well. The family could hardly sleep that night knowing the next day they would eat like kings. Together.

Mass on Christmas morning

On Christmas morning the boys all ran downstairs to look at the turkey, hoping the night before had not been a dream. It was hard for them to believe that just 24 hours earlier, they had been at the orphanage with no sign of a family Christmas in sight. Again they assisted their father as they all walked to St. Peter's Cathedral for Christmas Mass. It was a blissful Christmas morning.

Shortly after their return home, the house was filled with the wonderful smell of the cooking turkey and the laughter of a happy family. Even the two jars of beans took a sudden transformation. While last night they seemed to signify poverty, today they were a gift as these last two jars of her homemade preserves brought their mother's presence to this Christmas dinner. The whole family truly was together.

Her bedtime story now complete, I asked Victoria what she thought. With the innocence of a child she replied "It's just like a fairy tale. It was sad and it was happy." With that comment from his great-granddaughter I realized that, although it was a tough road, Grandpa did achieve his goal. The Christmas of 1933 truly was a memorable one and its message has been with our family every Christmas since. The true gift of Christmas never lies under the tree. Instead, it is firmly planted in the hearts and souls of those who are family.

Gina Martin is the granddaughter of Miehele BaSciano and daughter of Michele's oldest son, Tony. Gina lives in Brampton, Ont. with her husband and children. This story was first published in the Peterborough Examiner on December 24, 2005.