Along the Way

By Damijan Tuscana

This book is a fictional novel, based on real life experiences. The person in this book survives, through, Lifes perils, and against all odds, as she traveled along the way, on the road of life. This book takes place, at a time, when there was no name for abuse, let alone the variances of abuse. It was a time when a womens life had parameters of what she could or should do, regarding education, travel, etc. It was a time, when women were expected to become a housewife and mother. However this brave soul does get away from her abuser, and ventures into an unknown world of adventure, to find her own being. She survives Along the Way, with the many twists and turns in her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450284691

Damijan Tuscana

This author has lived many lifetimes within this one life. The many experiences I have had in this lifetime, have given me the knowledge and strength to write my books. If the experiences, I have had, help someone in this world, that would give me happiness. There are many types of Abuse, all are distressing. Most important is being able to get away from the abuser and find a solution to heal. I have wanted to become a writer since the age of five and promised myself when I retired, I would indeed write many books. I have been fortunate to travel around the world several times. I am very happy to have had that experience. I now live in a quaint beach area in Florida. I am honored to have two wonderful sons. I have been determined to reach my goals in life and fortunate to have achieved them all, thus far. I was hungry to learn, and fed my physical, spiritual, emotional and intellectual being. To balance one’s being in a homeostasis state and to know peace of mind at times, has been a great achievement. As I go along the way of this life new goals and achievements are ahead.

Book preview

Along the Way

Damijan Tuscana

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Along the Way

Copyright © 2011 by Damijan Tusacana

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-8468-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8470-7 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8469-1 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 01/24/2011

Contents

PREFACE

BOOK I

THE HISTORY

SANCTUARY

THE CHANGE

GRADE ONE

GRADE TWO

THIRD GRADE

GRADE FOUR

GRADE FIVE

GRADE SIX

GRADE SEVEN AND EIGHT

HIGH SCHOOL

SOPHOMORE YEAR

JUNIOR YEAR

SENIOR YEAR

BOOK II

THE FORK IN THE ROAD

THE UNKNOWN ROAD

BOOK III

MY ISLAND IN THE SUN

THE FAIRY TALE

BOOK IV

THE ROCKY ROAD

PEEBLES IN THE ROAD

THE WINDING ROAD

STONES IN THE ROAD

THE DIRT ROAD

HOLE IN THE ROAD

THE MOUNTAIN ROAD

THE SAND ROAD

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO:

MY LOVING SONS, MARCO AND KURT

PREFACE

Although this book is written as a fictional novel, there is a message to all those who have lived with ABUSE, whether it be; Emotional, Intellectual, Physical, Financial, or Otherwise.

You can rise, as the great Phoenix did, out of the ashes and walk in the sunshine of life. Remember to sprinkle it with laughter.

Survival: One does not have to excel to the highest of levels, but be true to yourself and walk away from the abuser.

Achieve your dreams, be true to yourself and do not lower yourself to the standards of the abuser.

I wish you well along the way of this road of life.

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BOOK I

SURVIVAL

THE HISTORY

How does one write a book like this and stay positive? The answer to that is, I survived. Yes, even in the darkest moments of life, one can continue to believe and find inner strength, humor, and beauty in the small things in life. I did this and it gave me strength, a light if you will, to guide me to continue to take steps, on the road of life and survive even though that light flickered at times.

As I sit here today looking out to the beauty of my garden, it is difficult to write the words that I feel I must. The past is difficult, and yet I survived. Who was that person of such strength, where did the strength of mind and spirit come from? The fact is that she survived.

Everyone has personal gifts within themselves in Life. One of mine was the gift of being an empathic. I did not understand the gift, especially as a child, but for the most part, I was glad to have it. I had the ability to share in others emotions, thoughts, or feelings. I could sense emotions almost like a type of energy around people.

I was able to perceive thoughts of others, especially with anger, sorrow, and real happiness and to sense the difference when someone was phony. My problem was trying to discern the energy form my own personal emotions. Seeing death in people, knowing through feeling energy what people were actually thinking and their motives. I could sense something was going to happen, before it happened. I knew things were about to happen, such as mail received from people and people thinking of you.

I wondered, was I thinking of them or did they think of me, and I picked up on their energy thinking of me.

In the year 1942, the month of November, a baby girl was born to immigrant parents. I would be their fifth child. My name, Elana Raphi.

In 1942, World War II was in progress, and the world was in turmoil. Some of the critical events included, the battle of Stalingrad, the raid in Dieppe, France, Hitler and the persecution of Jews, and the horrible concentration camps. Mussolini’s role in Italy, USS Enterprise took part in the Tokyo raid, the U.S. incarceration of 120,313 Japanese/Americans in concentration camps, not to mention the battle of Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, that was fresh in everyone’s mind.

Mary Kelly was my mother’s name. Mary was from Galway Bay, Ireland. Mary came to the United States, at age fourteen in 1923. Mary came to the United States with her older brother Patrick, who in Ireland was in serious trouble with the black and tan. It is said her brother stow away on the ship and Mary lied about her age, stating she was sixteen, in order to travel. They landed in Boston Harbor and moved to South Boston with friends and family. At that time, that part of Boston was mostly Irish.

Both Mary and Patrick were gifted in music. Mary sang and played the piano and Patrick sang and played the violin. They both worked to acquire the money for the rest of the family to come to America.

The mother of Mary and Patrick, was Elana’s maternal Grandmother, her name was Katherine. Katherine was born in the Aaron Islands, across the bay from Galway. Katherine had come to America at the age of fifteen, as an indentured servant. Katherine saved her money, and returned to Ireland several years later, to marry a fisherman, William Kelly from Galway Bay, Ireland. Katherine would return to the United States in 1925 on the SS Samara, with two more of Mary’s siblings, Christina and Mark. Another siblings, Grace died in Ireland at a very young age.

Mary’s father, Katherine’s husband, William, would travel to the United States in 1926 abroad the SS Sachum. William changed his trade when he left Ireland from that of a fisherman to work on the railroad as a conductor in the U.S. In the part of Ireland the family was from, they spoke Gaelic and English.

Mary completed grade eight in Ireland, but did not return to school in the United States. She worked in the restaurant business as a waitress and sang. She had a good mind for math and business and in her marriage she would show that part of herself.

Elana’s father Giovanni, was from Corsagna, Italy and arrived to the United States in 1912, at the age of ten years. He traveled to the United States with his father Basilio, mother Chiarina and sister Rosa, then eight years’ old.

Chiarina was pregnant with Angelo at the time of the voyage; she would have three more children in the United States. One of Chiarina’s brothers came to the United States with the family. Chiarina, had been a school teacher Corsagna and it was well known that she had a photogenic memory.

Giovanni’s father’s name was Basilio. Basilio was left in an orphanage in 1877, in Lucca, Italy by this mother. Where his mother was from is a mystery. Basilio, was adopted by the Cortapasi family.

Basilio’s father was a wealthy man, who had left another part of Europe it is told, to escape persecution, due to, unknown reasons. He is said to have fathered two illegitimate sons by his maid. He did not lay claim to Basilio for many years. He moved to Brazil, South America. When Basilio’s biological father’s wife passed, he sent for Basilio to work with him on his tobacco and Banana plantations.

Basilio, was a marble cutter by trade and carved beautiful items, and he also played the mandolin. Basilio at that time was already married to Chiarina and Giovanni and Rosa were babies. Basilio went to South America and on the way, the ship stopped in Boston, Massachusetts. Basilio was able to get off the ship before traveling on. He marveled at the sights of Boston. Basilio, then went on to South America and stayed approximately two years. It is said, he had an argument with his father, left South America and went to the United States, to find work and a new home for his family. He then went back to Italy for a short while to collect his family and sailed to the United States with his family on the ship SS Canopic. At that time, King Victor Emmanuel III was on the throne.

The family arrived in Boston Harbor and moved to the North of Boston, known as Little Italy. Giovanni had three years of school in Italy and did not return to school in the United States. He worked at many odd jobs starting as young as ten. He would later become a photo engraver. Giovanni would marry at the age of eighteen to an Italian girl named Margaret. Margaret was a girl friend of his sister Rosa’s. His wife Margaret would die at age twenty five of what was called at the time, consumption, now known as Tuberculosis. It was said; they had two sons, who after her death went to live with their maternal Grand parents in Rochester, New York. Giovanni loved flying planes and owned his own plane. He also loved riding motorcycles and owned two. He had a wonderful sense of humor. His wife’s death put a large hole in his heart and losing his sons had an uncertain effect on his life ahead.

By the time Giovanni reached the age of thirty-three, he chose to go by his American name of John. John’s brother Angelo, who worked at a restaurant with Mary Kelly, introduced John to Mary. They married and lived in Everett, another smaller version of Little Italy. This area was a distance from her Irish community and against her mother’s desires. It is said they truly loved each other. They had seven children, however, the sixth died in the hospital nursery of aspiration in 1945. Mary miscarried the seventh child. John and Mary bought their main house in Everett. Mary bought a house with the birth of each of her children, she had, for their future. Mary managed the money and John managed all the repairs.

They were a good team. Also for each child born, and insurance policy was obtained, a college fund started and a bank account was opened. Mary knew how to manage money for her family and the future. In October of 1945, Mary would die of, as the death certificate read, placenta-previa, and so would the fetus, the seventh child to be. John suffered immensely with the losses in his life, perhaps this changed him permanently. He suffered a deep grief. How he endured this anguish, is beyond the imagination.

Also, in 1945 World War II ended. Mary left behind five young children and a man sad with grief. The children, were young, there were the Irish twins called that, as they were born the same year. The oldest, Maura age ten, and Miara age nine, to be ten in a few weeks, Gina had just turned nine, John age five, and Elana age two.

The date was October 2, 1945. I, Elana was to be three years old in two months. I had a mop of curly red hair, inherited actually from both sides of the family. I had red-haired cousins on the Italian side and red-haired uncles on the Irish side. I was lean in stature, with a dimple in the right check when I smiled, and beautiful large green eyes. At this time the family lived in an Italian neighborhood, where the cultures of Italy were prevalent and many people spoke Italian.

This would be my first memory as in those times, wakes where held in ones home. On this day in October of 1945, the casket was in the living room of the home. I, with the curiosity of a small child, went to the casket and felt this red velvety step with my little hands, then stood upon the step and peered inside this great box, there laid Mummy. I reached in and touched Mum’s face, it was cold and Mum was so still. The coolness of my mother over the years when I touched certain objects such as ceramic, or ice would remind me of this moment. I called for Mummy. It was at the moment great loving hands reached for me, it was my father, he held me a moment and put me at the bottom of the stairway with instruction to go upstairs. This was my first vivid memory, one I never forgot.

John, in the state of despair and grief sought to keep his children, and to keep them together as a family. He had lost his first family when Margaret died, and vowed to keep his children together this time. As in the road of Life, John had truly had a tough road, and it was not to end there.

I adored my father John. He always had words of wisdom, and a smile. John (Giovanni), this humble man from Italy with little education, but much wisdom. John desperate to keep his family together, even asked his wife’s sister Christina, to be his wife in name only, and to help him raise his children, she refused. John asked Mary’s mother, to live at the house as well, this also was refused. Elana’s Grandmother related years later to Elana; that Italian’s were considered to be black and she did not want to live in their neighborhood or associate with them. She had not wanted Mary to marry this man. However, she realized looking back how happy and safe Mary had been with this man. As the years passed, she also realized Italian although darker than her countrymen; were not considered to be black and she did not really dislike blacks. She was sorry for that thought and action and would have changed it if she could.

To this day ,I believe if you are not safe, you are not loved. In the end result, John had to separate the children to live with different relatives. He was fortunate that several of his siblings lived next door to his mother’s house. The three older girls went with his sister, aunt Rosa, who lived next door to his mother. The brother to their aunt Enes, who lived upstairs from his mother. Elana went to live with his mother, Nonna. The bond with these children was broken upon the death of their mother, never to be repaired. Elana tried to bridge this gap, the best she knew how, but to no avail.

To remain alive or in existence, Elana, became capable of surviving with the changing conditions.

SANCTUARY

After the funeral there are no memories, until Elana, I, was in the house of her paternal Grandparents. Nonna (Chiarina) and Nonno (Basilio). Nonna refused to speak English, however, we were sure she understood everything that was said in English. I learned to speak Italian along with English. Nonna was amazing, she could read a book or paper and had the gift to remember and recite back all that she had read, word for word.

Memories of this house were safe and beautiful. The memories would help to get me through many situations later in life. However, that feeling of being safe with my Mother and then with my Grandparents, would be fleeting in the future. Later in life, I would equate being safe with someone, as an act of love.

The house of my Grandparents was filled with love and laughter, music, wonderful foods, and loving people. This house felt very safe. In the back yard there were chickens clucking and roosters crowing.

In the mornings, I would collect the eggs from the chicken coops with Nonna or Nonno. Nonno grew wonderful grapes, from a large arbor in the backyard. He brought grape seedlings from Italy. Nonno would use the grapes to make wine in the cellar. He always let me help. It was so funny, as he had an old washing machine with the wringer at the top, and he and I would put the grapes through the wringer, to squeeze the grapes juice, into the bsin of the washer. I laugh now when I think about it. Other children my age had tea parties, I had wine tasting parties with my Nonno. It was a time of love to remember.

There was a large garden, plentiful with tomatoes, peppers, well the entire vegetable area of the grocery store, as we know it now. I loved the fragrance of the different vegetables and marveled at how they grew, watching the growth on a daily basis. The tomatoes smelled as if the sun had kissed them. The tomato fragrance, never to be forgotten. I would wipe the dirt off the tomato and bite into the delicious taste, as the juice went down my chin.

We would all go mushroom hunting and blueberry picking. We also walked along the beach collecting snails, clams, periwinkles and other fish from the ocean.

There was always activity at the house, with cousins, aunts and uncles coming and going. The wonderful smells of Italian foods cooking, forever permeated the air. The fragrance of the smell of breads baking, cappuccino, and espresso coffees brewing, this ambiance of every day living would stay with me the rest of my life. I started drinking coffee and wine at age three.

The radio was always on with Italian songs and operas. Nonno would often sing with me to these tunes. He knew all the operas. I would ride upon Nonno’s shoulders up the street to the store. I was Nonna’s English speaking voice. I would translate Italian to English and English to Italian for her.

I would run errands for my relatives and I got pennies’ to buy special treats at the corner store. I would take pieces of paper with numbers on them to the corner store. In the later years, I would find out, this was a part of the number’s racket. Nonna, often had me choose the numbers, as I seem to sense the winners.

Many times the family would talk and I say that lightly, as one always tried to talk over another to get their opinion heard. To me, it often sounded like cackling, like that in the chicken coop only in English and Italian.

Many times I heard them say, too bad the baby died. I could not figure that out at first, what they were talking about, as I knew my brother John lived upstairs with my aunt, uncle, and cousin. I often thought my cousin was also my brother, because we were so close. I knew my three older sisters Maura, Miara, and Gina lived next store with my other aunt and family. So therefore, wasn’t I the baby, the youngest of my siblings. Years later, I would come to realize the death of my younger brother called Brian, and also the baby my Mother was pregnant with, when she died.

The relatives also would discuss that it was so sad that Mary died. Mary of course was my Mother, but at the same time, I was beginning to learn about religion and Jesus and Mary. I became angry with Jesus, as I knew his Mother was Mary and in a child’s way of thinking, I thought my Mother Mary left me and was now his Mother and I wanted her back. I did not share that feeling with anyone until I was a grown adult and of course knew better. It did however give me a different view on religion.

One night my father states he followed a fire truck out of curiosity, he stated something just made him follow the truck. He was astonished, as low and behold it took him to his Mother’s house. The house was ablaze, but everyone was out of the house except my Nonna and I. Then he said, to his delight he saw us at the front door, and the fireman helped us out. The cause of the fire, I never knew.

After a few years, changes started, my brother no longer lived upstairs, and my sisters no longer lived next door. They had all moved away to live with my Father and his new wife, except me. I heard the family members state my Father’s new wife had her hands full and did not want the little one. I had just turned four years, old at this time. I had not met my Father’s new wife.

My Father would come to visit me. Usually his visits were short. By this time, I spoke Italian fluently and my Father, and I would converse in Italian. He would take me on outings, mostly to the Revere airport to see the planes take off and land, and tell me about how he owned a plane when he was young. His large hand would hold my small one, and I would feel safe.

At age four, I received a small pox inoculation on my shoulder. Evidently the first injection did not take, as it was supposed to leave a circular mark on the skin. The second injection was given in my right hip area, however, the maniac that gave me the injection, caused intense pain, and although it took, I really formed a dislike for injections.

First grade started, I liked school and enjoyed learning. The school consisted of children like myself, who came from immigrant parents and they were bilingual like myself.

This however, would be my first physical battle as a little boy would pull my hair and threaten me and wold take my lunch away from me. One day, I had enough, I beat him up to save my lunch. He did not do that again. After that eyebrows rose and faint smiles appeared on relatives faces, when they spoke of the episode, as of course the school notified my family. I became strong within myself, with each new occurrence as the years passed.

Shortly after moving in with my Nonna and Nonno, I found a beautiful orange colored kitten, and I named him, Tootsie Roll. Everyone called my beloved cat Tootsie. I loved this kitten and slept with him every night. As time went on, I would dress the cat up in doll clothes and wheel him around in my little carriage. Tootsie was the best natured cat, he never seemed to mind what I did to him, for it was always with love. I would talk to Tootsie all the time. I did not like dolls, only stuffed and real animals.

I would sit on the front porch with Nonna and have coffee, as people did in those times. Many neighbors and friends were about, always with a smile and greeting or wave. Sometimes I would see a little boy