Mangia! Mangia!
Finally, a family resting place
ANTOINETTE JACKSON

Mount Carmel Cemetery wasn't my favorite place to visit. When we first started, I was too young to understand where we were going.

When I got a little older and protested, my parents told me our family went to the cemetery out of respect to the dead.

All our deceased family who had passed away in Chicago were buried in the Hillside, Ill., cemetery near the North Side.

Built in 1901, Mount Carmel was the final resting place of many Italian families.

As Daddy drove through the curling maze of narrow roads, we passed names that ran the gamut from bishops to gangsters, from famous to infamous and those of just plain folks.

On the way to where my grandfather was buried, Daddy passed one of the Mount Carmel's most well known residents.

His plain and unadorned headstone read simply, "Alphonse Capone 1899-1947 My Jesus Mercy."

Ironically, just a few bends of the road away from Capone was the grave of his successor Frank "The Enforcer" Nitti.

Each time Daddy passed the mausoleum inscribed with the Genna family name,

Mom told us the Genna's were her childhood neighbors.

Chiarenza family homestead in Garden Grove, 1962.

Three of the brothers met an early death, gangland style, during Prohibition.

Passing row after row of names etched on stones protected by angels, crosses, and saints, we arrived at my mother's family's plot.

A large granite headstone resting on a horizontal granite slab marked the location.

Atop the horizontal stone was a large cross. Next to it were two large urns for flowers. At the foot of the graves was a hard stone bench.

If Grandma Providenza took the monthly trip to the cemetery, she sat there quietly.

With tears running down her cheeks, she stared at the cameo photographs and mourned the losses of her husband, her daughter and her son.

On July 11, 1956, we added Grandma's name to the headstone.

In 1960, Daddy, Mom, Johnny and I moved to Southern California. The climate and environment proved a blessing to my parents who both lived for three more decades.

Their final resting place became, not Mount Carmel, but Forest Lawn Cemetery in Cerritos.

In December 2006, during our last visit to California, my husband and I were on our way to visit Forest Lawn.

We got to talking and somehow missed our freeway exit.

Instead, we continued to the Disneyland off ramp, gateway to our old neighborhood.

We made our way past the amusement park, then turned south and in two miles, parked in front of my parent's home.

I got out of the car, walked up to the end of the driveway and stared at the house. In the stillness of the morning, I imagined I could hear young children riding their bicycles and balancing on skateboards along Fredrick Drive.

I could almost smell the orange blossoms from the groves that surrounded us when we first moved to Garden Grove.

I remembered how Daddy removed trees in the back yard. He always said if a tree did not bear fruit, it was a "babu tree" and dug it out. I wondered how tall the fig and fruit trees he planted had grown.

Looking at the front of the house through watery eyes, I envisioned my mother sitting at the kitchen window. There was probably a pot of soup simmering on the stove in back of her in preparation for the evening meal.

As the years passed, Mom was less able to get outdoors and her chair at the kitchen table became her window to the world.

She watched as Daddy pruned the night blooming jasmine and pulled weeds from around the rose bushes that lined the driveway.

Before he went in, he always picked Mom a rose or a gardenia to fill the kitchen with its wonderful fragrance.

Now the beautiful flowers they loved were gone and short green bushes were planted in their place.

Daddy would have called them "babu" or worthless.

Did the new owners chop down the backyard fruit trees too, I wondered?

With every beautiful memory, another tear rolled down my cheek and, in a few minutes, I realized it was time to go.

"I'm glad we didn't go to the cemetery where my parents are buried," I told my patiently waiting husband.

"I'm glad we came here, where my Mom and Dad lived," I said reflectively.

Mom's Oxtail Soup

One of Mom's favorites, this soup is thick enough for a stand-alone one-dish meal.

3 pounds oxtails 4 quarts water 1 package onion soup mix 1 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon pepper

1/4 cup barley

20-ounce package frozen stew vegetables

In a separate frying pan, brown oxtails. Transfer them to a large soup pot and cover with water.

When liquid comes to a boil, skim the surface of foam.

Add onion soup, seasonings and simmer for about 2 hours.

Add barley and continue cooking for about 45 minutes.

Twenty minutes before the end of the cooking time, add frozen vegetables.

Continue simmering until meat and vegetables are both tender.

Serves 4.

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Antoinette Jackson is a Bullard-area resident. You may reach her at Antojxn@aol.com.