Firewatch

By Paul A. Lavallee

In this, Mr.Lavallee's third novel on the subject of small town, mill town New England, he brings to life the harsh reality that things will never be as they once were--the hustle and bustle of ordinary people rushing past each other on their way to work in the factories or the mills, lunch pails in hand. Unfortunately, many of those huge buildings have been torn down. Others have been converted into over 5 condos, while still others just sit there empty, waiting for a miracle, the jobs shipped overseas. Firewatches are the only employees.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467037518

Paul A. Lavallee

Mr. Lavallee is a romantic when talking or writing about small town New England.He was born and still lives in the heart of the Blackstone River valley, where America's industrial revolution first began. He is a Marine veteran of the Korean war, a former VFW Commander, a DAV member, and a member of the Italian-American (ITAM) war veteran's post. He does not play bocce.

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© 2011 by Paul A. Lavallee. All rights reserved.

Photo by Richard Auger

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/09/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3750-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3749-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3751-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011916516

Printed in the United States of America

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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This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Foreword

The Migration of Albanians to Italy

The Migration of Albanian-Italians to America

The Granite Quarries and The Ghegs

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Foreword

Although the main story following this introduction is a work of fiction, the next few pages are factual accounts of the several migrations of the Albanian people from Albania to Italy, as well as their later migrations from Italy to America. This information is taken from personal knowledge as well as intense research performed by Ann LaCentra Backen, copyright 1996.

Here is her story:

Every year Turkish armies appeared in Albania. Every year Skanderbeg defeated them. But the struggle was an uneven one—the weight of the mighty Turkish army against little Albania.

Desperately seeking help, Skanderbeg made an alliance with King Alfonso 1st, of Aragon, King of Naples, who sent a garrison to Skanderbeg’s capital of Kruje.

In 1466, Sultan Mehmed II personally led a force of 200,000 to besiege Kruje, but could not take it. The following year he was back again, and again Skanderbeg’s forces resisted successfully.

But the Albanians suffered a severe blow when Skanderbeg contracted a fever and died, a hero mourned by his entire nation as well as much of the Christian world. Although resistance continued under his son, John, the Turks took Kruje in 1478, and by 1501 had completed the conquest of all Albania.

The memory of Skanderbeg lives on, however, not only in Albania, but also in the Albanian-Italian villages of Italy. In Maschito a street is named for him. In Rome, in the Piazza Albania, he is memorialized with an equestrian statue, an honor granted only to military heroes.

The Migration of Albanians to Italy

Albanians came to Italy in three migrations:

In 1448, Alphonse 1, King of Naples, taking advantage of the alliance he had concluded with Skanderbeg, called on the Albanians for help in suppressing a revolt in one of the towns of his kingdom. Skanderbeg complied and the large force that he sent successfully put down the revolt. Afterwards, the Albanians, mindful of the Turkish pressure on their homeland, appealed to the king for permission to remain in Italy. Their petition being granted, the Albanians proceeded to settle 12 villages. Thus, the first migration was made up of troops who stayed. History is not clear as to whether these soldiers sent for their families or took wives among the local Italians. Nevertheless, they were in Italy to stay, and the following year settled four more villages, this time in Sicily.

History repeated itself about ten years later when King Ferdinand, who had succeeded his father, Alphonse, on the throne of Naples, requested the help of Skanderbeg in suppressing another revolt. Skanderbeg sent 5000 Albanian troops, who crushed the rebellion in two decisive battles.

Like their predecessors, these soldiers also wished to stay in Italy, and for their services, Ferdinand granted them land near the city of Taranto in Apulia. Here they settled 15 villages in the rolling landscape east of Taranto.

The third migration occurred over a period of years between the time of Skanderbeg’s death in 1468 and the fall of Kruje in 1478. By the time the Turks had completed their conquest of Albania in 1501, many Albanians had already fled, some evacuated by Venetian ships, others headed south to Greece, and the rest to southern Italy.

The history of Albanians in Italy is not detailed. In the early accounts of the founding of the Albanian settlements during the first two migrations, there are figures given for the number of soldiers who came, but no other estimates. Did their families come later, swelling their numbers? We don’t know. Nor are the figures for the third migration, which probably was the largest. Did some of the Albanians return to their native land when it became clear that the Turks had taken over permanently? Again, we don’t know.

The population of the villages in those early years is also unknown. Within the regions of Calabria, Basilicata and Apulia on the mainland, and the island of Sicily, there were probably 70 or 80 Albanian villages. Today these villages range in population from 200 to 2000. If one assumes that the average population per village in the 15th century was 500, then the total would have been 35,000 to 40,000. While this is a rough estimate, it is indicative that the original settlers arrived in sufficient numbers to perpetuate their identity, which they have in some respects done to the present day.

But not all of the Albanian villages in Italy have retained their cultural characteristics. Many of the villages known to have been of Albanian origin now retain only slight traces of their heritage.

Some of these do not even acknowledge their background until prodded by curious offspring or tourist.

The Migration of Albanian-Italians to America

Although there have been Italians in the United States since Revolution times, the main emigration took place in two waves:

The first followed unsuccessful attempts at Italian reunification in 1848, which consisted mostly of political refugees from the north.

The second, which lasted from 1880 to 1920, consisted mostly of economic refugees fleeing the poverty of the south and looking for a better life. As a consequence of Italy’s reunification in 1861, and the final extinction of foreign rule, these southerners, some of whom were Albanian-Italians, had high hopes for emancipation from their almost feudal existence, but were bitterly disappointed. They soon learned that they had merely replaced one set of oppressors with another. Now, instead of Spanish rule, they were in effect ruled by Piedmontese from the north. This was the final straw, and the ties that bound them to Italy were broken.

Many of the Albanian-Italians who emigrated to the United States came to California, especially the Fresno area, usually after getting on their feet in New York. Frequently, the men left Italy first, leaving their mostly young wives behind. These were the white widows of the Italian south, what would today be called single parents, though the condition was a temporary one, dependant on whatever money their husbands could send, living in a poor land without the support of a man, causing a certain amount of social tension because of their man-less status, raising their children as best they could, and waiting expectantly for the letter from America that would tell them that now was the time to come, ticket or fare enclosed.

As I write this, I am looking at a wonderful old photograph of one such white widow and her two children. The woman is young, slim, exceptionally handsome with piercing blue eyes and hair taken back in a bun. Her face has more than good looks—it has strength and character. The woman in the picture is my mother, Maria Joanna, who died in 1977, and my brother Anthony, (born Antonio), and my sister, Elizabeth (born Elizabetta). The photo was taken in 1903 or 1904 in Venosa, a town of some size about five miles from Maschito, probably because there was no photographer in Maschito. My father, Guiseppe, had emigrated to New York a few years earlier and my mother, like the other white widows was awaiting her own journey to a strange new world.

In America, the immigrants, thrifty and hard working, sloughed off the poverty of the Mezzogiorno and soon basked in the relative affluence of their new home—a classic case of a group of people pulling themselves up by the bootstraps. They received no government stipend, no English-as-a second language courses, no multi-lingual ballots, and no welfare payments. If they received any help at all, it was from their fellow Albanian-Italians.

The Granite Quarries and The Ghegs

By Paul A. Lavallee

At some point in time early in the twentieth century, word spread fairly rapidly of the recent acquisition and the subsequent re-opening of several quarries in the Granite Park village area of Massachusetts. However, with limited means of communication available at the time, it was difficult for interested parties living and working in relatively distant cities and towns to ascertain if the information held any truth.

The news, however unsubstantiated, nonetheless somehow made its way to the folks living in those distant cities and towns, news that would attract eager workers from throughout the northeastern part of the United States. Of particular interest was the fact that many of these job applicants traveled from the Hoboken, New Jersey area, having migrated there from Ellis Island some years earlier with pre-arranged and sponsored work and housing programs to assist them.

And so, once the word got out that there indeed was plenty of work to be had in the quarries, eager job seekers came to Granite Park in droves.

Also of particular interest is the fact that many of these Hoboken folks were of Albanian-Italian descent, having emigrated from Italy some years earlier.

In a relatively brief period of time, the men soon learned to converse in the language of their new country, while the Albanian woman, like most women back then, were stay at home moms and were not exposed to the American-English language.

In many cases they maintained the Gheg language, the southern Albanian language, and over time learned to speak only a mere few American words, perhaps out of defiance.

In Granite Park, however, along with most other nationalities emigrating to the United States back then, the Ghegs, as they became known, succeeded for the most part in raising their families to become successful and responsible citizens of our great land.

Sadly, however, there was and still is a reluctance on the part of many Albanian-Italians, (Ghegs), to admit to their origin. It seems that there is a certain mystique associated with being Italian. Are you, dear readers, quite sure of who you are?

Chapter One

The Bocce Courts

Somebody broke into the bocce court building over at the Italian American War Veterans Post. It happened sometime after last night’s highly competitive bocce league play, which ended at approximately 10PM.

Although nothing appeared to be missing, there really wasn’t anything in the building worth stealing. The old TV set with its rabbit ears had been donated some time ago by someone who had bought a new one, and it worked quite well for several years until recent changes in television broadcasting, from analog to digital, had outdated the old set. Oddly enough, though, it somehow still commands an eye-catching position up there on the shelf, staring back at you with its gloomy black screen.

The kitchen chairs along the outer sides of the two courts are a mismatch of the 1950’s era chrome and multi-colored vinyl seats and backrests. Not so surprisingly, then, with some fifty-plus years having passed since those memorable years, and already well into the next century, that the chrome is now totally pitted with rust, the vinyl cracked and faded, apparently both victims of an unnoticed passage of time, or perhaps an unwavering not my problem complacency.

The card tables in the common area are leveled with cardboard coasters taken from the bar in the Post’s main building across the parking lot. Maybe not much to steal, but somebody broke in nonetheless.

This was not a matter for the police to solve. In fact this was not the first time that the bocce courts had been broken into. The police would only complicate things, just as they did the last time the courts were broken into almost two years ago now—with no arrests—and they hadn’t so much as interrogated any of the likely suspects, either.

And so, decidedly without police intervention, the overall consensus of the mainly retired men who frequent the courts on a daily basis is what matters here more than anything else, except for one man’s silent skepticism. Almost totally hidden amid the debris of the broken door and its shattered frame, Fred Graziani notices a small button wedged tightly within the splinters. The other men, too busy offering their varied opinions in trying to figure out who could have done this dastardly deed, don’t think anything of it when Fred pretends that he is merely casually running his fingers over the splinters, when in fact he is actually recovering the button, which he slips into his pocket unnoticed.

This particular button obviously comes from the sleeve of a jacket, he decides, one of those common buttons molded of brown plastic that is made to look like leather. It will be interesting for Fred in his secret search for the culprit, and the culprit is very likely to be a member of this Post. All Fred has to do is wait it out for awhile, sort of keep an eye out for someone wearing a jacket with a missing button, both here in the bocce court building as well as over at the ITAM bar. Of course, his motive for identifying the person in question is nothing more than a challenge for him—a game he