DiAngelo Sandra Sutphin is the eldest daughter of Umberto's eldest son, that Sam. For this reason it is aware of many incidents and anecdotes relating to his family and where he wanted us to share personal delivery, on the occasion of his visit to Italy, the writings that follow. They deal with his grandmother Irene, and are written in a beautiful literary style she probably acquired the long hard road to recovery as a consequence of inner family bereavement, the death of her daughter Mia, a volunteer nurse in an orphanage in Kenya (for those who want to know more http://www.miasutphinmf.org / ). Sandra was able to emerge from the vortex of depression that had fallen, and now says he feels a better person, and there must be some truth in what he says, because we have experienced some good days together to the point that when you gone I miss it. We have tried to accomplish in the best way the task given to us, abide faithfully to the extent possible, the text in English, that those who want can apply directly to the author. We apologize for the mistakes now that we are not aware because too little experience of English. But then we were not even experts in genealogical research ...
Along the avenue
Sandra Sutphin DiAngelo
If I could define my childhood memories, it would go up to the avenue that led to Grandma's house.
I stood in silence, absorbed in thought, staring at the coffin which contained a small piece of me. Rosie Pilli (Translator's note to his brother's wife Irene Pilli) today has left us, taking away with him that last fragile link to an era that will never see more ...
I remember pouring over me like the rain that fell upon me, and I m'inzuppavo them.
I decided that I should go see the grave of my grandmother. I tried the place where the left is now more than thirty years ago, well protected and set in the midst of his two beloved husbands, who left her alone, to grow six hungry children. Until it was quiet.
I can not find the exact location. Step minutes seem like hours to turn around. And while I was there, with the rain that washed away my tears, I realized that I should not ever seek his grave, or dream up to that avenue to see it once again. I I knew where it was.
She is in my blood, my breath and in my heart forever.
My Grandmother lived at number 322 of Ellamond South Street in Baltimore City. His house was great. Originally it was a deep blue until it was covered with a light green lichen. It was located across the street on a sand bank that led down to the railroad tracks. The house was constructed like a telescope. It was long and deep as it was one room, and each room you get to the next. Four doors leading inside. The front door was never used as far as I know it will go directly to the bedroom of his grandmother. Not even the back door it was never as it gained access to the bedroom that was used by some of the many boarders. The only door was that it was allowed to enter on the side. It led directly into the kitchen. The kitchen is the most important room of all. It was there that my grandmother held court and ruled with an iron fist.
The house had a porch on the front on which we could hardly sit, except for our children. We could take refuge there to escape the eagle eye of adults. I remember that I sat there and Kathy, Jeanette, John, Vince and Tony. All dressed up, very uncomfortably, in brand new clothes for Easter. I never understood why, when it was Easter, we had to be all dressed up, from head to toe, with garments or Epsteins Goldbergs. Patent leather shoes, nylon stockings fell on thin legs like sticks, belts on growth in tight skirts and cropped jackets. White cotton gloves that takes your breath away with his hands and then the hats that they put in a quandary because they did not want to be anywhere on our heads. Perhaps because of the thousands of curls tucked inside. I can still remember that to stay away from the smell of homemade lotion for the hair, the hat was a "necessary step" for Easter. I'm sure the kids were uncomfortable, but at least had to endure the humiliation of having a million locks bombs wrapped tightly over their heads.
A sidewalk runs along the side of the house. There was a gate that led to the walk. To the left of the house and the sidewalk was on the right was a large paddock with a chain containing a garden. Along one side of the walled garden was a perfect line of peach trees. Not put there by the great hand of God, but from the hands of all of us throwing the stones over the fence. They put their roots, and we had the most delicious peaches and a line of trees that could be more perfect, thanks to our good shot.
Beyond the peach trees there was the garden, planted, hoed and won by Sam and anyone else he could enslave them with a pitchfork. I never knew what we did with thousands of tomatoes and beans extorted the land under the threat of Sam Sharp (Translator's note in the text "shear fear" is a play on words, "sheer fear" means "pure fear" and "shear" means to cut off). I think some end up in my grandmother's sauce. But I suspect that quite a few 'end up in the face of the victim who had the misfortune to fall into an ambush of Sam.
On the back of the garden was a huge pear tree that seemed to claim my life every time an uncle decided they needed a pear. Since I was tiny and weighed almost nothing, I could easily be raised on that mountain of trees, a thousand feet high. If memory serves me right, I'm sure they fall from the tree every time I hoisted it above.
Now we come to the fig trees. I wanted to climb it successfully and I would not be down until I had eaten every luscious fig burned by the sun of the plant. There was also a plum tree, but the only memory that I have is a pile of fermenting plums scattered on the ground. The grandmother also had a chicken coop that was full of chickens. It was located behind the house on the left of the garden. The chickens were treated as special guests. They could learn to be their own dinner? When you did not see my grandmother was going to take time, which meant that they would pull the neck (which is why he did not have never ask me twice to come to dinner).
front of the hen house (just miss a word about the dinner for the chickens to fly out of the hen house) Teddy lived in his bed. It was a big yellow dog that looked like a teddy bear. Cunning like a fox and as gentle as a breeze. My grandmother let him go to visit those who want him because he always knew when it was time to go home. The same thing could never teach it to his six children wild.
was so smart that he could go down the hill to the Frederick Avenue, the main street, which was heavily traveled by cars, horses, carriages and trams. A nightmare from the hustle and bustle throughout the day.
(A glimpse of Frederick Avenue today)
Teddy could sit on one side of the road to watch and wait, again in both directions, until it finds a breach that chaos. Then it would have been able to go back and forth across the street. He had no purpose in doing this, except to show that it was capable of. I do not like to think that someone was willing to bet on him if he had smashed in one of its crossings. If there really scommisero above, certainly did not win ever. Teddy knew he had a gift that no other dog had, and I think that made him a little 'arrogant.
One day, after the usual performances made for his fans, must have seemed too much to bear for someone with less of the other dogs. That was when Teddy took a bite. A two-bite size pieces. Teddy confirmed his reputation as a "dog leg". Moves up the hill, leaving a trail of blood and matter that flowed from him. I hoped that nothing that his special gift was lost along the hill. Teddy did not want to deflate and die, but I did not want him to lose his special gift and that he might live. He could not bear not to be the dog that was smart. But this was not what happened.
Grandma realized quickly when I heard screaming. I was not quiet. She assessed the situation for a second and then lifted quell'orsacchiotto dog to his chest, not caring that was still pouring out his blood or perhaps even that special gift for her. Brought him into his private domain, the kitchen and gently over some towels and began to look after him.
I did not know how he was going to do to get all the blood and the substance inside of him and tenercela, because a piece of him was lost. I did not know where he was and I did not like the idea of \u200b\u200bgoing to control the mouth of that mutt quarrelsome. I tried to think what he could do as a buffer. I thought to take the sink plug, but it was too small, so I thought I'd ask my grandmother if she had a couple, but I did not like the expression on her face painted. He could not believe I want to dab the wounds of Teddy in that way. While I puzzled my grandmother went into the bedroom and returned with a needle and a spool of black thread. I I was frightened because she did not tell me that I had starmene quiet as she thought. And I was afraid he was going to cucirmi her mouth to better reflect on how to help Teddy.
While I was going to hide under the sink, she grabbed my wrist and yanked me back for a job within the reach of my hand. And thanks to God was the only thing he wanted. My hand to hold so Teddy that it would use a needle and thread and sew the missing piece.
Teddy did so much noise. It was too good a dog, but Grandma made it a lot. There were tears on his face while he kept repeating "I'm so sorry Teddy, come back to feel good, you back your special gift, I promise." She knew why she was crying, but no Teddy and believed.
After much weeping and assicuratasi that Teddy would not lose anything, I moved into a more welcoming place beside the stove. Then he emptied all the coffee in a large pot and added milk and sugar and then a beautiful piece of Italian bread ... I had hoped to eat. Mix all together and set it on fire to heat and then poured into a large bowl right next to the Teddy's head. I was just about to ask if I could have a bit ', but after a quick look at the needle and thread that is still in his hand, I thought, better not. Better go to bed hungry than to have their lips sewn together.
The most important part of the courtyard was the grapevine that he was between the house and garden. It hung above the sidewalk full of grapes. Not any of the clusters, but clusters of large, pink, posing as juicy as they were, and that Grandma used to make his special wine. I never understood why they did not gave a wine grapes rose pink, but they made a white wine (NdT Sandy, call me I'll explain that!). Maybe forgot to put something. For sure it was scary and exciting making wine. We had to bring the grapes in the cellar and put it inside a large black barrel that was aligned against the darkest and most frightening of the cellar. There were also the huge bunches of green bananas hanging from the ceiling. It seemed that there was enough light down there, and when there was just shaking off leaving me in complete darkness. I used to jump the stairs four steps at a time because I knew that the big hand would be inserted between the steps and he grabbed my legs.
(continued. ..)
(Grandmother Irene and her son Vincent in front of the house Ellamond Street) 
