Marie J Waggoner

July 29, 1927 – May 13, 2013

Excerpts from My Life by Marie J. Waggoner

My father Matteo Bartolomeo was from Guardiaregia, Italy and sailed from Naples to New York in 1914, becoming a naturalized citizen in 1919, after serving in the U.S. Army during World War I. He returned to Italy and married his beloved Vittoria from his home town in 1920. He later returned to New York in 1924; though Vittoria joined him a year later in 1925 with my sister Marian, age 21 months. They lived the American dream and raised their family, enjoying many Italian traditions, along with new customs that were adopted as first generation Americans.

I was born on July 29, 1927 in Washington, D.C. I lived on Illinois Ave. N.W. Washington, D.C; the only home I remember in my childhood until I married.

I grew-up with my five sisters: Mariantonia Delfino “Marian”, Giuseppina Antonia “Jo”, Michelina “Lena”, Rosina “Rose”, and Francesca Domenica “Frances”. I had the longest name of all and was called “Sue” by my sisters. Our street had only five houses, and always looked the nicest, I thought, as it was well maintained. Further down the street were shops; a tailor, shoemaker and bike store where we would buy our penny candy.

We lived in the basement most of the time where the kitchen and living areas were, with our bedrooms were on the first floor upstairs. My parent’s bedroom was in the back area with a closed in porch; and the girl’s bedroom was at the front of the house. We slept in two double beds, with three to a bed. We rented out the upper floor to tenants. Our backyard had a vegetable garden with lettuce and tomatoes, a fig and peach tree; and daddy liked growing sunflowers. Mama had her own parsley patch and used it for cooking.

My farther worked as a scissor grinder, sharpening knives and scissors. He walked the streets of Washington with his grinding machine on his back. He had many clients that looked forward to his return each month. Eventually, he went to work as a school janitor and became an engineer in charge of the boiler rooms at one of the elementary schools. After a long day at the school, he continued with his scissor grinder business in the afternoons. He liked gardening and working with his hands. He always worked hard and long hours to make a living for his family of six girls.

Growing up, I remember our haircut sessions on Sundays (monthly) when daddy gave us girls a bob-cut. Sometimes in the summer months, our family packed up a picnic lunch and we used to take the excursion boat to Marshall Hall amusement park or Colonial Beach, Virginia for a full day. I loved to read and would walk to the library with a neighbor friend and check out 6-10 books at a time. During the summer months we went to the playground where I learned to weave reed baskets and embroider dish towels. We were never idle. Sometimes I helped with the ironing, which I loved.

I attended Truesdell Elementary School, Paul Junior High School and graduated from Calvin Coolidge High School. I went to work as a government girl for the Bureau of Ships, Navy Department, full-time. I started out in the typing pool and took assignments to other divisions, finally with a permanent assignment with the administrative division typing organizational charts, learning to use the Varityper Machine.

I used to go roller staking at the rink on Saturday night with a girlfriend from school days, and met a Marine from Quantico, Virginia, who came up to D.C. on weekends. When he was transferred to D.C., I started dating him regularly and we eventually became engaged.

On January 20, 1951, I married Sgt. John Bert Jenkins, USMC from Augusta, Michigan at Nativity Catholic Church and the reception was held at the 2400 Club. We went to New York City by train for our honeymoon and stayed at the Statler Hotel.

Our first apartment was in S.W. Washington close to the base. I would meet John on Friday evenings after work for the weekly Sunset Parade and then we would ride home together.

Our first daughter, Patricia Ann, was born on July 27, 1952, at Bethesda Naval Hospital and only weighed 3 lbs. 9 oz. and was 17 inches long. She was in an incubator for about six weeks until she reached 5 lbs before coming home. John left for a tour of duty in Korea and I went to live with my older sister, Marian and her family. I returned to work at BuShips while Marian cared for Patty her first year along with her two children, Phyllis and Bobby. Since Phyllis was in school, she brought home all the childhood diseases; and Patty got chicken pox, measles and mumps all before she was a year old.

John returned from Korea in September 1953 and he was stationed a MCAS Cherry Point, NC. We purchased a small home in Havelock (outside the base entry) and lived there until December 1958 when we received orders to Kaneohe, Hawaii for a 4-year tour of duty.

On January 1, 1955, Barbara Lynn was born at Cherry Point Infirmary and weighed 7 lbs. and 21 inches long. John enjoyed the dinner and night feedings as he was away overseas when Patty was born. Barbara was “daddy’s girl” and very much a tomboy in her early years.

In November 1958, we made our final trip from North Carolina to Washington, D.C. for Thanksgiving for good-byes. We had orders to Kaneohe Bay, Oahu, Hawaii. We packed up the day after Christmas, including toys and presents that the girls thought Santa was taking back. We traveled across the country over the next month to arrive at Travis Air Force Base in California by February 2, 1959 for our flight to Hawaii. I was very nervous flying over water, and when I asked the steward for a cup of coffee, he gave me a tranquilizer instead.

We arrived on Oahu (Waikiki Beach) and lived in a hotel apartment with all expenses paid for two months, as no military housing was available. Waikiki was beautiful with sandy beaches, beautiful hotels, Hawaiian music everywhere and lots of sunshine (it was February!).

We met the Johnson family, with three children around the same ages as Patty and Barbara. Irene Johnson and I enrolled the older children in school and spent the day sightseeing with the younger children all-around Waikiki. She has been a lifelong friend.

Living on Oahu was one long vacation for me. I never tired of going around the Island, going to Waikiki beach, swimming at Kailua Beach, visiting friends, picnicking, and saw all the sights. We always stopped at the pineapple fields for a plate of fresh pineapple slices for 25 cents a plate. There were constant parades in Kailua and Honolulu throughout the year. On March 9, 1959, Hawaii became the 50th State and what a celebration there was on the streets of Waikiki beach. It was a joy to be a part of this occasion.

In 1962 we traveled to Japan. Our home base was Tachigawa military base hostess house for a month. We took train trips to Tokyo and Yokohama. The entire trip was quite an experience for us all. Later that year, we went to Hawaii, the Big Island and stayed at the Kilauea Military Camp. We rode bikes and walked across the crater floor of an old volcano.

Our stay in Hawaii had come to an end and we sailed on May 30, 1965, Memorial Day, back to the mainland, arriving in San Francisco. The saddest moment for me was when the Royal Hawaiian Band played “Aloha Oe” as the USS Lurline was leaving the dock. We threw our leis into the sea; as the band started playing “California Here We Come”.

We arrived in Oceanside and settled in the Canyon Towers Apartments, living there until 1967 when John returned from his Vietnam tour of duty. During this time I worked at First National Bank in Vista as a bookkeeper, then Mission Park Medical Center.

We then moved to Tustin, with John stationed at LTA Helicopter Base. We purchased a home in Tustin Meadows. I worked at Columbia Yachts and John retired from the Marine Corps. Patty was in college at Cal State University, Fullerton; while Barbara attended Tustin High School. These were troubled years and John and I ended our marriage. I moved on to a new chapter in my life.

I continued working as a bookkeeper at various local companies and enjoyed getting to know new co-workers at each new place I worked; visits with friends and new adventures.

I met Robert Waggoner in the apartment complex where I lived. We became friends and enjoyed relaxing at the pool and barbequing with neighbors. We enjoyed many trips and sightseeing excursions.

By this time, Patty and Barbara were married and grandchildren arrived on the scene. Adam Christopher was born May 10, 1978; Brian Matthew on June 22, 1979; and Laura Marie on July 27, 1980. I kept very busy with work, trips and visits, and time with my three grandchildren over the years.

In September 1981, Bob and I boarded Amtrak in Oceanside, changing trains in Los Angeles and continued on to Seattle. Upon arrival, we drove to Port Townsend, Washington, to obtain a marriage license. We saw the sights over the next three days (license waiting period), then were married on September 11, 1981. We celebrated Bob’s birthday the next day.

Over the years that followed, Bob and I traveled to many places; including San Francisco, Palm Springs, Santa Barbara, Phoenix, Maui, Hilton Head SC, Steamboat Springs CO, Chicago, Florida, and even New Zealand. Bob had many long-time friends from military school days and his time as a pilot.

My employer John Lytle Homes relocated from Tustin to Vista and became Native Sun Development. After commuting for some time, we made the move to Oceanside in January 1985.

We enjoyed many more trips around the country to see friends and my family in the Washington D.C. area. Many of the nieces and nephews (19 cousins including Patty and Barbara) were growing up and getting married. By this time, Bob was flying charitable missions to Mexico and later Honduras and Belize. Native Sun Development closed because of challenges with land becoming too expensive and joint ventures hard to find. I continued as a bookkeeper working at various retail chains and manufacturing companies. To keep busy, I also started working at Target part-time.

The grandchildren; Adam, Brian and Laura were growing up and in high school It wasn’t long before they were in college and working.

In 2006, I retired from Target. It was time to take it easy. The Personnel Manager couldn’t believe I was 78. Never one to be idle, I spent the first month of my retirement writing this autobiography.

Note from Patty and Barbara…

Mom continued to enjoy many trips to see friends and relatives around the country.

She appreciated that we were married with great husbands; and the grandchildren Adam, Brian and Laura also married and started their own family adventures; including the arrival of great-grandchildren Mia Adele Schultz, born November 27, 2012; Jacob Michael Lobo Hernandez arrived March 4, 2013; and now Baby Boy Gall is due in October 2013.

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The Joy of Growing up Italian

Author unknown

I was well into adulthood, before I realized that I was American. Of course, I had been born in America and had lived here all my life, but, somehow it never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the United States meant I was an American. Americans were people who ate peanut butter and jelly on mushy white bread that came out of a plastic package. Me? I was Italian.

For me, as I am sure for most second-generation Italian-American children who grew up in the 40s and 50s, there is a definite distinction drawn between THEM and US. We were Italians. Everybody else – the Irish, German Polish, Jewish – they were the “Americans” (pronounced MED-E-GONS). There was no animosity involved in that distinction, no prejudice, no hard feelings, just – well – we were sure ours was the better way. For instance, we had a bread man, a coil and iceman, a fruit and vegetable man, a watermelon man, and a fish man; we even had a man who sharpened knives and scissors that came right to our homes or at least right outside our homes. They were the men peddlers who plied the Italian neighborhoods. We would wait for their call, their yell, and their individual distinctive sound. We knew them all and they knew us. Americans went to stores for most of their food – what a waste.

Truly, I pitied their loss. They never knew the pleasure of waking up every morning to find a hot, crisp loaf of Italian bread waiting behind the screen door. Instead of being able to climb up on a peddler’s truck a couple of times a week just to hitch a ride, most of my American friends had to be satisfied going to the A&P. When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends and classmates just had turkey on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Or rather that they ONLY ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. Now we Italians - we had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce but – only after we had finished the antipasto, soup, lasagna, meatballs, salad and whatever else Mama thought might be appropriate for that particular holiday. This turkey was usually accompanied by a roast of some kind (just in case somebody walked in who didn’t like turkey) and was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, cakes and of course, homemade cookies. No holiday was complete without some homemade cookies. No holiday was complete without some home baking; none of that store bought stuff for us. This is where you learned to eat a seven-course meal between noon and 4 p.m., how to handle hot chestnuts and put tangerine wedges in red wine. I truly believe Italians live a romance with food.

Speaking of food – Sunday was truly the big day of the week! That was the day you’d wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. As you lay in bed, you could hear the hiss as tomatoes were dropped into a pan. Sunday we had gravy (the Americans called it Sauce) and macaroni (they called it PASTA). Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass. Of course, you couldn’t eat before Mass because you had to fast before receiving Communion. But, the good part was we knew when we got home we’d find hot meatballs frying and nothing tastes better than newly fried meatballs and crisp bread dipped in a pot of gravy.

There was another difference between THEM and US. We had gardens, not just flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes, and more tomatoes. We ate them, cooked them, and jarred them. Of course, we also grew peppers, basil, lettuce and squash.

Everybody had a grapevine and a fig tree, and in the fall everybody made homemade wine, lots of it. Of course, those gardens thrived so because we also had something else it seemed our American friends didn’t seem to have. We had GRANDFATHER! It’s not that they didn’t have grandfathers; it’s just that they didn’t live in the same house, or on the same block. They visited their grandfathers. We ate meals with our Grandfather, and God forbid we didn’t see him at least once a day. I can still remember my grandfather telling me about how he came to American as a young man, “on the boat”. How the family lived in a rented tenement and took in boarders in order to help make ends meet, how he decided he didn’t want his children, five sons and two daughters, to grow up in that environment. All of these, of course, in his own version of Italian-English, which I soon learned to understand quite well.

So when he saved enough, and I could never figure out how, he bought a house. That house served as the family headquarters for the next 40 years. I remember how he hated to leave, would rather sit on the back porch and watch his garden grow and when he did leave for some special occasion, had to return as quickly as possible. After all, “nobody’s watching the house”. I also remember the holidays when all the relatives would gather at my grandfather’s house and there’d be a table full of food and homemade wine and music. Women in the kitchen, men in the living room and kids - kids everywhere. I must have a half million cousins, first and second, and some who aren’t even related, but what did it matter. And my grandfather, his pipe in his mouth and his fine mustache trimmed, would sit in the middle of it all, grinning his mischievous smile, his dark eyes twinkling, surveying his domain, proud of his family and how well his children had done. One was a cop. One a fireman, one had his trade, and of course, there was always the rogue. And the girls, they had all married well and had fine husbands and healthy children and everyone knew respect.

He had achieved his goal in coming to America; and now his children and their children were achieving the same goals that were available to them in this great country, because they were Americans. When my grandfather died years ago at the age of 76, things began to change. Slowly at first, but then uncles and aunts eventually began to cut down on their visits. Family gatherings were fewer and something seemed be missing, although when we did get together, usually at my mother’s house now, I always had the feeling he was there somehow. It was understandable of course. Everyone now had families of their own and grandchildren of their own. Today, they visit once or twice a year. Today, we meet at weddings and wakes.

Lots of other things have changed, too. The old house that my grandfather bought is now covered with aluminum siding. Although my uncle still lives there of course, my grandfather’s garden is gone. The last of the homemade wine has long since been drunk and nobody covers the fig trees in the fall anymore. For a while, we would make the rounds on the holidays, visiting family. Now we occasionally visit the cemetery. A lot of them are there, grandparents, uncles and aunts, and even my own father.

The holidays have changed, too. The great quantity of food we once consumed without any ill effects is no good for us anymore. Too much starch, too much cholesterol, too many calories. And nobody bothers to bake anymore – too busy – and it’s easier to buy it now and too much is no good for you. We meet at my house now, at least my family does, but it’s not the same.

The differences between THEM and US aren’t so easily defined anymore, and I guess that’s good. My grandparents were Italian-Italian and my parents were Italian-Americans. I’m an American-Italian, and my children are American-Americans. Oh, I’m an American all right, and proud of it, just as my grandfather would want me to be. We are all Americans now, the Irish, Germans, Poles and Jews. U.S. citizens all – but somehow I still feel a little bit Italian. Call it culture, call it tradition, call it roots, I’m really not sure what it is. All I do know is that my children have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of their heritage. They never knew my grandfather.

Note from Patty and Barbara: This narrative was provided by an Italian family friend to one of my aunts and passed along to us. Our mother confirmed that this was her life growing up. Though my sister Barbara and I grew up in Hawaii and California, away from our grandparents, five maternal aunts and their families, including 17 nieces and nephews; we personally remember many of the experiences described in this narrative and stories that our mother, Marie, shared about her family life.

We remember our grandmother preparing homemade pasta. She made the dough and rolled it out, using her arm as a guide for the sharp knife, cutting the pasta dough into long ribbons of spaghetti.

We remember washing and drying dishes after family dinners. It was fun because our grandmother had an assortment of worn cotton print aprons. The kind you slipped over your head and tied in the back. She had enough for all the girls old enough to manage washing and drying dishes, and we all had our favorite apron.

We remember sleeping in one double bed with three cousins on the second story porch when we were all very young.

We remember our grandfather tending his tomatoes and cutting a fresh fig off the tree to taste for the first time.

We remember our grandmother washing clothes in an old-fashioned washing machine on wheels that was rolled and attached to the kitchen sink, with the wringer attachment.

We remember a visit to see our grandfather as adults and going home with a newly repaired "recycled" umbrella and a good sharp knife, which could be taken home in our carry-on luggage!

We remember our mother’s pride in her Italian heritage, but also now open she was to try new things; and how independent and confident she was in everything she did; taking classes to learn new things and traveling to see new places.

In Lieu of flowers, and donations appreciated to American Parkinson Association, http://apda parkinson.orgl