Kathleen Caprario-Ulrich

A humble item.

My newlywed grandparents, Pasquale and Donata Maria Caprario, left the Italian hill country east of Naples for a new beginning and the children they imagined they’d share it with. They traveled across the broad and tumultuous Atlantic in steerage and arrived at Ellis Island, New York on May 10, 1902. Story has it, my grandfather was so ill when they disembarked that he was held for observation with a red “X” drawn on his back signifying possible deportation. After several days he recovered and was released into the care of his older brother who’d immigrated seven years earlier and was their sponsor.

Turns out, my grandfather suffered from severe dehydration as a result of non-stop seasickness while in transit and not tuberculosis. Some honeymoon. My grandparents settled in Elizabeth, New Jersey, where they raised three American-born children, one of whom was my dad.

An intricately-carved breadboard accompanied them across that gut-turning ocean. It must have held great importance to have been included along with their hopes and dreams in the one tiny trunk they brought with them, the size of a small carry-on. Perhaps it was a wedding gift or a gently-used item given them so as never to forget where they’d come from or those they left behind. I don’t know. That wasn’t part of the story.

The breadboard’s cutting side is heavily marked and a testament to the hundreds of loaves of bread sliced on its surface that nourished their family. It now hangs on my wall where it reminds me of the sacrifices my grandparents made as first-generation immigrants and the aspirations that fueled their relentless desire for a better life for themselves and their children.

For me.