We grew accustomed to hearing stories about our grandmother, Nona. She arrived in Canada from Italy when she was seven, went to grade one but after just a few months was sent to work in the cotton mill in Hamilton. She was the second youngest of eight.
By fourteen she was pursued by a family friend twelve years older. Though reluctant to commit, she married him. At one time she revealed that she felt she had to, because he had bought her a pair of red shoes. She thought she owed him. Their life together was as volatile as it was eventful.
We relished in hearing her tell tales. Family members continued to share them well after her death. Although some were told repeatedly t here was one story that only surfaced on rare occasions. Perhaps it was because it was never validated by my own mother. And because of that there were numerous variations of the same event.
It was during the Great Depression in the late ’20′s when most were unemployed, many received ‘relief’ and all would do anything to make ends meet for their families. Nona too, did what she could to provide for her family. She was a bootlegger. She serviced her friends and apparently the local police as well.
It wasn’t so much her newly acquired profession that proved to be problematic for her but what she did to defend it and herself.
One Saturday evening my grandparents did what they most enjoyed … entertaining pasani (friends) and famiglia (family) in casa (their home). It was certain there would be delicious Italian cooking and although the prohibition was on, as a bootlegger, Nona would also provide them with booze. Whether or not payment was made, those facts are no longer available to me, but the rest of the story is …
At some point in the night amidst the roaring voices of the crowd a cop entered their home in the north end of Hamilton. Normally her ‘friends in the force’ were able to tip her off to any surprise visits however this particular night the message had not been received. Looking around it was obvious what was taking place among the partygoers as it was a common occurrence in those days. The guilty charge was automatic with the first sniff of alcohol.
But it wasn’t ‘being caught’ that pressed Nona’s button (and for certain gave her ‘agitto’). Apparently she and the cop knew each other and the history they shared did not sit well with her. She really didn’t like him. He was arrogant and a ‘smart alec’ who took advantage of his position and bullied the likes of Nona and her north end community of immigrants.
In the process of dealing with the bootlegging issue he made a disparaging comment directly to and about my grandmother. Incited, she was not prepared to take ‘that’ from anyone regardless of badge or brawn. She reached for her purse and took a swing at the man in uniform, hitting him across the head and knocking his esteemed hat to the ground.
Although some details of what followed had faded, the truth recently emerged. Just this past Christmas my mother finally confirmed that the story was factual. Nona was handcuffed and transported to a cell, on an upper floor of Hamilton’s Barton Street Jail.
She then recalled how her father walked all of the children down the street from their home, stood at the corner of Barton and Ferguson Avenue, and said: “Look up there. Wave to your Mother. She’s on the third floor.”
Nona was to stay in jail for two weeks however when her case was presented before the judge she was released earlier than planned.
Apparently, he was a customer.
That’s our Nona … that’s why we loved her.
PS my chosen title was given to me by a woman I met in New Orleans who shared her own experience of going to jail and how her grandchildren teased her with the moniker ‘Gramma in the Slamma’.
