Chi era il Jolly?

April 23, 2024

My wife Cathy is of proud Italian* heritage.

We know this because her great-grandfather was named Giuseppe and . . . I could be wrong . . . but I’m thinking if you’re named Giuseppe . . . Gisueppe  Morelli . . . you’re Italian. 

That’s Giuseppe in the picture with Cathy’s Nona. Her name was Erminia Vanoni. She’s the one holding him down with her left hand and about to smack him with the gloves in her right hand. 

This is a strong family trait. Trust me. It’s definitely not a recessive gene.

Now, I’ve  put an asterisk on “Italian” because technically, according to a map, Giuseppe and Erminia were Swiss. By about six miles. 

You see, Giuseppe and Erminia grew up in the Vallemaggia District of the Swiss Canton of Ticino. Ticino is the only canton in the Swiss Federation of twenty-eight cantons in which Italian is the official language. Its climate is so nice, being south of the Alps, that the Swiss refer to it as their “sun porch.”

Giuseppe hailed from Gordevio on the east side of the Maggia River. Erminia on the west side of the river in Auregino, a stone’s throw away. There was, no doubt, a bitter “cross river” rivalry as, about the time they left, there were 219 people in Auregino and 278 people in Gordevio. 

So the story goes,  Giuseppe emigrated from Gordevio in 1884 and set up shop with his brothers as Pleasant View Vineyards and Cellars  a couple miles northeast of Occidental. That’s Giuseppe in the middle, the dapper guy holding the wine bottle.

The wine biz was a brilliant business move as, at the time, there were a bunch of thirsty Italian lumberjacks roaming the hills around Occidental.

The Vanoni boys’, like the Morelli brothers, hightailed it out of Ticino and headed for Occidental in Sonoma County, leaving their sister Erminia in Auregino. She was in love with a guy. We’ll call him “Perdente.”  That’s Italian for “Loser.” Perdente asked Erminia to marry him. Erminia said “si”, but told him the wedding must wait while she cared for her ailing father, Giovanni. Giovanni was not ready to check out and some time passed. Apparently too much time for Perdente because he broke off the engagement shortly before Giovanni died in 1898. This photo was taken when he broke the news to her. Hence, the name “Loser.”

Heartbroken and, there being no family or prospects for a young woman in Auregino,  Erminia was encouraged by her brothers to join them in Occidental where their pal Giuseppe Morelli  . . . we’ll call him “Winner” . . . was looking for a wife. 

Off Erminia went. She was one strong woman. Alone. Not yet thirty years old. Speaking not a word of English. She set sail on the steamer La Touraine from Le Havre in France and arrived on Ellis Island seven days later on June 14, 1902. A train ride across the country. A quick marriage to a guy she barely knew.

And little more than a year after she arrived at Ellis Island, on October 19, 1903, Cathy’s grandma Elizabeth Morelli was born. Four sisters and one boy would follow. 

That’s Louise, Stella and Cathy’s grandma Elizabeth in the back. Her aunt Teresa standing in front between her folks and Uncle Bap sitting on Erminia’s lap. This photograph was taken in 1911, before Aurora arrived. 

These are the five sisters many years later. That’s Aunt  Lou, Theresa, Stella (standing), Aunt Aurora (Babe) sitting and Cathy’s grandma on the right.

Fast forward to 1974.

This is my wife. If you look closely, you can just make her out behind the salami sandwich. That’s Lake Maggiore and the Italian Swiss Alps behind her. This photograph was taken 50 years ago when, at her grandma Morelli’s side, she last visited Auregino and Gordevio.

Cathy’s heritage is, as you might expect,  like Cathy, straight forward, no nonsense, no mystery.  She is 50% Irish on her mother’s side, 25% Azorean and 25% Italian on her father’s side.

I too am of proud Italian heritage. According to my 23&Me Report, I am 98.4% Scots Irish and 1.6% Italian.  Probably five to eight generations back, between, 1690 and 1810.

Not a lot, I’ll give you that. I probably don’t qualify for dual citizenship. My guess is the phone books (are there still phone books?) in Roma,  or Como, or Firenze (that’s Florence for those of you with no Italian in your blood), or Amalfi do not include many Jacksons. 

How I came by my Italian heritage is a mystery. Neither my sister nor brother show any.  They point to my tendency to tan, rather than burn, as proof that either I was adopted, or  mom was playing hanky-panky with a Giuseppe of her own.

As usual, the answer can be found in science. According to Dr. D. Barry Starr, founder of “Ask a Geneticist”, my proud Italian heritage is due to something called “recombination.” D.Barry says it’s like dealing cards from two decks.

My mom Ginny had a deck of 52. My dad John had a deck of 52. (Dad’s might have had a joker or two in his.) We each get 52 cards: 26 from our mom, 26 from our dad.

With me? Good.

Now the tricky part is we don’t get the same 26 cards from each. The cards are shuffled before each deal. The top 26 in the deck mom dealt to John are not the top 26 mom dealt to Linda which are not the same top 26 mom dealt to me. Some will be the same, but not all.

Linda got the queen of hearts and straight blonde hair. John got the jack of clubs and curly brown hair. I got  dad’s joker, who apparently had small feet with high arches and a Latin complexion, so I don’t  need SPF 70  to avoid third degree sunburns while I’m falling over my small feet.

The question is “Who was the Latin Joker?” Or as we Italians say, “Chi ere il Jolly?” 

Sometime between 1690 and 1810, somewhere in a country the size of California . . . who knows?  . . . might have been Auregino . . . more likely, given its size, Gordevio . . . . one lone Italian Joker  . . . probably a tan Marcello Mastroianni or Giancarlo Giannini type sporting a fedora and rocking a speedo made his way into my Olympic size gene pool. 

Finding Cathy’s roots will be easy. She’s Italian Swiss. We’ll start there. 

Finding mine?  Might take a little more time. Might be Ticino. Maybe Ferenze. Maybe Roma or Positano.

I’ll park myself in some back-alley ristorantes and gelaterias while Cathy is perusing fine art, blend in, peek over the tops of my sunglasses,  let fly with a few “Pregos” and “grazie’s” from my handy Rick Steeves Italian Phrase Book to my faithful waiter . . . and do some perusing of my own.  

With my keen powers of observation, I’m bound to find my people.