Anthony Pusateri was a peace-loving man. The short, stocky devout Roman Catholic lived with his family on 10 acres just outside of Palermo, Sicily. One beautiful Spring morning, Anthony’s wife, Rose, cleared the breakfast table, poured her husband a second cup of coffee, then asked, “Tell me, An-tony, what on earth will I fix for dinner?” Anthony just grunted. She gently patted the thinning hair on his head. “Dear St. Theresa,” she begged. “This is my provider? God bless the soul of a man who won’t shoot a deer or even a rabbit.”
After leisurely sipping his coffee, Anthony responded. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, woman. If you want meat there’s chickens in the coop.”
“Those hens lay eggs, four of which you just stuffed in your stomach.” The irate wife turned her attention to an antique shotgun resting in the corner. “Why don’t you dust off your father’s blunderbuss? Walk the lemon grove and bring back a clutch of dove.”
Anthony shook his head. "He of the Compassionate Burning Heart has told us, the dove's tender breast belongs attached to the bird not resting on my dinner plate.”
Letting out a loud sigh that spoke of her frustration, Rose begged again, “Dear St. Agnes, protect us. I’m afraid our family will starve, or worse, we’ll become vegetarians.”
“Rose,” Anthony said, his patience finally wearing thin. “If you’re looking to worry then look no further than our lemon trees. Here it is already June, and so far, this year there’s only been a little more than two inches of rain.”
“Have patience, Husband,” Rose said, making a sign-of-the cross. “God will not fail us. He works in mysterious ways.”
“It’s not God who worries me, it’s the sirocco. If we don’t get moisture soon what happens when the hot wind from Africa blows this way?” Rose was silent, so Anthony countered. “I’ll tell you--the thermometer will read forty degrees Celsius.”
Rose shrugged. As she busied herself cleaning off the kitchen table, she laughed and said, “We could always sell the lemon grove and move somewhere besides Sicily.”
“Surely, you joke, woman.” Anthony stared at his wife, who stared back and shook her head ‘no’. “B-but, if we leave Sicily, where will we go?”
“America,” Rose declared. “Those letters you get from your brother, Al. All he talks about is how wonderful it is in America.”
“I know,” Anthony said and chuckled. “Plus how much money he makes, and how smart his kids are.” He laughed out loud. “But us, go to America? Ha. Not in a million years.”
****
Surrounded by the Mediterranean Sea, Sicily is located just off the southwestern coast of Italy. Over the centuries, the mountainous island that could be mistaken for an irregularly shaped soccer ball, has been kicked around by the Greeks, Romans, Moors and Spaniards, just to name a few. It maintains a constant mean temperature of around sixty-five-degrees Fahrenheit, but in some years rain can become scarce.
Due to the mineral rich soil on his farm, Anthony Pusateri’s trees produced the juiciest lemons on the island. Dozens of lemon trees dotted the rugged terrain. There was also a grove of the everbearing trees that flourished on the south side of the sturdy house that Anthony had built years earlier using stone quarried from the rocky part of his land.
It was during that unusually dry Sicilian Spring of 1879, that a brutal conflict between competing armies was brewing thousands of miles away from Palermo. The Anglo-Zulu War pitted Britain's well-trained, regimented troops against hordes of drug-fueled Zulu warriors, all hell-bent on fertilizing the African soil with white man's blood.
Britannia might have ruled the waves, but the iron men who manned England's wooden ships would often be plagued by spontaneous bleeding and swelling in their legs. It was soon discovered that this physical discomfort, if not properly treated, could eventually lead to death. A deficiency in vitamin C called scurvy had become the scourge of the British Navy. The British naval surgeons’ urgent call to keep the ship’s crew and its military passengers healthy increased the demand for lemons by a hundred-thousand-fold.
As luck, or maybe divine intervention would have it, in that dry year of 1879 there was still enough moisture deep in the ground so that Anthony’s lemon trees produced a bountiful ‘first crop’. The big surprise came when Anthony received over 100 lire for a ton of lemons. But, when the last lemon had been picked, weighed, and all the lire had been counted, Anthony felt that something wasn’t right.
One evening while sitting at the dinner table, he looked up at Rose, and said, “I think we’re missing some lemons. I estimate the total tonnage was off about one-and-a-half ton. Not to mention, we’re several hundred lire light from the last picking.”
“What? Did you just say we’ve been robbed?” Rose asked, ladling marinara sauce onto the ravioli piled high on Anthony’s dinner plate. He nodded and covered the red sauce with grated parmesan cheese. Rose placed the sauce bowl on the table and eyeballed Anthony. “But who would do such a thing? Take our lemons and our money?”
Anthony stabbed a ravioli with his fork, shoved it into his mouth and shook his head.
****
Anthony Pusateri inside his Emporium at #22 Main St., Festus, MissourI
The very next morning the farm's trusted caretaker, a man who had toiled twenty years for the family, was put on the carpet. “Giuseppe,” Anthony said, his voice low and rumbly. “I know you have harvested lemons from my farm for your own profit. What do you have to say for yourself?” Giuseppe only shrugged. “Well then, if that’s the case, I have to let you go. I will not tolerate a thief on my farm nor in my family.”
****
By mid-summer, the price for a ton of lemons had shot up so high that the sour yellow fruit was traded as if it was gold, or possibly tulip bulbs. Anthony hired a new caretaker, but a week later the man was found lying face-down in the lemon grove, shot in the head at close-range. And still there was no rain, oh, a few drops here and there, but not enough to bring a bountiful ‘second harvest’.
It was mid-August when Anthony sat at the dinner table savoring his wife’s version of chicken cacciatore. Rose took a place at the table across from her husband, and asked, “Well, what did the police say?”
Anthony looked up and shook his head. “Nothing, Rose. They say nothing. Of course, they say they held an investigation, but they couldn’t find a single suspect.”
Rose made a sign-of-the-cross, and hissed, “It’s that devil, Giuseppe. I tell you Husband, he killed our new caretaker and now he’s out to kill you.”
“I know, I know,” Anthony whimpered, shaking his head. “The situation has become deadly. What are we do to, wife?”
“We fight fire with fire,” she answered.
“But there are many more of them, than there are of us.”
“Them? There’s only that skinny Giuseppe.”
With red pasta sauce still clinging to his lips, Anthony leaned toward Rose and whispered, “The Black Hand.”
“Ha. Surely you don’t believe the silly rumors. The Black Hand is a made-up fairytale meant to scare children.”
“Are you sure, wife?”
“That’s what my aunt Aurora told me.”
“Ha. That old crone? Named after a Roman goddess she is. What does that woman know about anything? I’m telling you, Rose, no good can come of any of this.”
****
The storm clouds started forming in early September. They weren’t producing any of the wet stuff, yet, but both Anthony and Rose were hopeful. It was around noon when the couple stood on the front porch. Surveying the trees in the grove close to the house, Anthony turned to his wife.
“The fruit looks small now, but if God hears our prayers, there’s still time for them to grow.”
“I’m sure of it, Husband,” Rose said, brushing loose crumbs of freshly rolled dough from her apron. “God will provide for the trees. But now you must be their caretaker.”
Anthony sighed and looked at the antique shotgun at his side. “Do you really think I need to carry this?” he asked.
“Of course,” Rose said, sternly enunciating each word. “What if that Giuseppe tries something funny?”
Anthony shrugged, shouldered the ancient weapon and stepped off the porch. He stopped, turned to Rose and smiled. “I’ll be home shortly,” he said, and headed toward the lemon grove.
Even though the lemon trees were thirsty for a sip of water the green leaves and smallish fruit still produced a sweet organic scent. Strolling along the shady side of a row of trees, Anthony breathed deeply. “Ah, heavenly,” he muttered, while reaching up to pick a misshapen lemon off a withered branch.
Just as he wrapped his fingers around the yellow globe, Anthony felt a sharp sting on the right side of his head. Thinking he’d been stung by a monster wasp, he gingerly touched the sore spot with his fingers. When he looked, his hand was covered with blood.
“My God,” Anthony cried. “I’ve been shot.”
****
The following week, with his head wrapped in white bandages, Anthony Pusateri sold his lemon farm to Giuseppe’s brother-in-law at a substantial loss. After paying-off his creditors, the ex-lemon farmer used what little money was left in his possession to purchase five tickets on the MS Vulcania. On the morning that the Pusateri family huddled on the dock in Palermo, waiting to board the neglected Italian passenger ship, a bank of storm clouds rolled in from the North. The sky darkened. Jagged bolts of white lightening electrified the air.
There was a metallic crackling sound, then the ship’s loudspeaker came to life. A bosun-mate announced, “The MS Vulcania will now board her passengers.”
Slowly shuffling up the gangplank, carrying a heavy suitcase in each hand, a heavy rain started pounding on Anthony’s bandaged head. He stopped, then turned around to look at Rose. With strips of rain-soaked cotton hanging down to his shoulder, the weary Anthony sighed.
“You’re right, Wife,” he said. “God does work in mysterious ways.”
****
Once the Pusateri family had arrived in America and their immigration papers stamped ‘U.S.A. Approved’, they were packed like sardines on a slow-moving ferry. Standing shoulder to shoulder with dozens of other poor and downtrodden, Rose elbowed Anthony.
“When we get to New York, what then?” Rose asked, balancing a baby on one hip and a suitcase on the other.
“We wait.”
“For what? Christmas?”
“I’ll send a telegram to Al. I’ll ask him how the prospects are in St. Louis.”
When Rose grunted it was hard to tell what she thought of Al’s opinion. It was while waiting for word from Anthony’s brother that the family camped in the middle of Central Park. Finally, the awaited telegram arrived.
"No jobs, no money, no place to live. Stay in New York. Al”. Waving the flimsy paper in the air, Anthony turned to his wife. "Wha-da ya' think, Rose? Do we stay or go?”
"Your brother is a manichino," she barked, then snatched the telegram from her husband’s fingers. The irate woman ripped the message to shreds then made a sign of the cross, spit on the ground, and hissed, “Besides, we can’t stay in this filthy town. New York is full of rats and kikes.”
Anthony shrugged and looked at his wife. “Rose, Rose, Rose. We haven’t been in America more than a month and already you’re talking like you were born here.”
The very next day, Anthony purchased a third-class ticket on a cattle car that had been refurbished to carry human passengers. A week after they arrived in St. Louis, Anthony stood on the step outside his tenement building and turned to his wife who was standing next to him smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
Anthony peeled the cellophane wrapper off a two-penny Dutch Master cigar, bit off the end then chomped down on the black turd-looking stogie. He waved his arm in the air. “Look around, Rosie, St. Louie, she’s a booming. Jobs are everywhere.”
Rose ground out the cigarette butt with the heel of her shoe then laughed. “Your damn brother, Al? He’s a stupido.”
****
A little over 100 years ago, St. Louis Produce Row was nothing more than a long collection of rundown warehouses, located a stone's throw from the Mississippi River. This close proximity to the main waterway of the Midwest allowed perishables such as grapes, lettuce and bananas to be shipped upriver from the port of New Orleans, Louisiana. Lumpers, men with strong backs, unloaded the fruits and vegetables. Anthony Pusateri started out as a Lumper.
One evening, after a fourteen-hour shift at Produce Row, Anthony returned home. It was payday and the hardworking Sicilian immigrant emptied the money from his pockets onto the kitchen table. Rose counted the pile of coins and paper, then turned to face her husband.
"An-tony, you're two-dollars short." Her voice came out low and accusing.
Anthony sighed and flopped down on a straight-back wooden chair. "We've gone halfway around the world to escape the murderers in Sicily, but they were already here."
"Who are you talking about?" Rose asked.
"The Black Hand. Every payday two men show up at Produce Row to wet their beaks with Lumpers money."
"Why doesn't your boss kick them off the dock?"
"Ha. He doesn't want to sleep with the fishes."
Rose pulled herself up to her full five-feet-two-inch height and declared, "Then we move, again."
"Move? Where to?" Anthony asked, pouring himself a glass of the wine he'd made the previous summer from Produce Row’s discarded grapes.
"Tanglefoot."
"Tangle--where?"
"Tangle--foot. It's a small town about thirty miles south of here. The girls I work with at the shoe factory say the streets are paved with gold."
"Ha, fool's gold, I bet." Anthony polished-off the wine in one big gulp.
“Tell me, Husband, does anyone deliver produce outside of St. Louis?”
"No,” he said, shaking his head, “not that I know of. Those places are too far away.”
“Then Tanglefoot is ripe for the plucking. You can keep working at Produce Row for wages,” Rose said, her voice taking a soft turn, “but in the end what do you have?” Anthony pulled the front pockets of his trousers inside-out. He silently looked at Rose and smiled. “That’s right,” she said, laughing out loud. “Nothing.”
“But Rose,” Anthony said, stuffing his pockets back into his trousers. “You want me to go from Tanglefoot to St. Louis, pick up produce, then come back again? Holy Mother of God, I’ll spend all my time on the road. How would we make a profit?”
“Buy low--sell high,” Rose said, bending over to pull out a cardboard suitcase from underneath a daybed. “We better start packing.”
****
On the day they arrived in Tanglefoot, which had since been renamed, Festus, the Pusateri family moved into a one-bedroom shotgun house. The rent was cheap, and the place was close to the bustling Main Drag. Rising long before the sun peeked over the horizon, the former lemon grower from Sicily would hurry over to Festus’ twin city, Crystal City, and hop aboard the MR & BT train. He rode the rails north to Produce Row in St. Louis, then shipped a two-or-three-day supply of fresh vegetables and fruit by boat to Hugs Landing located on the West bank of the Mississippi River just North of Crystal City.
Once the produce arrived at Hugs Landing and loaded onto his wagon, Anthony pulled the creaking two-wheeled conveyance over to Stephen Hugs Orchard. There, he’d pick up a bushel of tree-ripe peaches or maybe a half bushel of apples. Then it was on to Chicken Hill for several dozen eggs.
For the next few years Anthony Pusateri peddled produce in Festus and Crystal City. Going from store to store and house to house, he’d introduced the Twin Cities to eggplant and basil, along with Roma tomatoes and bananas.
It was one evening after a sumptuous dinner of spaghetti with meatballs. Anthony patted his stomach and held up his glass for more vino. “Rose,” he said, “that was an elegant repast.” Rose smiled and nodded. She was well aware that the way to a man’s heart went directly through his stomach. Anthony guffawed, and continued, “You know what they’re calling me, now?”
“Not dago, I hope,” Rose said, taking a seat at the table next to her husband.
“Banana John.”
“What? But your name is An-tony.”
“I know, but Banana An-tony just doesn’t have the right ring.” Anthony had a serious expression when he stated, “Rose, I’m thinking of opening a saloon.”
“Where?” Rose asked.
“There’s a place for rent at #22 Main St.”
Rose stared at her husband for a moment, then asked, “Why not include a restaurant and grocery?”
Around 1910, Banana John took his wife’s sage advice and opened Banana John’s Emporium at #22 Main St., Festus, Missouri. He set up shop on the ground floor of the two-story building. A long bar ran along one wall. A mini-grocery and smoke shop was situated on the opposite side of the narrow room.
Every morning Banana John, rose well before dawn, then took the early train from Crystal City to Produce Row. The produce was then shipped to Hugs Landing where it was unloaded. His daily shipments had become so large that Anthony hired a mule-driven hack. A year after the Emporium opened its doors, not to be outdone by a local dairy that churned-out vanilla ice-cream, Banana John had both vanilla and chocolate ice cream packed in dry ice in St. Louis then shipped to Festus on the overnight express train.
Then, on January 1st 1919, Prohibition became the law of the land. Banana John opened the beer spigots in his saloon and poured free suds until the barrels went dry. January 1st is also the Blessed Virgin’s feast day which was properly celebrated with free Italian prosciutto. Once the saloon was shuttered, Banana John trudged home to find Rose, a pork roast and pasta, all waiting for him with open arms.
****
Rose Pusateri was the sort of woman who never hesitated to speak her mind. It was during an over the fence visit one day, that the neighbor lady who lived behind the Pusateri’s, had the nerve to suggest that Rose’s sixteen-year-old son, Vincent, had been, “Sniffing around.”
“What’da mean, sniffing around?” Rose barked.
“I mean, Mrs. Pusateri, that your son has been courting my daughter, Angela.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Well, I, I mean—don’t you think that will lead to trouble? With your people being Roman Catholic—and our family being Baptist, somehow it just doesn’t seem proper.”
To make eye-to-eye contact with the neighbor, Rose had to stand on tiptoe. She leaned over the fence, drilled into the woman’s eyes, and hissed, “Listen here. There won’t be no trouble with those two kids, not if your Angel keeps her legs crossed.”
“Why, I--,” the woman gasped. “How can you even suggest such a thing?”
“How? Because kids will be kids. Now, if you don’t mind, you and your Baptist friends can kiss my ass. An’ by the way, the Pusateri’s are Sicilian Catholic.”
****
A few days later, while sitting in the parlor, Banana John and Rose were discussing how to navigate an uncertain future, one that would not include selling beer at the saloon. After taking a sip of his homemade Galiano liquor, Banana John smacked his lips.
“Rose,” he said, turning to his wife. “We’ve worked hard to make it this far. But now with Prohibition gutting half our business, I’m afraid this family might have to cut back.”
“God always delivers to those who do their best work.”
“Rose,” Banana John said with a smile on his face. “You’ve been reading the Bible, again.”
“Why not?” Rose snapped. “The Holy Bible tells us that lazy boys are made for poverty, but diligent boys bring great wealth.”
Banana John snickered. “Boys. I thought the Bible said, “One boy’s a boy, two boys is half a boy, and three boys is no boy at all”.”
“That was Lucky Lindy.” Rose stuck a tailormade Lucky Strike cigarette between her lips. She lit the end with a kitchen match. Smoke drifted from her nostrils. Through the purple haze she squinted at Banana John.
“Now, listen to me, Husband. God gave us two strong boys who have just come back from a war. I say, if they can fight for Uncle Sam over there, they can work for Banana John over here.”
“Hmmmm, that’s right,” Banana John said, and stuck an unlit Dutch Master cigar between his lips. “William was in the trenches. Vincent drove a meat wagon.”
“I think you mean ambulance,” Rose snorted and took another drag off her Lucky Strike.
Banana John wallowed the cigar in his mouth for a moment, then whispered, “Our boys. In the produce business.”
“They’re men now, with strong arms and legs. If we bring those two in as equal partners, then they’ll have an incentive to make the business succeed. If we offer them anything less, they’ll think we don’t trust them. Capire?”
Banana John wallowed his cigar and Rose inhaled cigarette smoke. Finally, Banana John spit a stream of black tobacco juice in an empty tin can, and exclaimed, “Anthony Pusateri and Sons Produce Company.”
****
For the next two decades Banana John expanded his produce empire to cover most of Jefferson County. Then, in the 1950’s everything started to change. The founder, Anthony Pusateri, had already gone to that big Produce Row in the sky. Vincent Pusateri was the only son still in the produce delivery business. But the big-box grocery stores were expanding all the way to small-town America including Festus, Missouri. More and more ‘Mom and Pop’ stores shut their doors, until Vincent was left holding an empty bag.