COMMENTS & CURIOSITIES:

You know what Thursday is? It’s Christmas. No, seriously, it is. Every so often, I’m asked to repeat a column someone really liked, which makes sense, or they wouldn’t ask me to repeat it. That is always the case at Christmas time, and in particular, a column from December 2000 about how my mother got here from Italy, which also explains in part how I got here, and I apologize for that. My mom passed away in 2004, but the requests for that column have been stacking up for a few years so here it is, once again. Think of it as my Christmas card to you, or our own little Christmas party:

I have a Christmas story for you. I hope you like it. It’s a true story that happened a long time ago, on a snowy Christmas Eve. It’s about immigrants and it’s about angels, which I happen to believe in by the way. So there. It’s about my mother. Not the wonderful 85-five year old Italian woman named Pauline who lives in Leisure World — but a 4-year-old girl named Paula, who was just one of the millions of European immigrants who came to this country in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Shall we?

Dec. 24, 1919…New York City. As Christmas Eves go, this one is Dickens, Currier & Ives, and “It’s a Wonderful Life” all rolled into one. A steady snowfall is working its magic on the streets of Manhattan. It’s getting late. Really late. Even Grand Central Terminal is near empty. A man, a woman and two young children are huddled in one corner of the cavernous Main Concourse. Things are not going well. Not well at all. Nobody looks happy, especially the man, my great uncle, Tomaso, who is my grandfather’s brother. The woman is my grandmother, Caterina. The little girl, Paula, you already know. And the boy is her big brother, Felice’, my Uncle Phil, who is all of 8 years old.

Their day started long before dawn, full of excitement and promise. They had finally reached the land of dreams after a harrowing, 10-day voyage across the Atlantic. They landed in Boston, the second busiest port of entry for Europeans after Ellis Island, which was the entry point for many other relatives of mine. My grandfather, Vito, and another brother, Frank, were already here and had started a pasta business in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Business was good, as was the pasta. When the time and the money were right, they sent word to Tom to lead the next wave across the Big Pond. They also sent detailed instructions on how to get from Boston to New York, how to get from Grand Central to Brooklyn by subway, and a carefully written note with the Williamsburg address that he could always hand to a cabbie or a cop if all else failed.

Making the crossing was a grueling marathon, but being “processed” through Boston or Ellis Island was a test of strength and sanity for adults, let alone kids. Think of the worst travel day you’ve ever had. You’d have to multiply those canceled flights or overheated engines or crying babies a hundred-fold to match the average day on Ellis Island.

Imagine the chaos of thousands of people speaking 20 languages, with mounds of bags, bundles and babies, all crammed into a large hall that was either unbearably hot or freezing cold.

But on that day, Paula and company made it through the Golden Door, and into the Promised Land. Nothing else mattered.

The long train ride from Boston provided a merciful rest and finally, they were in New York, dazzled by Grand Central Terminal…the “Crossroads of the World.” As my Uncle Tom reached for his wallet, he gasped, then froze, as solid as Lot’s wife.

The only thing in his back pocket was his hand. His wallet was gone, lost or stolen, along with everything they needed to make their way — money, papers, identification, the Brooklyn address — all gone. There they stood, without a word of English or any idea of where they were, how to get home or the means to do it, all on a snowy Christmas Eve.

My mother was beginning to fuss, as one might expect from a 4-year-old who has had a very long day. My grandmother and my Uncle Phil tried their best to keep her quiet. Tom was in no mood for drama. He was alternately despondent and frantic — cursing himself, racking his brain, trying to figure out what they were going to do — which is why he didn’t notice the man standing beside them.

When the man spoke, they were stunned. Not only did he speak Italian, but he also spoke in their Sicilian dialect. To them, it was the voice of an angel.

“Excuse me,” the man said, “are you OK?”

Tom didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that question. He explained their predicament as calmly as he could. The man smiled when Tom told him they needed to find a place called “Williamsburg.”

“Really? I live in Williamsburg,” the man said. “I’m on my way home. But there are lots of people there.”

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“Vito…,” Tom said, “Vito Mule.”

The man threw his head back and laughed.

“Are you serious?” he said. “I know Vito Mule. He and his brother live right over their store. I know exactly where it is. Let’s go.”

And so, one family plus one angel and a whole lot of bags made their way to Brooklyn, all on a snowy Christmas Eve.

When they clambered up to the street from the subway, the snow was coming down with a vengeance. My mother and her brother were constantly in trouble for stopping every few yards, fascinated with the first snow they had ever seen.

“This is it,” the man said, pointing at a darkened storefront. “They live upstairs.”

Tom glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes to midnight. Awfully late. He glanced at his watch again, then the door. He hated to do it, but he had no choice. He pounded on the door. Not a sound.

Suddenly Tom remembered the man who had brought them home, just as promised. He turned to grab him and thank him and hug him with all his might. But the man was gone, without a trace.

Tom turned back and pounded on the door again, harder. A second-floor window flew open and my Uncle Frank leaned out, straining to see what the racket was about.

“What’s going on?” he shouted. “Who’s down there?”

Tom stepped back onto the sidewalk.

“Who were you expecting?” he shouted back.

When Frank recognized his brother’s voice, he nearly fell out the window and would have, had my grandfather not grabbed him by the back of his nightshirt.

Within seconds, everyone came bounding down the stairs, through the store, and out into the snow in their slippers and whatever coat or jacket or blanket they managed to grab along the way. My mother remembers so much shouting, crying and hugging that she kept trying to hide beneath my grandmother’s coat. Other windows began to fly open, and before long, neighbors from up and down the block were in the street, celebrating the newest arrivals, all on a snowy Christmas Eve.

That was a long, long time ago, in a place far away from here. But fortunately, some things, like Christmas, never change. Be safe, be happy, and have the best holiday ever. I gotta go.

PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Sundays. He may be reached at [email protected].