First Ten Years
Father’s Death
Family Difficulties
My Widowed Mother
I was born on the day dedicated to Mary Assumed into Heaven in 1815 in Murialdo near Castelnuovo d’Asti. My mother’s name was Margaret Occhiena and she was from Capriglio; my father’s name was Francis. They were farmers who made their living by hard work and thrifty use of what little they had. My good father, almost entirely by the sweat of his brow, supported my grandmother, in her seventies and a prey to frequent illnesses; three youngsters; and a pair of farm helpers. Of the three children, the oldest was Anthony, born of his first wife; the second was Joseph; and the youngest was me, John.
I was not yet two years old when the merciful Lord hit us with a sad bereavement. My dearly loved father died unexpectedly. He was strong and healthy, still young and actively interested in promoting a good Christian upbringing for his offspring. One day he came home from work covered in sweat and imprudently went down into a cold cellar. That night he developed a high temperature, the first sign of a serious illness. Every effort to cure him proved vain. Within a few days he was at death’s door. Strengthened by all the comforts of religion, he recommended to my mother confidence in God, then died, aged only thirty-four, on 12th May 1817.
I do not know how I reacted on that sad occasion. One thing only do I remember, and it is my earliest memory. We were all going out from the room where he had died, and I insisted on staying behind.
My grieving mother addressed me: Come, John, come with me.
If papa’s not coming, I don’t want to come, I answered.
My poor son, my mother replied, come with me; you no longer have a father.
Having said this, she broke down and started crying as she took me by the hand and led me away. I began crying too because she was crying. At that age I could not really understand what a tragedy had fallen on us in our father’s death.
This event threw the whole family into difficulty. Five people had to be supported. The crops failed that year because of a drought, and that was our only source of income. The prices of foodstuffs soared. Wheat was as much as four francs a bushel, corn or maize two and a half francs. Some people who lived at that time have assured me that beggars hesitated to ask for even a handful of chaff to soak into their broth of chickpeas or beans for nourishment. People were found dead in the fields, their mouths stuffed with grass, with which they had tried to quell their ravenous hunger.
My mother often used to tell me that she fed the family until she exhausted all her food. She then gave money to a neighbour, Bernard Cavallo, to go looking for food to buy. That friend went round to various markets but was unable to buy anything, even at exorbitant prices. After two days he came in the evening bringing back nothing but the money he had been given. We were all in a panic. We had eaten practically nothing the whole day, and the night would have been difficult to face.
My mother, not allowing herself to be discouraged, went round to the neighbours to try to borrow some food. She did not find anyone able to help. My dying husband, she told us, said I must have confidence in God. Let’s kneel then and pray. After a brief prayer she got up and said, Drastic circumstances demand drastic means. Then she went to the stable and, helped by Mr Cavallo, she killed a calf. Part of that calf was immediately cooked and the worst of the family’s hunger satisfied. In the days that followed, cereals bought at a very high price from more distant places enabled us to survive.
Anyone can imagine how much my mother worked and suffered in that disastrous year. The agricultural crisis was overcome by constant hard work, by continuous thrift, by attention to the smallest details and by occasional providential help. My mother often told me of these events, and my relatives and friends confirmed them.
When that terrible scarcity was over and matters at home had improved, a convenient arrangement was proposed to my mother. However she repeated again and again, God gave me a husband and God has taken him away. With his death, the Lord put three sons under my care. I would be a cruel mother to abandon them when they needed me most.
On being told that her sons could be entrusted to a good guardian who would look after them well, she merely replied, A guardian could only be their friend, but I am a mother to these sons of mine. All the gold in the world could never make me abandon them.
Her greatest care was given to instructing her sons in their religion, making them value obedience, and keeping them busy with tasks suited to their age. When I was still very small, she herself taught me to pray. As soon as I was old enough to join my brothers, she made me kneel with them morning and evening. We would all recite our prayers together, including the Rosary. I remember well how she herself prepared me for my First Confession. She took me to church, made her own Confession first, then presented me to the confessor. Afterwards, she helped me to make my thanksgiving. She continued to do this until I reached the age when she judged me able to use the sacrament well on my own.
I had reached my ninth year. My mother wanted to send me to school, but she felt very uneasy. The distance to Castelnuovo from where we lived was more than three miles; my brother Anthony was opposed to my boarding there. A compromise was eventually agreed upon. During the winter season I would attend school at the nearby village of Capriglio. In this way I was able to learn the basic elements of reading and writing. My teacher was a devout priest called Joseph Delacqua. He was very attentive to my needs, seeing to my instruction and even more to my Christian education. During the summer months I went along with what my brother wanted by working in the fields.