The Wolves and the Mandolin: Celebrating Life's Privileges In A Harsh World

by Brandon Vallorani

  The day of the big fascist parade in downtown Rome, Luigi watched reluctantly as young Eugenio marched. The boys extended their right arms straight out and saluted. It made Luigi disgusted to watch, so afterward, he proceeded directly to the US embassy and told the officials there how his boy had been born in Kentucky and was an American citizen, and he wanted to repatriate Eugenio in the US. He had Eugenio’s birth certificate as proof and was able to get a US passport issued to him.

  We still have that passport, and I have stood in front of that US Embassy in Rome. Seeing these places and knowing how important they were to my family’s subsequent lives fills me with awe. How different history—my history—could have been had Luigi not been a “pretty tough guy.”

  Lighting one of his strong cigars, Luigi broke the news to his son that he was going to be sent to live with his mother’s brothers in America. He was sitting by a fireplace and set his cigar on the mantle to stoke the fire. When he reached up to retrieve his cigar from the mantle, he accidentally picked up a scorpion lying there unnoticed beside his cigar.

  Luigi immediately threw the venomous pest into the fire and realized he had been given the perfect example. He explained to his son why he was sending him back to America: As was the scorpion on the mantle, Mussolini and Hitler were both venomous men who would bring great harm. Until someone threw them into the fire, Luigi felt it best to protect his son by sending him back to Pennsylvania.

  Fifteen-year-old Eugenio sailed to America on a ship called The Rex. There he became known as Eugene. It would be years before Eugene would get to see his father again. Because of the expense of the journey, they only saw each other twice again. In 1964 Eugene was able to return to Italy for one visit, and in 1972 he took his wife, my aunt, and my uncle and made another trip to Italy. Unfortunately, my father decided not to make the trip because he had just married my mother and felt the trip would be financially unwise. He has always regretted this decision.

  Undefeated by thieves, killers, nations, and dictators, Luigi passed quietly in his sleep in Italy in February 1974, just a few months after my birth. While my father and I never got to meet Luigi in person, Luigi congratulated his son Eugene on the birth of a grandson (me). I cherish a letter he sent to my father prior to my birth, written in neat English.

  In April 2016 I was able to visit Luigi’s grave in Rimini, with his youngest daughter. At the age of eighty-three, Antonietta still tears up and lovingly whispers, “Papa Gi-Gi” as she crosses herself and touches her kissed fingers to a photo on his tomb.

  His legacy lives on and inspires me to be a strong man, a sharp-thinking entrepreneur, and a protective father.

  What I Know to Be True

  Never give up. It took three tries for my great-grandfather to have a son who survived to carry on the Vallorani name. He never stopped trying to do more. While he did not settle in the United States to pursue the American dream for himself, he achieved it for his family by planting the seeds of success. We reaped what Luigi sowed.

  In business, you must be shrewd. In life, you should be prepared to defend yourself from all manner of wolves. Yet there is time to find moments of peaceful mandolin music in the enjoyment of a cigar or a glass of wine, and it is those moments that give us the stamina to continue the battle another day.

  I subscribe to the Tarzan principle: Just keep swinging. The idea is to grab the next opportunity and keep swinging through the jungle. Following the example of my ancestors, I have used this principle many times in my life.

  Despite the wolves in life—hardships, challenges, naysayers, even our own inner demons—we can enjoy the music of the mandolin, the good things in life. But nothing comes easy. We must have a vision, work hard, take risks, and make sacrifices. We don’t talk about achieving it; we simply determine to achieve it. And we celebrate our victories with style.

  That’s where my brand comes into play: Vallorani Estates presents a lifestyle and curated products that are inspired by my family to bring melodious moments to your life to fight off life’s wolves. Our philosophy is work hard, play hard. Be shrewd as a serpent, gentle as a dove, and survive as a sheep in the midst of wolves.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The American Generation

  There are no constraints on the human mind, no walls around the human spirit, no barriers to our progress except those we ourselves erect.

  Ronald Reagan

  My grandfather Eugene–Big D, as he was known to us growing up–returned to America at just fifteen years of age, having forgotten whatever English he’d known as a toddler, and was taken in by members of his mother’s family. It was a lonely and difficult time for him. He was not guaranteed a warm and enthusiastic welcome. Times were tough, and another mouth to feed made things that much more difficult. Since he couldn’t read or write English, he was remanded to the third grade.

  Dominic DeDonato, my grandmother’s brother, was his saving grace. I don’t know how they met, but Uncle Dom took Eugene under his wing and would bring him home to eat with his family nearly every night of the week. Dom was a good-hearted, funny guy who was artistic and could draw very well. And he was smart. Dom eventually became a big boss at U.S. Steel in Philadelphia. In fact, my dad and my uncle Gene always referred to him as “Dom, the fox of industrial wizardry.”

  The DeDonatos had come to America at about the same time Eugene was going back to Italy as a boy and, as many had, Dom had found a home and work in western Pennsylvania steel country, eventually becoming a boss in the mills.

  Eugene left his relatives’ home as soon as he could, worked wherever he could, and at the age of nineteen, married Dom’s sister Edith in the same church where Luigi had married Eugene’s mother, Maria, years before.

  My grandmother’s given name was Italia, but Americans often mispronounced it as “EYE-talia,” so one day in high school, she changed it to Edith after an American movie actress she admired, and she never looked back. She and my grandfather wanted to be Americans, 100 percent. She and Eugene had left the old country behind and wanted nothing more than to achieve the American dream. They weren’t interested in being hyphenates.

  During World War II, Eugene joined the US Army Air Corps and did his part for the war effort, and I find it ironic to think that he’d nearly been stuck on the other side of the conflict, back in Italy! Interestingly, in the lead-up to the war, he had been writing to his friends in Italy, not realizing that the US government was intercepting and reading his letters. There was nothing in them that suggested espionage or could have been considered a threat, just harmless stuff, just talking about his life in the United States.

  Government agents approached him and asked, “Would you be willing to be a spy for the United States? We’ll take you on a submarine off the coast of Italy, and you’ll swim to shore. When you get to shore, your job is to just be an Italian. Sit in the bars, listen to the Germans and the Italians talking, and give us any information you can get back to us.”

  My grandfather said, “No, thank you. I don’t want to die.” As a uniformed US Army Air Corps man he was protected by the rules of war and would have been granted POW status if captured. As a spy, he could have faced summary execution with no trial beforehand, and possibly worse. He had a wife and a young son at this point and no desire to take such chances with their futures. Instead, he spent his war years in the South Pacific.

  Eugene and Edith had three kids: my uncle Gene; my dad, Ray; and my aunt Linda. All three of the children became self-employed, successful entrepreneurs with close-knit families. I remember visiting my uncle Gene’s house in Texas, as a teenager in 1992. He had a swimming pool and a smoker, and I watched him enjoy a cigar as he grilled a batch of steaks. Man, that was enjoying the good life! There are moments when you hear the sound of the mandolin and you never forget it. I knew at that moment this was the kind of life I wanted when I grew up.

  My dad gave Eugene his lasting nickname, Big D, when he was a boy. Big D is short for Big Daddio. It fit him so well because
not only was he a big strong guy but he also had a big strong personality and an even bigger heart.

  There’s one particular story about Big D I’ve always found inspiring. When the war was over, he returned home with his newfound engineering knowledge and went to work at a TV station in Pittsburgh. He was a technical engineer, making sure the radio station and TV station got on the air every morning. You had to have a first-class license with the FCC to do that job. But in 1955, this station was changing its systems, and everyone working for it was laid off.

  All the men filed out and left, dejected, except Big D, who went back inside to say thank-you to the boss who had just laid him off for the opportunity to have worked there. Impressed by his gratitude, the boss gave Big D the name of a friend who worked at Westinghouse. Sometimes, there’s a bump in the road, but if you do the right thing, it will iron itself out and you’ll sail along again.

  Eugene found himself employed at Westinghouse in 1955, with a large pay increase and a steady income that lasted until he retired. Suddenly, life wasn’t quite as hard as it had been. The sweet melody of the mandolin was a little more frequent than the howling of the wolves at the door.

  In 1979 Eugene was one of twenty-four who distinguished themselves apart from all others in the courageous defueling of the Three Mile Island nuclear-generating station in Dauphine County, Pennsylvania, where a partial nuclear meltdown had occurred. He was awarded a special commendation for preventing what could have turned into a disaster on the scale of Chernobyl. He mirrored his father, Luigi, in demonstrating bravery and courage in the face of adversity.

  During my adult years, I became closer to Big D every year, partly because I was getting older too and recognizing the inevitability of my own mortality. In 2011 my grandmother Edith passed at the age of eighty-eight. She was such a spry, sharp, strong woman that when she died I was completely taken off guard. I hadn’t seen it coming.

  My grandfather loved her so much. When I saw him at the funeral, kissing her picture and tearing up, I wanted to bring him some joy, to give him something to look forward to, and I thought, We’re going to Italy. I was watching the end of an era, and I knew that my grandfather wouldn’t live forever.

  That September, my dad, my brother, my grandfather, and I visited Italy. My father, brother, and I got to meet Luigi’s family for the first time. Big D translated, and some of my cousins worked on their English skills with us. It was an amazing trip, and it was in Italy in 2011 that I began to realize one of my missions in life would be to make the Vallorani name a legacy.

  Between 2011 and 2016, when Big D passed away, I asked him as many questions as I could, often filming our chats for posterity. I frequently asked his advice on life, and his perspective was always interesting to me. He would often sing a little Italian tune, with a bit of coaxing, and he loved to talk.

  He had the most beautiful handwriting I’ve ever seen, and he used to draft electrical plans that were very impressive to me, as a kid. He was very adept with computers. He worked in DOS and Windows. Then he really wanted an iPad. He couldn’t understand how the touch screen would work for him, but he knew he wanted one because it was the newest thing.

  Big D was a fastidious guy. He didn’t drink water, even with his pills. “Just coffee and wine,” he’d say jovially, and those beverages were all he would accept. He’d drink cups of strong black coffee until noon, when he’d switch to red wine.

  For his ninetieth birthday in 2013, we threw a massive party at my home outside Atlanta. We flew him in from Pittsburgh, and most of the family was able to come together from across the country to celebrate. I drank vodka because it has lower calories, and I thought it was healthier than wine. My grandfather just shook his head. “You should be drinking wine. You’re putting nails in your coffin.” But later on, when he saw me drinking a vodka martini, he was okay with that. Somehow, calling it a martini made it acceptable. Following his advice, I have gone back to preferring Italian wine.

  I got my passion for family history from Big D. He preserved all the eight-millimeter home movies and showed us old family films going way back. Every Christmas time, we’d watch them. He documented a lot of family history, including his visits back to Italy to see Luigi. To this day, I cannot hold back tears as I watch the film of my grandfather Eugene hugging his father, Luigi, in 1972. He didn’t know it would be the last time.

  One last story: In the 1960s my grandfather wanted to find the grave of his mother, Maria, in Kentucky. He took my dad and my aunt Linda, both young children at the time. They searched and asked the caretaker of the cemetery, but nobody could help them to find Maria’s grave. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to find the grave of an ancestor. You walk and you walk, checking headstone after headstone, many so worn with age they are nearly impossible to read. It’s very frustrating.

  After fruitless hours of walking around, trying to locate the grave, they got back in the car, defeated, and started to drive back home. As they were driving through the cemetery to the exit, the car stalled. They got out to see what the problem was, and just beside them was my grandmother’s grave. I know this sounds incredible, but my dad tells me to this day he remembers it clearly.

  They paid their respects and said their prayers and got back in the car, and—wouldn’t you know—the car started up fine, and they drove away with no problem. They had the car checked out by a mechanic, who found not a thing wrong with it.

  One of Big D’s last sentiments as he neared the day of his passing was that he would soon get to see his father, Luigi, and his wife, Edith, again, and that he would get to meet his mother, Maria.

  Big D had a quality that’s pretty rare today in that he was truly content with life. With him, everything was always “pretty good” or “not too bad.” During his last week of life, when he was in the hospital, he’d call me and tell me about all the nice things they had for him there. “I got a TV and a couch to sit on. It’s pretty good.”

  He never saw the wolves as subjects to focus on and would choose, instead, to enjoy the small moments that make life beautiful. He’d share stories with me about his dad, Luigi, how they’d make wine together, and how much Luigi enjoyed smoking a leisurely cigar. Big D would sing a simple tune in Italian, and I could almost see his smile over the phone.

  My grandfather’s pleasure in the simple things in life—a good cup of coffee, a good glass of wine—has inspired me to make an effort to enjoy and share the simple things with others. One person I particularly enjoy spending time with is my own dad. I am very grateful to have a great relationship with both my parents.

  My dad was born in 1949, a typical, all-American, baby-boomer boy. He played baseball, followed the Pittsburgh Pirates, and spoke only English. Though he heard his relatives speak Italian occasionally, Dad never was taught to speak it. He grew up with Jewish boys and Irish boys. He attended an Irish Catholic Church. The idea of identity politics didn’t exist then as it does today, and kids from all backgrounds enjoyed playing together.

  All of my relatives on both sides of my family had a strong religious faith. I believe that God has blessed our family because of this faith. If I were ever to walk away from the Church, which would be unthinkable, I would be letting down generations of devout people who went before me. My dad was an altar boy and went to mass every Sunday with his family. It was a big deal.

  Even though her ancestors were Lutheran, my mother never missed a Sunday service at the local Baptist church. Her father had taught her that you should support your community church, regardless of the denomination. That open-minded view made a huge impression on me and taught me tolerance. All the way down, on both sides, it was expected that the family would worship together in church every Sunday.

  My mother emphasized morality, but we were far from perfect. That’s why we had faith in the one who was perfect on our behalf. Faith is a big part of who I am and what I want to pass on to my kids. It could all stop with me, as it has with a lot of people in my generation, but if I d
idn’t make faith an important part of my kids’ lives, then I’d have failed to pass on important values.

  I remember learning that my first best friend was an atheist and being completely caught off guard by that: “What? You’re an atheist? What is that?” It was a foreign concept to me because I’d been around religion my whole life. It was just a part of who we were, in a quiet, all-encompassing way.

  All of our family has been private about our faith. We were never ones to take to the streets to preach at people. I don’t go around beating people over the head with my particular political or religious views. If somebody is interested and we want to talk about it, we can. It’s never “Let me tell you what I think, why you’re wrong and I’m right.” Nobody in our family ever did that. It would have been considered rude. If people were drawn into our way of life, it was more because of what they saw than what we said.

  In fact, that atheist friend of mine ended up converting to Christianity and even worked for my business for several years. I think that’s the way our family would have liked it—that people just saw what we had and wanted to share in it too.

  My dad was a go-getter with a gift for words. As a teenager, he started a radio station in his dad’s garage, no doubt in violation of FCC rules, but that’s how it goes when your dad’s an engineer. That was the beginning of his love for working in media.

  My dad lived in Liberty Borough, which was a community of McKeesport. When he went to college in the city of Pittsburgh, even though they worked at bigger broadcast stations in Pittsburgh, guys would come over to his garage to do broadcasts because they were his friends. They’d play top-forty hits, just as they did at the stations where they worked. At that same time, my dad read the news for a college station in Pittsburgh. That college campus station, WPPJ, is still active in downtown Pittsburgh.