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lemon wax used to polish the walnut reading tables and the sweet scent of ink on old paper filled the spacious rooms, filled with light from the generous lead-paned windows. The building was an avid reader’s dream, lots of bright, natural light, and alcoves and nooks perfect for reading uninterrupted.
    In 1920 my grandparents moved into a simple red-brick building that anchored the opposite end of the wide Main Street. The establishments that my grandmother frequented on Main Street had old world charm. Hilmer’s Bakery sold delicious sweets ( povitica ), doughnuts filled with jam and rolled in sugar, and dense, sweet strudels (all that Central European baking talent), the Silvestri family ran Choppy’s Pizza, and a popular Italian-owned family restaurant, Valentini’s, held annual dinners where they made polenta on long wooden boards.
    Known for her can-do common sense and even temperament, Lucy had a place of respect in her community in matters practical and philosophical. Parents trusted her with their children. Mothers would send their children to Lucy’s shop after school to wait for pickup. Her shop was a meeting point in town. People knew Lucy was typically in the shop, and her door was always open.
    The places Lucy avoided, like the local bars, were plentiful. Mining and the bar life go hand in hand like mother and child. During the summers, I would pass the bars in daytime, and the scent of booze and cigarettes would waft out, reminding me that there was a busy nightlife in Chisholm, where people worked hard and relaxed after hours.
    The Progressive Shoe Shop
    My grandfather opened the Progressive Shoe Shop in the front room on the street level of 5 West Lake Street where he repaired shoes, built some, and dreamed of designing his own custom line. Later, Mom told me that the joke was that there was nothing progressive about the shop, but the name indicated my grandfather embraced a modern, contemporary vision for his American business. As a veteran of World War I, my grandfather was a proud soldier, and a newly minted American citizen. When he married Lucy, she became a citizen too.
    Lucy’s sewing shop was in the back room of the first floor. There was an open service window in the wall separating the shoe shop from her workroom. This saved Lucy a lot of time when the bells on the door would jingle and a customer would enter, and in the years before he died offered her instant communication with her husband. There was a door leading to the back room, near the checkout desk, upon which was an ornate cash register with brass bindings, bezel-set number keys, and enamel flaps with numbers that would pop up in a pane of glass when the keys were pressed.
    Lucy’s workroom in the back was deep and wide, with a series of windows along the back wall. The gray wooden floor bowed in the center, from age and wear. The only pops of color were from the bolts of fabrics and the pots of red geraniums along the ledges of the windows.
    Her sewing machine—a black-enameled Singer painted with gold curlicues set on a sturdy wooden table—was set in the center of the room to take advantage of the light. She let me sit in her work chair and pump the foot pedal, a wrought iron plate designed with open scrollwork. Both my feet could fit, and I would pretend to drive instead of sew.
    There were storage closets for her supplies, a worktable for cutting patterns, and two easy chairs for company, who would come through and chat while she worked. There was a separate washroom in the back corner.
    A screen door lead to the backyard, a square patch of green with an enormous shade tree. I remember thinking that her yard was unmanicured, much like the farm in Delabole, except that of course, Lucy did not have a goat. When Carlo was alive, like her mother in Italy, she kept rabbits, but eventually she gave them up and kept a chicken coop. They ate well from the chicken coop—roast chickens (yes, my grandmother