A Turn-of-the-Century Immigration Story

A picture of colonial home on 67 lake street in Weymouth MA.

The nurse handed me a cane.

A standard-issue black cane with a soft Styrofoam grip. As soon as it touched my palm, something inside me shifted. The hospital room, the nurse’s voice, the weight of my diagnosis—they all faded. Because I had seen this cane before.

Not this exact one, but one just like it.

Pa’s cane.

It had hung at the top of the basement stairs in my grandparents’ house for as long as I could remember. Hooked over the railing, untouched but always present. A relic of the man who had once leaned on it, the same way I was now being told to.

I never thought much about it—until this moment.

The realization was immediate, visceral. A jolt of recognition deep in my bones. This wasn’t just some temporary medical device. It was something bigger. Something passed down. A symbol of resilience.

And just like that, I was somewhere else.

February 1912. The salty wind bit at his mother’s face as she clutched her two-year-old son against her chest. The ship rocked and groaned, fighting the waves of the Atlantic, but she didn’t flinch. She had seen worse.

Peter Michael Cavallo was too young to understand what was happening. Wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, he nestled into his mother’s shoulder as the ship carried them away from Foggia, Italy—the only home they had ever known. Behind them, they left a country choked by poverty and hardship. Ahead, they hoped, was something better. A new start. A land of opportunity.

But their journey had started long before this day.

Three years earlier, my great-grandfather and his brother had left Italy together, bound for America, knowing they would have to work off their passage. They labored as indentured stone masons, their hands raw from cutting and shaping rock, their backs aching from the weight of another man’s foundation.

When their contract ended, his brother couldn’t take it anymore—he missed Italy too much and returned home. But my great-grandfather stayed. He had sacrificed too much to turn back now. Instead of leaving, he sent for his family.

His wife arrived in Boston Harbor, gripping my grandfather—just two at the time—while his older brother, Joseph, clung to her skirts. They had nothing but each other, their few belongings, and the promise that this place, this cold and unfamiliar place, would be better than what they had left behind.

By 1915, they had saved enough to buy a house—67 Lake Street, Weymouth, Massachusetts. It wasn’t easy. The woman selling the property didn’t want to sell to Italians. But somehow, they made it happen.

The land became everything. It provided food for their table and for the market. In the old country, they had known hunger. Here, on this soil, they would never go without again.

Peter Michael was just a boy then, but his name already carried a history. Born on St. Peter’s Day, he had been named Peter according to Italian tradition. But his mother, still bitter over Peter’s betrayal of Jesus, refused to use it. To her, he was always Mike.

I didn’t realize until much later in life that my father was Peter Michael Cavallo Jr. It had never occurred to me before—he had always been Pete, just as my grandfather had been Mike. The name Peter was there, buried in legal documents and birth certificates, but never spoken aloud. An erasure of history. A quiet rebellion against betrayal.

Mike grew up fast. He dropped out of school in the fourth grade to help his father tend the garden and work the family farm. Education took a back seat to survival—every pair of hands mattered. But he was sharp, and he learned a trade that would define his life—masonry.

As a kid when we drove around the South Shore, my dad would point out walls, fireplaces, and buildings my grandfather had built. His work wasn’t just craftsmanship; it was permanence. Proof that he had been here. Proof that he had created something lasting.

My grandparents’ house, the same house they bought in 1915, is still in our family today. Over a century later, the walls still stand, a testament to the sacrifices they made and the foundation they laid for all of us who came after. Their legacy continues—not just in the home itself, but in the people who carry it forward. My Auntie, Angelina R. Cavallo, still lives there today, a living link to our family’s journey.

Even my childhood home in Hingham bears his imprint. Pa did the masonry at my dad’s house, where my parents still live today. Every time I walk up the brick walkway or sit by the fireplace, I’m reminded of him. His hands built this. His legacy is quite literally set in stone.

Even when lung cancer took hold in 1988, he refused to slow down. His vegetable garden—his pride and joy—needed tending, and as long as he could stand, he would be out there, coaxing tomatoes and cucumbers from the Massachusetts soil.

But his true legacy isn’t just in the homes he worked on—it’s in the faith he built.

My grandfather made the grotto at Immaculate Conception Church in Weymouth. The same church where, years later, I would serve as an altar boy. The same church where, at just 12 years old, I stood in my robe for the last mass I ever served—his funeral.

That was the moment I first started to question my faith.

I remember staring at the altar, at the statue of Mary in the grotto my grandfather had built with his own hands, and feeling nothing but anger. How could the strongest man I had ever known be taken from me so soon? It wasn’t fair. God wasn’t fair.

After that day, I never served mass again.

As I stood there in the hospital, gripping the cane, I realized that this moment wasn’t just about me.

It was about my great-grandfather, who stayed in America when his brother left.
It was about my grandfather, who built a life from stone and soil.
It was about my dad, who lied about having asthma so he could join his friends and fight in Vietnam.
It was about every sacrifice, every hardship, every moment of perseverance that led to me standing there, holding that cane.

Now, as I sit here struggling to regain control of my own body, I think about him. About that little boy from Foggia who crossed the ocean with nothing but his mother’s love and the determination to survive. About the man who never stopped fighting.

I wonder what he would say to me now.

Probably nothing.

He’d just look at me, nod, and expect me to do what Cavallos have always done—get back up and keep fighting.

But this time, I know I can’t do it alone.

I need my faith now more than ever.

This picture is from the scrapbook my mom made for my son, Mason—named in tribute to Pa and the family trade.

6 thoughts on “A Turn-of-the-Century Immigration Story”

  1. I always love reading about the family’s immigration story. Thanks for sharing!
    Courtney Cross (Frank Cavallo’s granddaughter and Peter Michael’s grandniece)

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.