Even Muskieville wasn’t enough for the great urge in Umbertina’s heart to harvest as much of the wealth of this prodigious country as she could. With such riches should one close one’s eyes? No, she felt young and strong and she had strong children. Summers she gathered them all up for a ten-day foray into the hop-fields near Oriskany Falls, where the farmers needed seasonal pickers. She had Pina buy the tickets as they stood in the station with little Carla hidden in their midst while the ticket seller counted heads; and then in the train Carla went under the seat when the conductor came through, covered by her mother’s long skirt.

Agents had come by the store and told her where pickers were needed and made arrangements for her with the farmers. It was a chance for the children to have a real vacation in the country, they said, and to make money as well. She agreed. No opportunity was ever lost to add to the savings.

It was an all-day trip to Oriskany Falls in those days and they went on the milk train, finally being picked up by a farmer and taken to the bunkhouses—men in one building and women in another, just as in the old days in steerage. And as Umbertina and Serafino had done on the boat trip, they brought their own staples with them—their bread, pasta, beans, and oil. Fresh milk, cheese, and salad greens they got at the farm. It was on such an excursion that the child Carla had what she considered ever after an authentic American experience: She who had eaten Italian food all her life was given a fresh molasses cookie made by the farmer’s wife. It was her Americanization.

Umbertina and Serafino, like the other workers, picked hops from dawn to dusk. The children picked some, too, and played around in the fields. The hops were pretty, the girls thought, like white fluffy flowers; it was what Umbertina called “clean” picking. And the hop picking was also fun for the children because they joined the other kids and ran in the fields, picked wild flowers, followed brooks and sailed leaves in them, played, and talked.

It was truly the golden country. And in the family they would tell over and over the story of Serafino’s being sent to the store, when they had first gotten to Cato, for lard to fry zucchini-flower fritters in. At the store, he had pointed to what he thought lard was in America, something bright and golden. So instead of lard he had brought back butter, which burned in the pan. Now they could laugh about the burning; it was no longer a tragedy.