I am the twentieth grandchild of Arthur Clement Dale, a man I never knew.
Growing up in the 1960s and ’70s was pretty special. Our family was large and Italian (we were told), though I didn’t quite fit the typical image – I was tall, light-haired, and not as touchy-feely as the other Italian kids at school. Learning much later in life that grand-paw being from Sicily is much different than if he were from the northern Emilia-Romagna region of Italy.
Life at home was straightforward. My mom and dad (Maestri & Lois Dale) had six children, also around the corner Uncle Lenny & Aunt Betty they also had six children. My dad’s oldest brother Uncle Arthur Dale II owned the property between the two homes. “The trail” was a path that cut through the weeds and a short journey to our Sandlot – Michael Maestri Dale’s Wonder Years.
In most families ancestry finds ordinary people living simple, ordinary lives. Their stories may not make it into textbooks or newspapers, but are part of a family’s collective heritage, reminding us of the value of simplicity, humility, and the beauty found in the everyday life.
When you explore the Maestri Dale family tree, it’s like flipping through a recipe book, but instead of ingredients, you discover a diverse array of quirky characters, much like the spices in a Creole gumbo.
On a crisp New Year’s Day in 1970, as firecrackers echoed in the yard, my world was shaken by the news of my grandmother’s passing. Jenny Maestri Dale, a pillar of strength who raised five children single-handedly and amassed wealth through real estate, had departed. Little did I know, this event would unravel mysteries buried within the family tomb at Metairie Cemetery, secrets Written in Stone.
