What's in a name?

Every week or so, in one of her frequent phone calls to me, my mom will read me questions from a piece of paper on which she has written things she wants me to explain.

The other day, there were two pieces.

A new biography of Johnny Carson. Who is Stephen A? The Idaho murders. "CBS This  morning" with Jane Pauley, of which she tells me frequently, "You shouldn's miss it." 

She will also say how pretty Jane Pauley still is. I try to explain that no one - not even Jane - gets on TV without impeccable hair, makeup and clothes often assigned to others. Her answer: "She's still pretty." 

So there. We inevitably got to Trump, on whom we have both agreed we should not dwell too long. But say what you will about him, he gets our attention, like a toddler who screams and stamps his feet when he's forbidden to eat Lego pieces. 

Can Trump really pardon Epstein's girlfriend? Can he fire that Powell guy? Mom is flummoxed by the president, and I assure her she's not alone.

But she did get answers recently to some long-ago questions at a reunion of cousins on her father's side of the family. Out of dozens of them, she is now the oldest at 90. 

So it's only fitting that she recently spent part of a day touring Ellis Island and its steel roll call of names memorializing some of the more than 12 million immigrants who were processed there between 1892 and 1954. 

More than a million of them arrived in 1907 alone, and in the decades before and after, Italy was among the top three countries of origin for the American newcomers. One of them was my maternal grandfather, Edward Cipressi. 

Born in the Abruzzo region of Italy, he departed Naples as a child on the Patria, a ship whose passenger record listed him as Ercole instead of Ercoline, the Italian version of his name. It took anywhere from two to three weeks to get to New York, and I recall my grandfather telling me he was nauseous the whole time from being knocked around in steerage with his mother.

When he arrived at Ellis Island, he was but six years old. Like many male immigrants, my grandfather's father had already left Italy to secure housing and earn enough money to bridge the gap between abject poverty and a reasonable living in the U.S.

At her age, my mother revels in family history, and so we went though a number of figures from her past on the nostalgic bus ride home from New York: the uncle who played Santa every year; the husband of an aunt, who reminded her of Gary Cooper in his leather bomber jacket; two uncles who didn't speak to each other for years - isn't that so Italian? - and my grandfather, who never stopped chasing the American dream until he was well into his 40s.

That journey included raising chickens and selling vacuum cleaners door to door.

So while my mother may not always understand current politics, she can dig deep into her 90-year-old mind and remember things about family history like they happened yesterday. 

The rest is for tomorrow.