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Coming in 2026 The Jersey Buddhist: Remember to Live by Louis De Lauro |
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From diners to dharma, heartbreak to humor—63 stories and essays that remember what matters.
Louis DeLauro writes like he talks—straight up, full of heart, and with just enough edge. In Jersey Buddhist: Remember to Live, he shares stories and essays that wrestle with love, hope, memory, and the messy beauty of being alive.
This is New Jersey storytelling with a soul—honest, authentic, and hopeful.
Seeeking a lit agent or publisher. With or without getting signed I will move forward with this book.
Here is the second story from The Jersey Buddhist: Remember to Live
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© 2025 Louis DeLauro
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly work. |
A Shoemaker's Son, My Grandfather Vincent De Lauro
By Louis De Lauro
Sometimes, the best way to live is through simple acts—taking care of family, doing what’s right without needing praise, and showing up even when it’s tough.
My name is Louis De Lauro, and I’m the Jersey Buddhist. This little book is a love letter to my family, my friends, teaching, adoption, suffering, impermanence, kindness, Buddhism, and, of course, New Jersey. The second story in this book is a New York story about a Catholic immigrant. How can I justify starting a Jersey book with a New York story? Well, I can’t. Still this story is too imporant not to share it.
Before he was tall enough to look a man in the eye, Vincent De Lauro had already fought death and won. In the 1920s, as a young boy in Brooklyn, he was stricken with a a severe leg infection that landed him in the hospital for months. Medical care was scarce and expensive, and survival was a quiet miracle. Though he recovered, his growth was stunted—he would never grow taller than five foot three.
Born in Naples, Italy, Vincent arrived at Ellis Island at the age of five, speaking only Italian. His father, a shoemaker with calloused hands and patient skill, brought his family to New York in search of opportunity. In the United States, Vincent’s father did not have the money or language skills to run his own business, so he worked for low wages in a shoe factory. The De Lauros were poor, and they lived simply. Every night, dinner was spaghetti with marinara and bread soaked in garlic and olive oil. On Sundays, they splurged—sometimes there were sausage or meatballs simmering in the pot.
Public school was a harsh place for many immigrant children, and in those days, Vincent recalled that teachers hit the Italian kids. Language was a barrier, but Vincent was a smart boy. He listened, watched, and learned English quickly. By fourteen, he had stayed in school longer than many kids in his neighborhood, and though his formal education ended there, his work ethic was just beginning.
Vincent took a job in a warehouse, and over the years, he became more than just a worker. He spoke up for himself and other workers, fighting for better pay and better working conditions, especially for the men who didn’t speak English well enough to speak up for themselves. His English gave him a voice, and he used it. He became a respected union leader and eventually a foreman and a warehouse manager. On the factory floor, he became known not only for his fairness but for his ideas. He even earned a few patents after coming up with simple but clever ways to improve how X-ray machines were built.
Vincent married Grace, the girl who had lived just a few doors down. They had known each other since childhood, and their bond grew into a lifelong love. Grace was his steadfast partner, a woman who kept their home and hearts full. Grace was spirited and the centerpiece of the family. Together, they built a family.
They raised three boys in a small Brooklyn home filled with warmth, discipline, and kindness. When the boys were little and money was tight, all three shared one bed. Vincent was never harsh, never cruel. He didn’t lecture. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply showed them how to be faithful to a wife, steady in their work, and kind even when the world was not.
His youngest son Patrick remembered that when he was very small, Vincent—just five foot three and 140 pounds—was strong enough to carry all three of his boys up the stairs at once to tuck them into bed.
Vincent’s middle son, Al, remembered how his father always wore a suit—complete with a fedora. Al said, “It was an Italian thing back in the day, but I felt it was his way of showing the world he made it. A poor immigrant boy grew up, got a good job, a sweet wife, three boys, and a house that he bought with his own money. Buying a house in Brooklyn and learning to drive when he was 35 years old were huge accomplishments for Vincent. Nobody helped him buy that house and car. He worked for it. Vincent was proud of his life. A life with friends and family. A life to be proud of.
Family came first for Vincent, always. He gave his sons everything he could. On one occasion, he took them to Tom McCann’s Shoe Store to buy each of them a new pair of shoes. As they left the store, his oldest son Louis happened to glance down and notice the thin, worn soles of Vincent’s own shoes—barely holding together, with the faintest hint of light peeking through a small hole near the toe. When Louis asked why he hadn’t bought a pair for himself, Vincent smiled and said, “I have smelly feet. The air makes it better.” He said it lightly, but the truth was clear: his boys came first. Later that evening, Vincent quietly repaired those same shoes once again, just as he had many times before—hoping his son wouldn’t notice next time.
Weekends were reserved for the family. Vincent filled them with trips to parks, zoos, museums, and movie theaters across New York City. On weekdays, during the summer, Vincent would meet his wife and boys at the beach in Coney Island. He would show up on the beach in his suit, with his pants rolled up and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He didn’t have much money, but he gave his time freely and without hesitation. Those outings became the foundation of lasting memories—moments of joy in a hardworking life.
Although he lived a quiet life, Vincent had a gift for conversation, and he had many close friends. When company came over, the house would fill with the smells of slow-cooked marinara, garlic sizzling in olive oil, and fresh bread pulled from the oven. His table was a celebration of his roots—bubbling lasagna layered with creamy ricotta, bitter broccoli raab sautéed with crushed red pepper, platters of cold antipasto with sharp provolone and cured meats, and golden cannolis dusted in powdered sugar and syrupy espresso that clung to the cup. Vincent was an excellent cook, and his house was always open, and guests stayed late, laughter rising over the clack of cards and the clink of espresso cups.
Vincent never considered himself a hero, but he understood hardship and right from wrong. During a trip to the American South at the height of the civil rights movement, he boarded a segregated bus and sat in the back, alongside Black riders. When a white passenger demanded he move to the front with the white passengers, Vincent politely refused. “I have Black friends and neighbors,” he said. “I am no better or worse than them. The back of the bus is the best place for me."
Vincent De Lauro never sought recognition. He was an immigrant, the son of a factory shoemaker. He stood just five foot three, but he carried himself with strength, pride, and principle. He built a good life from almost nothing—a life of love, fairness, family, and quiet courage. And for those who knew him, that was more than enough.
Vincent had a son named Louis. He named Louis after his dad, Luigi. Louis then had a son named Louis. That’s me. I am The Jersey Buddhist. I like to make pasta and tell stories. Nice to meet you.
