By Lisa Scottoline
Recently I mentioned that I received an award from International Thriller Writers called the ThrillerMaster, which makes me sound a lot more exciting than I am.
The award was a lifetime achievement award for writing, and I’m so grateful for it, especially to my readers.
But I’m not bringing it up to brag, but to tell you about the subject of my acceptance speech – my grandfather Giuseppe Scottoline.
Giuseppe came to the United States from the town of Ascoli Piceno in Italy’s Le Marche region, which is rural and beautiful. Unfortunately he passed away before I was born, so I never met him. He was only five feet tall, and by all accounts, he was very shy. My grandmother Mary, whom I knew and loved, was taller than her husband.
And she had no problem speaking her mind.
Giuseppe, Mary, and a daughter settled in West Philadelphia, where they had two more daughters and a young son who would become my father Frank Scottoline.
At first, Giuseppe wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in America, and neither did my grandmother. They were intimidated by this big, busy country, and they’d really believed the myth that the streets were paved with gold, which seems incredible.
The Scottolines are adorably gullible.
But they stayed, and Giuseppe decided to support his family by mowing lawns, with a push mower.
You can see the problem with his business plan.
There’s no grass in West Philadelphia.
So he pushed his mower to the houses that had lawns, and my father told me it was miles away. Giuseppe mowed lawns all day, then pushed the mower back home.
And the Scottolines survived.
What’s remarkable for present purposes is that Giuseppe was completely illiterate. He couldn’t read or write in his own language.
He even signed his name with an X.
I know, I’ve seen it. It wasn’t a big X, like an “X marks a spot” on a treasure map, promising untold riches. It was the little x of a shy and silent man, intended not to draw attention to itself or take up too much space.
And it strikes me as amazing that only two generations later, I received an award for writing books. Me, the granddaughter of an illiterate man.
And as you may know, my daughter Francesca is a novelist in her own right, with her debut novel nominated for Best First Novel by International Thriller Writers and a paperback title Full Bloom coming out this July.
What I’m trying to say is that Giuseppe may have been an unassuming man, but he got himself to this amazing country and thereby changed the story of his family.
His legacy wasn’t millions of dollars, but the hope for something better, which is far more precious.
It really makes me wonder how we measure lifetime achievement.
I’ve written fifty books and I’m delighted that I was recognized with an award.
But where’s the award for people like Giuseppe?
I imagine all the things people like him did during their lifetimes, the hardships they overcame and the obstacles they persevered through.
How many times did they think something wonderful was going to happen, only to learn that the streets were hard with asphalt?
How far did they push their mowers?
How did they stick it out when times became impossibly difficult, through World War II and the Great Depression? Or even now?
There are so many people who have achieved so much in their lifetime, survived, and even flourished through so much adversity, but none of them gets recognition.
I’d love to change the way we think about achievement.
Giuseppe was a little man.
But to my mind, he was a giant.
Copyright © 2026 Lisa Scottoline