Some of the fondest memories of my grandfather are the two of us comfortably seated in the overstuffed swivel rocker in the living room. My father had reupholstered it in an Americana pattern that was popular at the time. I would be sitting in my grandfather’s lap and he would recite humorous verses keeping time with the rocking. He had made the move to live with us. How wonderful was that, to have a grandparent full time to love and entertain you?  It was wonderful until I became a teenager and resented having an additional disciplinarian in the house. I suppose it was a rite of passage but one I have grown to regret.

I question why I didn’t appreciate the courageous man he was, while in my youth. It was hard for me to imagine him as a teenager, bravely coming to America from Italy. I recall the stories he told me about his ventures in his new country. I enjoyed the humorous nature of his tales. He and his brother had lived in the attic of a boarding house. One night during a storm, an icy mixture came through the window close to where my grandfather laid his head. The next morning he couldn’t move and quickly realized his hair was frozen to the bed frame. He was both resilient and feisty. He also had shared the story surrounding one of his first jobs. While working in the tin factory, there was a movement to unionize the workers. It was during this period he found himself cornered in an elevator with an imposing and threatening figure. This intimidating man asked him if he was for or against unionization. Not knowing which side this individual was on, but thinking quickly on his feet, my grandfather replied that he “no spoke the English”.

At a certain point in his life, the challenges he faced became much more difficult. Married and blessed with two daughters he would lose his wife and newborn son within a week of each other. Finding love again, he was to become a widower once more shortly thereafter when leukemia claimed his second wife. For the next 50 years he would make his journey without a life partner. There might have been a time when he was bitter but that was not present in the man I knew.

Some of the memories I have remain so clear. He could peel fruit with the precision of a surgeon. He enjoyed gathering with his friends for a Sunday afternoon game of pinochle. After dinner he would often have a cup of coffee with a drop of anisette. These were the things that one would know from sharing the same living space but there were other things that I wouldn’t have known without some prompting. I was given an assignment in a public speaking course while in college. We were tasked with interviewing an individual who had experienced a historical event or timeframe. I will always be grateful for my wise instructor who ultimately would give me the best of all gifts.  By choosing my grandfather as the subject matter I learned a part of my family history that might have gone unspoken and unknown. My grandfather’s family lived in the Marquis’ house, located in an olive grove by the Adriatic Sea. My grandfather claimed that it was “devilishment” that had him immigrate to the States. I had a great aunt that lost her life during a bombing in World War II. None of this would have been known to me without asking. I have the good fortune of still being in possession of that cassette tape from long ago.

You might be wondering what the point is, beyond my fond memories of Grandpop. I have come to learn that everyone has a story. There are those who quietly relish the idea of having someone show an interest and ask what that story might be. There are things I will never know about my family’s heritage. So much that I could of, would of, should of plagues me. I suggest you ask for those stories; listen to those tales. Once that voice is permanently silenced it will be too late. What “devilishment” is just below the surface waiting to be uncovered?