On my first trip to Italy I arrived with my suitcase in hand, and under my
coat a heart that beat with so much fervor I thought I would die. With
hurried steps I walked in the footsteps of my ancestors, down their ancient
paths, sat in front of their very fire places, ate the grapes from the vines
my grandmother had tended. I climbed the ancient castle walls, the tower
and the fortress. I cried to the tune of the bells ringing out their glad
chimes welcoming me just as if I were a native daughter returning to her
native home. I sat in the church where all my ancestors had worshiped. I
prayed at the tombs of my grandparents whom I had never had the
opportunity
to meet. I saw the room where my father was born and the spot where he
said
goodby to his mother, never to see her again. I spent long hours visiting
with my relatives who told me so many things about my family. And, I
partied with my cousins, one feast after another, one wonderful warm
feeling
of family and love, and history, and roots. I lived days of happiness,
nostalgia, and passion. And when I left I tried to put the memory of those
days in a special corner of my heart where I could pull them out again at a
quiet time when I wouldn't have to hide the tears remembering all the
beautiful and grand things I had left in Italy, including a piece of my
heart.
Velma Pagliassotti
Researching FRANCESCHINI, GHILARDI, PAGLIASSOTTI, MOLINARI,
CECCHINI
