An Afterword: Mia Famiglia

With all due respect to Father Time, it’s Mother Earth from whence we came. There’s a good reason that “my family” in Italian is “mia famiglia,” firmly entrenched in the feminine gender.

True, we must endure the passage of time, but it’s mothers everywhere who sustain us, providing the very essence of life and a moral compass.

Growing up in a family of five, our home -- the “mothership,” if you will -- was guided by my mother and grandmother (above), as you might expect.

Mom (right, and below) worked about three-quarter time at Pacific Northwest Bell, but was otherwise focused on home and family.

With two working parents, we spent a lot of time with Gramma -- hence her significant impact.

So both mother and grandmother were key influences in our lives.

At Gramma’s house, we all “felt the love.” No judgments ever, just a sincere interest in our welfare. 

She was, of course, also the one who would introduce us to the joys of Italian cooking, not to mention Jack Benny and Red Skelton, whom she loved to watch on television.

In 1912, Gramma came to America at the age of 19 with her mother, Maria Arata (right), brother Paul and sister Iva. They had left their homeland and embarked on a epic journey halfway around the world, and she was the one directing traffic and caring for her younger siblings.

As a journalism student in 1975, (40 years ago for those of you who are keeping track), I asked Gramma why they left Italy. Because of the storm clouds of war in Europe, it was time to do the "23 skidoo," she said with a smile, and hopes of a better life in America. Inquiring further, I then asked her if she had any regrets in life.

She said that she tried not to focus on regrets, (and this was coming from a woman who lost two husbands in her lifetime). What Gramma did concede was this: she wished she would have had an opportunity to see her father, Giovanni, again. It never happened. In retrospect, it’s a sentiment that I only now fully understand.