I sought to know 'my people' as I prepared to marry, keep my family name and decided to research my grandfather's immigration from Italy, through Ellis Island to Upstate NY. I was told that he left the mountains of Italy to be a "laborer" (as the ship's manifest read) in Geneva, NY. An often told story was of his first taste of cheese in the US, how it had no flavor--I wanted to know his life, the mountains he knew and the rich flavors he grew up with. It wasn't until I went to Italy that I understood what he missed, why he planted a large garden, made his wine, just as his father and father before him.
I learned that my grandfather's brother still lived on the same farm where he grew up made wine and ate home made ricotta from Zia Carolina. After a decade of correspondence my husband I journeyed to Ripi, the ancestral "paese". The warm embrace in the piazaa from my cousin Rocco welcomed us Home. We followed him to where my grandfather's home once stood. The surrounding rolling hills against the azure sky, and fields ready for harvest are a sight I will never forget. I stood where he stood, I was Home. We enjoyed a three hour meal with my extended family; everything was made on their farm, the pasta, sausage, bread, wine and salad. With my faltering Italian and their limited English we communicated through old photos, pointing our pages on the calendar to explain birthdays, deaths and my inevitable return. This was beyond "Roots" this is "Belonging". The rich heritage which binds family, and celebrates the simplicity of time shared embraced us. The meals, which are simple in their design, are whole in their goodness. This Life holds a richness that touches ones soul; here we are Home.

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