Nonna Carmela, Mom, Bisnonna Laura Manfredi, Nonno Vincenzo

I wrote this in IT TAKES A LIFETIME: Above my head hung a picture of Nonno Vincenzo with my great-grandmother, Bisnonna Laura Manfredi, Nonna, and my mom when she was just four years old. I loved this black-and-white image because it proved to me that these people, two of whom had died before I was born, had once been alive.

Nonno’s birth name was Vincenzo, but when he came to America, he thought this sounded too Italian, so he chose to be called Jim, which he thought was a good, solid American name.

“Oye, my Jim is a good man,” Nonna had told me. “He comes a-first wit’out me to l’America and gets a big job in Pitts-a-burg. He helps many people, gives t’em jobs, and keeps water on to houses of our paesani even when some people tell him to close.”

“But why would people want to shut off the water to the houses of the Italians?”

Her voice became animated, “In t’ose days, t’ere is La Mano Nera, t’e Black Hand. T’ey tell all Italian people to pay a pizza, some money for many t’ings like water in t’e house. Many people are poor and cannot pay not-a-t’ing. My Jim always helps people from the old country. When people need water, he keeps t’e water on. Ma he dies too soon, when he is just a young man.”

“How did he die, Nonna?” I asked.

“A knife in t’e belly.” She looked away from me and refused to say more.

My reflection: The photo gave me a sense of whom I came from, my history. In the end, it truly led me home.

 Something to think about: When we lack accurate historical facts, our minds fill in the gaps with what we think, or want, to be true. That’s what I did. I took the little Nonna told me and invented a world around it.

Have you ever filled in family stories with what you wished had happened? Or have you started your own historical search to understand your past?

Searching ancient records: the Director of the Commune and Ombretta

Ombretta and I were like Thelma and Louise: two women—one American, one Italian—on an adventure. I was Thelma, needing help; Ombretta was Louise, organized, meticulous, fearless.

After Cousin Ferdinando refused to help me find Nonna’s remote village of Rotondella, Ombretta—a friend of his whom I’d met at dinner and who spoke fluent English—called me in Cortona, where I was preparing for my solo trip south to Basilicata.

“I have decided to go to Rotondella with you. Your cousin won’t budge. You don’t understand the language, the culture of the south, the problems with transportation. You cannot go alone.”

I was stunned. When I left the States, Rotondella had existed only in my imagination. Somehow, Nonna had sent a petite, strong, blue-eyed, blond-haired Italian woman to guide me.

“Ombretta, thank you.” My eyes filled with tears. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“I must hang up now. I leave tomorrow for work and have much to do,” she said.

Then, softer, almost whispering, she added, “I know how important this trip is to you. We will find your grandmother’s Rotondella—and your origins. I promise.”

My reflection: Help sometimes comes from the most unexpected places – a passage in a book, a conversation with a stranger, an unexpected call from a loved one. Sometimes, a friend arrives just in time. Ombretta was that friend for me.

Something to think about: I’ve always loved the saying, “People come into our lives for a season, a reason, or a lifetime.” I’ve been blessed with friends from all three categories. Maybe we all have.

I wrote this in IT TAKES A LIFETIME: The very act of cooking—stirring a pot of sauce, grating cheese over pasta—was balm to my soul. The rich scent of garlic-and-tomato sauce brought me back to Nonna’s kitchen and with it a feeling of safety and belonging.

Sunday dinners returned to the meals of my youth—spaghetti and meatballs, braciola, rosemary chicken with roasted potatoes, linguine with ricotta. Just as Nonna taught me, tomato sauce was my specialty: pork browned in olive oil, garlic, Contadina tomato paste stirred in slow, wide circles with her old wooden spoon.

I rolled the meatballs by hand and dropped into the sauce wherever the bubbles broke through. Big platters of spaghetti were decorated with sauce and cheese, always starting at the outside edges – just as Nonna had shown me.

My refection: Preparing foods the Nonna way brought me peace. The scent of tomato sauce lingered for days, and leftover pasta and meatballs warmed our bellies like nothing else could. But food, traditions, work, and school couldn’t hold back the tsunami that was engulfing our family.

Something to think about: We often try to hold our families together with the only tools we know—recipes, rituals, acts of love. Food is history: it carries the people, places, and moments that shaped us. I’d love to hear what foods hold meaning for you?

“IT TAKES A LIFETIME TO LEARN HOW TO LIVE: An Italian American Story of Coming Home” will be published on November 4, 2025.