Well, women folk one of my favorite things is happening tomorrow.  Visiting our daughter, son, daughter-in-law and grand baby to be in FLA!  So very delighted to be seeing them, and very lucky to be able to get away from the damp rainies.  The airplane part is less than thrilling, but I’ll bury myself in a book and hope for the best.  Here’s a recent question I’ve been pondering (although only God knows why).

The nickname for Timothy is Timmy or Tim.  For Kenneth it’s Kenny or Ken.  Why then for James is it Jimmy or Jim and not Jammy or Jam?  And you can’t get away with telling me it’s because Jammy or Jam would sound weird.  Because if it were Jammy or Jam it WOULDN’T!

Back next week….

Our walking tour of my Grandpa’s village began and we headed for the cemetery with several family members.  A large old fashioned key opened the gate, and I was shocked by the beauty of the place.  All of the tombs were above ground, and meticulously kept.  Fresh flowers and potted plants adorned graves decades old.  The pathways were of tiles and there were numerous votives and even electric street lamps.  There were recessed areas where mementos could be left, and almost every tomb had an oval picture attached.  I was able to gaze at the face of my great grandfather who died in the 1930’s, and my great grandmother who passed in the 1950’s.  As I said a prayer, I wondered what Paolo and Ernesta would have thought of their American great grand daughter.

As we walked further along, my husband and daughter took numerous photos.  People leaned from windows and came to their doors to say hello, and a whole bunch of other stuff I couldn’t understand.  Oh, what I would have given to be conversant in Italian that day!  In looking back at the pictures, one can see that we were speaking to one another non stop.  Most interesting, considering we were speaking English and they Italian!  We passed the home in which my Grandfather lived as a young man, and the abandoned Seminary he once attended.  It occurred to me had he stayed there and become a priest, the American branch of the family would never have existed.  An odd feeling!

From there we headed through an archway, to the “old” part of town.  As in medieval — only foot traffic was possible there.  Behind a huge wooden door, black with age, was the “apartment” in which my great grandparent’s lived when my grandfather was born.  There was a miniature family chapel, belfry and all, that contained a lovely painting (icon?) of Mary and the Christ Child behind it’s ivy covered gate.  Twisty little alley ways and ancient but immaculately kept doorways were everywhere.  At that point I was told by gestures to pose with one of my Mother’s cousins.  As the oldest son of my grandfather’s younger brother (who remained in Italy), I supposed him to be the “head” of the family.  There we stood, the first of Nazareno’s descendants to return to the village of his birth, and Nazareno’s oldest nephew.  As my husband snapped the photo, an emotion I have yet to identify coursed through me.  As though I was experiencing an ending and a beginning, simultaneously.

As we were urged along (Italian gestures are VERY definite) it seemed we were heading back to the home where we had eaten a short time before.  I could only hope we wouldn’t have to eat any more….

The final installment soon!