I recently lost my Aunt Joann. She was the youngest of five children, including my mother, who were born to Italian immigrants. These five were the first children to be born in America of our family, and with Joann's passing, that generation is now finished.

Our Italian heritage is a vibrant force that finds its way into our conversations, our cooking, our gift giving, and our travels. Most of us have a photograph of my grandfather, Otto Faenzi, Joann's father, hanging in our respective kitchens. Otto was a chef at the Columbia Club in Indianapolis for over thirty years and he is our own personal patron saint of la cucina.

All of this is based on a story, a story of two people, both born in Tuscany, who made a dangerous crossing to America when they were quite young, somehow landed in Indiana, met, married and lived long lives.

Their story was chronicled in my book, The Stonecutter's Aria, which was my tribute to their legacy and for which I am proud to say, remains a valued vessel, a repository of memory for our family.

Because of the close nature of my relationship with Joann, her sons asked me to write and delivery her eulogy at her funeral mass.. Of the many wonderful attributes about her that I spoke about, I emphasized the gift of heritage and how fragile it is.

My grandfather Otto, was the only one of his many brothers who decided to come to America when he was sixteen, leaving behind his ten siblings and his mother who was raising them by herself on a remote farm in southern Tuscany, desperately poor......even having to send her youngest daughter to a convent to be looked after. He followed his oldest sister to America and they settled in Indiana.

My grandmother, Olga, was twelve when she made the crossing with her mother, brother, and grandmother, to be reunited with her father, a marble carver, who was at the time working in the KKK dominated city of Montgomery, Alabama. Their ship hit an iceberg on the way over.

Otto, could have decided to stay behind in Italy like his brothers did, but he came.

Olga, could have perished at sea, but she made it.

All immigrant stories contain this truth: one thing could have been different, and none of "us" who remember them today would even be here.

This is why I keep going back to Italy. My grandparents, and Aunt Joann too, kept going back to strengthen family ties, to keep the blood memory flowing, so it can continue. So that Joann's children, grandchildren, and great children of whom she had several, will know where they come from.

Fragile, yes, but also enduring.

I am leaving again for a month in Italy, of which two weeks will be spent sharing with guests my beloved Tuscany on week long excursions. The week in between, I will be in Rome visiting my cousin, Monica. Monica is my grandparent's god daughter. They made their first trip back to the Old Country in the 1960s, arriving at the occasion of Monica's birth. Because of that, we have enjoyed decades of relationship.

What a gift!

I will be posting on My Tuscan Aria Instagram of my experiences in Italy.....click below to follow.

Happy Spring!