As with all families, there are stories, recipes and traditions that are passed down from one generation to the next. Traditions, as I understand it, are doing the same thing, at the same period in time, with the same people.
My husband's family is Italian, 100 percent...there is still family in the old country that we are in contact with. Which is truly wonderful for me, because, I consider myself a mutt, with so many nationalities, each watered down by the next generation, that we have lost the sense of pride that comes with a pure pedigree. I have learned that when one's bloodline is pure, there is a deep sense of duty to family. This concept is new to me because my own melting pot of ancestors are from different corners of the world.
My family is scattered throughout the state and the country as a whole. We spread our wings, carrying small bits of our roots and planting them in new places. Knowing we can make it on our own, yet being reassured by all our family that our parents house is always home. Although there is a feeling of obligation to remain in our hometown, it seems there no ties strong enough to bind us. This feeling of wanderlust is so deeply imbedded in our veins that once we are gone, rarely do we return home.
I, myself, was on the verge of heading out, moving to a new place and setting down my bags in a different town, in a different state. I fell in love with Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I had visited on a spring break trip my freshman year of college. I think it was the fresh sea air that attracted me to this wonderous place. It didn't help that I had always loved the drawl of a southern accent. The hospitality and way of life would be a welcomed change. I checked out colleges and looked for apartments. I came home with a set plan. I would finish out my first year of college and pack my meager belongings, transfer schools and by on my way. Then it happened, I met a man. I no longer wanted to leave, and at that point I knew he was my future husband, and only after four dates.
We married eight years later and have settled in the house where he grew up. On a piece of land that has been in the family for nearly a century. We live on the only acre of land left of his grandparents initial purchase when they arrived from Italy. So, in a way, I am in a culture that is different from my own. My yearning to leave has be settled, having been welcomed by people and families who differ from my own. For me, this is enough.
Yet, in this wonderful Italian culture of my husband's family, members have left, just to return a few years later, being enveloped back into the fold. The prodigal sons, if you will. Each of the brothers took their turn, stepping into the unknown, returning with stories that have faded into distant memories. Maybe both our families get this urge from our grandparents. My grandfather was a bonified hobo. He traveled the country by railway. Going wherever those two parallel bars of metal would take him. My husband's grandparents, on both sides, left their own native lands to come to America.
Family isn't just a word, it is a way of life in the Italian culture. Each baptism, first communion, confirmation, wedding, birth of a child and even birthdays are all grand events. Everyone is invited, from grandparents, to aunts and uncles, and countless cousins, all bearing gifts. At these gatherings stories are retold, even though each person knows the ending, you cannot help yourself but to listen again, caught up in the cadence of the storyteller, waiting with baited breath for laughter to break out.
Traditions in our home seem to be centered around the dinner table. Each Sunday throughout fall and winter my husband spends Sunday afternoon after Mass cooking a big pot of homemade sauce and meatballs with our two sons. Family gathers, as we have an open door policy on this day, for this meal. We have family and friends, sometimes in shifts, sharing our table. Again, stories are told, some are funny and some are sad. But we feel safe in the presence of our loved ones to tell these tales again and again, even though tears may flow from howling laughter or deep sorrow.
In my family it seems we only gather for Christmas, weddings and funerals with the occasional bridal or baby shower thrown in the mix. Again there are stories told, mostly new ones, because it is hard to look back knowing the cousins who were your best friends when you were young have lost touch. Not intentionally, of course, but because as life moves on, we don't hold those relationships as dearly as we should. Because we are scattered to the winds, leading our lives the best way we know how, somehow we forget that the phone lines reach out past our own front doors. But, when we are all together again there is a real sense of homecoming. We catch each other up on the stories we call our own. It is good to be with them again. Then as the day fades into dusk, we again go our separate ways, only to stay in touch on the latest social media. But, if one of us ever needs anything, our family pulls together to try to help each other. Because that is what we do, that is how we were raised.
With each family I'm lucky enough to be my own person. To voice my thoughts and opinions, whether they are good or bad. For this I am truly blessed. My own family is the heart that makes me whole and the soul that enables me to be far away from so many loved ones, yet lets my family reconnect as if no time has passed since we saw each other. My Italian family that has taken me in, accepted me and allowed me to break through the protective shell they surround themselves with, in order to protect everything that is sacred to all they hold dear. I thank God for them everyday, the family that gave me wings and the one who helped me to grow roots.
