grandparents
Becoming a grandparent makes getting older something to look forward to - all the fun of parenting, without the hassle.
More Stories from the Old Country
Luigi and Maria Ancora emmigrate to Argentina In 1924, the Ancora family was finally ready to rejoin Belasario in America. But some bureaucratic corruption prevented Nonni's brother and sister from making the journey to America. A rich family bribed an official in the office, and Luigi and Maria's Visa papers were stolen. So the family was presented with their only option. Nonni and her Grandmother sailed to America, while Luigi and Maria embarked for Argentina.
By Rich Monetti6 years ago in Families
Ada Monetti Remembers her Father
Nonno was a gentle, loving father, according to his daughter Ada Monetti. However, he did set limits and enforced boundaries. “I got spanked,” Ada said. “I was stubborn” But any chance of lingering feelings always reverted back to Angelo Cafueri’s fatherly baseline.
By Rich Monetti6 years ago in Families
My Great Grandmother Held her Own
Carmela Ancora grew up in Franca Villa, and her grandmother owning a successful business, the family had an upperclass lifestyle. So Carmela graduated from High School and played the piano. Carmela married Belasario Ancora in 1885 at the age of 16 and had seven children. But while circumstances bigger than the family led to a life of seperation for the three surviving Ancora children, my great grandmother lived a rich fulfilling life
By Rich Monetti6 years ago in Families
My Grandfather’s Depth of Feeling made a Life for his Whole Family
In the first 18 months of my life, My Nonno was a constant presence. However, he would leave for an extended return to Italy with my grandmother in 1966. The departure must have left a pretty big void. The year and a half absence had to have been long forgotten by the time he came back, though. The assumption - it turns out - is glaringly incorrect.
By Rich Monetti6 years ago in Families
I am because she was.
There's a photo of my great-grandmother; she is standing with her sister and sister in law with the biggest smile on her face. It is my favorite photo of her. She is in her twenties with her two best friends, my Aunt Nunnie her sister, and my Aunt Willa Mae, who would eventually become her sister in law. I love this photo because it is rare. It is unique because I am seeing her before she was a wife; before she was a mother, a grandmother, and great-grandmother. I'm seeing her as just Mary, a woman in her twenties dreaming of something more. I had seen this photo many times before. It had a place in all of the homes she lived in until her death. But it wasn't until after she died that I understood the depth of this photo. I realized that I only knew one part of her life and story. That I only knew her for a brief period of her life. But that short period profoundly impacts my life.
By Amber Shephard6 years ago in Families
Fortiér Fortitude
Spring 1995 – Emil Villa’s Hickory Pit – Oakland, California. Lillian had just waved her waiter away for the third time. They had been seated for almost half an hour and still had not ordered. Lillian, known to her family as Dear, did not appreciate being or feeling rushed.
By Y. Fortier-Bourne6 years ago in Families
Gommie
Gommie sits in her pink smock dress with her elbows resting upon the plastic Gerbera tablecloth. The early morning rays dance their way into the sunroom and she is laughing. There is half eaten toast, with far too much butter on it, real orange juice and music, always music. Now that I think about it, this memory seems distant, but it’s always one I go back to, or rather comes back to me.
By Hannah Clark6 years ago in Families
The Little Girl in the Photograph Who Inspires Me
German, like the language. First name Yolanda. Descendant of my divine feminine ancestors. My grandmother, whom I like to call “grams.” This is the woman who inspires me. When I was 5 years old, I saw an old photograph of five kids on a farm. I took a closer look and in it, I saw a little girl who was about the same age as me at the time. Confused and a little dumbfounded, I opened my mouth and started to say “How am I in this picture? I don’t know any of those kids and I don’t remember this either.” The little girl in the photograph looked exactly like me – she was my doppelgänger, if you will.
By Emily Viera6 years ago in Families
The woman I was named after
Fragile yet strong hands that depicted years of hard work endured. From farming, cooking, trading constantly to feed her children, my grandma was a strong woman. Brown skin like the silkiest of chocolate relenting on her youth that was stolen by time and life. Trekking many miles on two spindly legs that required a limp in order to sustain the tingling pain she felt from her aged bones. She walked the muddy streets of Nigeria to fulfil her role as a mother as well as her responsibility to her body to replenish its many energy expenditure. Her previously 5 foot 6 inches that she was, now stood at 5 foot 2 inches due to the hunch she had obtained over her years of having to bend over to find sustenance. Her face tells the story of a life well lived. Under the harsh suns of Africa, her once fair and bouncy skin now sags on her skin like a calm wave never disturbed. Once flawlessly brown with no speckles, her skin sits on her face speckled like a chocolate chip cookie from the years of constant exposure to the harshness of the UV rays from the sun. Once plump and resistant to gravity her cheeks were sunken and her flesh no longer able to hide the secrets that the flesh of every human tried so desperately to hide. Her eyes looked tired and yet bright from the many knowledge it had absorbed from its surroundings. The sparse scattering that was her hair rested on her head like a population that was on the verge of extinction, sat aging along with her. She truly was a beautiful woman. The woman who raised me even when she had little left to give, for she had given her all to nine other kids from her womb. What she had viewed as little was immense to me because it shaped the person that I am today. I attribute my persevering nature to all the times that she never backed down no matter how impossible a situation seemed. Her humbling demeanor even to those undeserving of it taught me that my reaction to a situation was what determined the outcome. Despite her appearance that hinted to everyone she met that she was old and fragile, she commanded respect like a drill sergeant urging his soldiers to stand at attention but without the loud voice. She was the man and the woman in her house. Her independent nature is what drives me to work hard for myself relying on no one but my hard work to pave the way for me. She never caved to the patriarchal laws that society tried to place on her. In a world that required two persons to keep a house afloat, she found a way to live with one and be a great mother all at once. I reminisce of those times we spent together just the both of us, those were rare moments where you would tell me of your youth and I would look at you in wonder admiring the woman you used to be and the woman that you became. Even in death your presence in my life is unwavering. The lessons you taught me are not forgotten. This was the woman that laid the foundation of the woman I aspire to be. An independent confident woman whom even in the face of adversity finds a way to come out prosperous. I could never be the woman that she was. I could only strive to be the best version of myself because this is what she taught me.
By Sarah Musa6 years ago in Families
