I had a Mother who read to me.

While I am new to the Forum, I have been a LostCousins member for 15 years. I was reading through some of your origin stories of the genealogy addiction and I recalled the last line of a poem, The Reading Mother by Strickland Gillilan . . .
You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be --
I had a Mother who read to me.

You see, my mother was the one who brought me with her on her family history journey.

Both of my parents were born and raised in Canada . . . my dad of centuries-old French-Canadian heritage with some newer Irish blood circa 1850 . . . my mother half English and half Italian. I, however, was born in the US (bet you can guess what state). In 1978, we were living in the Middle East and took a lovely camper tour of Europe that summer, where we visited 13 countries. Among our travels, we found my mom's family in Italy. It went something like this . . .

Bannia, Italy, doesn't appear on most maps. It is in the very northeast of Italy, a tad inland from Venice. We found Bannia (population approx 100) but had no idea how to find my mom's family. She didn't speak Italian and only carried a small phrase book. Where does one go to find something in a small town in Italy? The Catholic Church, of course! We stopped and found the priest to whom my mother uttered her practiced phrase, "Mio padre Ottavio Carli." The priest, who spoke no English, directed us down one of the four dirt roads that radiated from the church in the center of town. He indicated with his hand on his arm how many houses we should go. So we did. At that house, my mom again said, "Mio padre Ottavio Carli." The person at the door shook their head. They then indicated down the road three more houses. We stopped at that house and a young woman came out. My mother thought this would be a dead-end, too, as she expected her cousin Gemma, whom she had met at a child. By then Gemma was a middle-aged woman, not this young woman. Nonetheless, my mother again said, "Mio padre Ottavio Carli." The young woman put her hands to her face and said, "Mio Dio! Mio Dio!" Then she turned, running back into the house, flailing her arms, yelling, "Mama! Mama!"

Yes, we had found Gemma and her family. The young woman was her daughter Nadia. We proceeded to spend 4 days with them on their farm, where they didn't speak English and we didn't speak Italian. But that's okay, we're family!

One day, we took a little ride over to my great-grandparent's farm, the same farm where my nonno Ottavio grew up. While it was no longer actively farmed, the property still belonged to the family. My sister and I picked and ate cherries off Luigi and Anna's trees!

How could someone not be hooked by this immersion into family and by going back to their roots, literally? My mother certainly was hooked and she brought me right along with her. We collaborated on research over the years, sitting side-by-side at microfilm readers in the days before the internet, eagerly awaiting certificates to arrive in the mail, walking miles through cemeteries, and sitting around taking copious notes while visiting far-flung family members, before she passed away in 2004. I was 10 that summer in Italy but have never stopped loving the thrill of new discoveries and the enchantment of family stories . . .

All thanks to my mother!

 

What a wonderful story!

 

That's a great story and welcome!

I'm pretty new here too, but the people I've met are really friendly.