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I was six years old, and I remember it as if it were yesterday. My mom said, Pa needs your hug. He sat quietly in his favorite chair by the large porcelain kitchen table near the window, gazing down at his strong, calloused hands as I entered. Without speaking, he lifted me onto his lap. His embrace was gentle, comforting, and warm, as always. Somehow I felt his sadness. His only remaining family member in Sicily, his younger sister Rosa, had passed away. He was Pa to everyone in my big Sicilian family. His name was Michele; he was born on Saint Valentine's Day, 2/14/1874, wonderfully, perfectly capturing his loving nature. By the age of ten, he was responsible for herding and overseeing the protection of goats and sheep. Although he hadn't attended school, like most poor Sicilians, he was eager to learn and developed a quiet wisdom, which he shared with me during our walks as we exchanged questions about his life in Sicily and his new life in America. I always felt he gave me special attention; I was his first of ten grandchildren. Now, in my later years, I may be the only one left who remembers that he lived and what his life was like. This is a reality that will impact almost everyone within three generations. I wish it were not so, especially for him. Pa's life, his responses to events and interactions with people in Sicily and America, and his contributions to his family and friends, hopefully, will be remembered with a loving appreciation of him and will build a bridge between his life, his times, his descendants, and mine. Let me tell you about my Pa.
