Thursday, November 21, 2002
Photo by Randy Tunnell: Tiffany Bonanno (the blond digging into the raviolis) is Italian by marriage. She fits right into this warm, boisterous clan. From left to right: Tom Colosi, Joe Bonanno, Beatrice Bonanno, Brian Johnson, Tiffany Bonanno, Nina Johnson.
Tom Salvatore Colosi I, my husband''s grandfather and namesake, was very happy that his grandson decided to marry an Italian Catholic girl-and a Santa Clara University grad, to boot.
His father, Joe Colosi, emigrated from Messina, Sicily before Tom Colosi I was born. According to the family legend, Joe had left Italy because he had to: Joe''s father was a Don, as was his father before him. When Joe got his girlfriend pregnant, he disgraced the family. Don Paolo Colosi told him two things: "You will marry this girl, and then you will leave." So he married Grandpa Tom''s mother and moved to New York.
Today, Tom Colosi is 85. He''s fit and handsome, looks about 20 years younger than he is, and still runs a mile every night. For our wedding shower, he gave us a crock pot. It''s an enormous-Italian-family-sized crock pot. "To feed a big family," he said, pulling me aside at the party. "Because you will have a Tom Colosi the Fourth."
We don''t have a little Tommy yet, but in case we forget, Tom the First reminds us often. Every time he talks to my husband, they repeat some variation of the following conversation:
"What''s your name?"
"It''s Tom Colosi. C-O-L-O-S-I, C-O-L-O-S-I." (The name-spelling is almost sung, very rapidly.)
"I love you, Tom Colosi."
"I love you, Tom Colosi."
"And when you have a son, what will his name be?"
"It will be Tom Colosi."
My husband and I think of ourselves as Italian-American. But neither Tom nor I speak the language. And we''ve never been to Italy. We eat plenty of pasta, but Tom''s red sauce and my eggplant are original recipes. We share a sick fascination in mob-genre stories (Tom''s family in Sicily really does have Mafia ties), but the closest we get to organized crime is watching the Tony and the gang on HBO.
Our holidays probably look and sound like those in other Italian homes-lots of loud cousins, vino, raviolis and Sinatra. But these are essentially American customs.
Tom and I both struggle with what our Italian culture means beyond good food, close families and a strong work ethic. We also don''t want to lose it, whatever it is. In this, we are a lot like Monterey''s new generation of paisani.
Around the turn of the century, millions of Southern Italians left the old country and flooded the States. Many settled on the Monterey Peninsula, where the coastline and the fishing reminded them of Sicily, and many bought homes on "Spaghetti Hill."
Pietro Ferrante, the "grandfather of Monterey Fishermen," arrived in Monte-rey in 1903. Ferrante, a native of Isola delle Femmine, is considered to be the first in Monterey to fish sardines and establish Sicilian-style canneries.
"He was kind of the Godfather-without the criminal element," says Peter Coniglio, Ferrante''s grandson and a former mayor of Monterey. "He was skilled at net fishing-he designed the Lompara net."
In 1925, Ferrante built the San Carlos Cannery, where the Breakwater now stands,"and the sardine industry was born," Coniglio says.
Other early fishing families arrived in Monterey in the early 1900s with names like Alioto, Spataro and Pennisi. Vince DiMaggio, 32-year-old vice president of Creek Bridge Homes in Salinas, shows off a picture of his great-grandfather, Salvatore Russo, who invented the local short-wave radio in the 1930s. Russo was also a native of Isola delle Femmine. In 1940, Salvatore''s daughter, Stella, married a local fisherman named Vince DiMaggio (father of the legendary ball-player Joe DiMaggio, and grandfather of the 32-year-old Vince).
Two years later, when the U.S. de-clared war on Italy, the DiMaggios and hundreds of other Monterey Italians had to evacuate their homes. Italian immigrants were considered "dangerous," and had to register as "alien enemies" with curfew, travel and residence restrictions enforced.
While they weren''t forcibly removed to inland concentration camps like their Japanese neighbors, many Italians, even those who were American citizens, lost their homes and their land.
DiMaggio says he researched the World War II Italian relocation in DC, "and the official State Department reason for not interning Italians during World War II was: Number One, they pretty much looked like everybody else. And Number Two, by doing so, they would have been forced to intern Joe DiMaggio''s parents."
For the most part, the Italians went back to their daily routines as they had been before the war. Most returned to Monterey and went back to fishing, mostly working in the canneries and restaurants.
Their kids, grandkids and great-grandkids stuck around. Even today, Monterey has one of the most concentrated Sicilian communities in the U.S.
Local Italian-Americans have names like Ferrante, Cutino, Lucido and Panet-ta. They were baptized and married at San Carlos Parish and buried in the San Carlos Cemetery, and they turn out in full force for the Santa Rosalia festival every September honoring Sicily''s patron saint.
I''ve posed the same question to dozens of Italian-Americans in their 20s and 30s over the past few weeks: What do you like about being Italian?
It''s a little lame, and it does elicit a few vapid replies. "I like being Italian because I am so good-looking," says my darling husband. "I''m joking."
No, really, he''s not joking.
Most people start to answer with, "this sounds so cliche, but..." or "I''m sure everyone else says this, but..." And most of the time they do talk about family, tradition, food and a passion for life. And they are all being sincere.
This next generation knew being Italian was cool way before the Sopranos. But for them, being Italian isn''t about tough-guy Jersey accents, big hair or gold chains.
"The closeness," replies 26-year-old Anne O''Farrell, whose mother''s maiden name is Maiorana; her family arrived in Monterey from their native Marettimo in the 1930s.
For the past three years, O''Farrell, who majored in Italian at UC-Davis, lived in San Francisco, working with Italian-American seniors at a social services agency in North Beach. She also worked for a company that imports wine from family vineyards in Italy.
Now she''s back in Monterey, living in a Pacific Grove home her Italian grandmother used to own, and attending the Monterey Institute of International Studies.
"When I was living in San Francisco, I really missed my family," she says. "I moved back here to go to school, but also I felt it was time to come home and be close to everyone again.
"Even the younger cousins, now, they seem to be really close friends. For me, being Italian is really stressing the importance of family before everything else."
"I''m proud to be Italian," says Joseph Lucido, a 25-year-old fisherman at Royal Seafood Inc., a member of the third generation of Italian-American fishermen to own boats off the Monterey wharf. "It''s nice to know that your family, your heritage is from here. It''s still tight-knit. Just driving down the street, you see a lot of people who know you. You wave three times by the time you get to the wharf."
Twenty-eight-year-old Alyson Coniglio-Tucker repeats a variation of my question: "What do I like about Italians? Their passion for life and their passion for food." A couple times a month, and on holidays, birthdays and anniversaries, all 60-plus Coniglios meet for Sunday dinner at Peter Coniglio''s Carmel Valley home and gather around a very long table that seats everyone.
"You can spend a whole Sunday preparing, eating," Coniglio-Tucker continues. "The little kids chop the onions for the sauce, and the adults make sure it tastes just right. Family is number one. That''s why we live."
Like many of her third- and fourth-generation Monterey -Italian counterparts, Coniglio-Tucker worries about losing this closeness and the traditions. Some haven''t been to Sicily to meet relatives who still live there. Most say they understand a little Italian, but they don''t speak any, and they fear that once their grandparents are gone the language will die out. They worry about family moving away-some of the 20- and 30-somethings have already begun to migrate to more affordable places. But despite all of this, they say they''re committed to preserving their Italian-American culture, and they''ve still got a healthy dose of ethnic pride.
Anthony Davi is a 34-year-old Monterey lawyer whose forefathers worked as sardine fishermen. Now the Davis are in real estate, construction, insurance and general contracting. "But everyone past my father''s generation-all of my grandfather''s generation-they were all fishermen," Davi says.
After graduating from law school in San Diego, Davi visited Italy for the first time. "And what hit me most when I got there was how much of the lifestyle that the Monterey Italian-Americans have kept in terms of their priorities with family and family functions," Davi says. "Now that I''ve moved back [from college and law school in San Diego], I find myself being an organizer of family events. I love to cook, so now I''m the one inviting 20, 30 people over for dinner. My wife is getting used to it. The idea of having first and second cousins and uncles and aunts come over to dinner just because they live in the same town wasn''t something she was used to.
"As a kid, I was just along for the ride. And now I''ve taken the responsibility onto myself."
Gino Pennisi slits open the rock cod''s belly, pulls out its guts and slices off its head. Empty eyes stare from a basket of fish heads on the floor.
"You''d better back up," Pennisi warns.
"Why?" I ask. "Because your shoes are getting all wet," Pennisi says.
I look down. He''s right. I''m so transfixed by the guts and heads and flesh that I don''t notice a steady stream of water running off of the cleaning table and onto my Steve Maddens.
I sheepishly take a step back.
Pennisi, 24, is tall and sturdy, barrel-chested with dark hair and a goatee. His father, Joe, was a fisherman before retiring to land in and opening Royal Seafood Inc.
"Fishing is tradition. It''s more than just a job," says Joe, from inside a cramped office on the wharf. He''s a burly man with a sweater-wearing Chihuahua named Nacho on a leash. "I was proud of my dad. I wanted to show him I could do it. That what it''s all about-fathers and sons."
Joe''s father, grandfather and great-grandfather were fishermen in Sicily. His six sons fish in the Monterey Bay, up and down the West Coast and in Alaska.
"I insisted they all finish high school, and some had a little bit of college," Joe says. "But in between, they would fish."
Joe''s got 17 grandkids, and one more on the way. Gino, the youngest of eight brothers and sisters, doesn''t know any other life. He went to Alaska to fish for salmon the first time when he was 12 years old. He wants to follow the tradition. But it''s not getting any easier. Gino says he''s probably the last fisherman in the Pennisi clan.
"I grew up fishing," Gino says. "My brothers have their boats. My dad does it. It''s what I do. It''s what I like to do. I think a lot of Italian families around here grew up doing the same.
"Every Sunday we all get together for lunch." He says this in the present tense, but then adds: "Not as much as we used to. Now the family is getting so big. It''s hard."
"With a lot of Italian families today, everybody knows each other. You recognize people. You know who their grandparents are. The pride''s still there. It''s just harder now. People grew up doing what their families used to do. They can''t afford to do it no more. I won''t be anything like my grandfather was-even what my father or my brothers were. I''ll probably work in the market."
One of the little Pennisis running around the wharf, grandson Joe (Giuseppe) IV, a miniature version of his grandfather with huge brown eyes and his curly hair, turns four today. "I don''t want him to get any thoughts about fishing," Joe says, "No more fishermen."
"Are you Italian?" Joe asks me. "Where is your family from?"
From Calabria and Barenello, near Naples, I tell him.
"Ohh, you know what they say about people from Calabria," he says, with a sly grin. No, I don''t. "They''re hot-heads. They''re stubborn."
My husband says Pennisi''s right.
There''s an island north of Seattle, Wash. named after my great-great grandfather, Joe DiBiasi. It''s called DeBay Island. Joe was a farmer who emigrated to America from Barenello, Italy in 1889. Somewhere between Italy and New York his name changed.
I had never heard of DeBay Island, and didn''t know much about Joe until two years ago, when Washington state bought most of the original property and created a swan preserve.
An online publication, Skagit River Journal, printed a long story about Joe and published several of my parents'' old photographs-of the homestead, and of the DeBay family, including my great-grandfather, Sam, my great-grandmother, Lela, and my grandfather, Orian.
The editor, Noel Bourasaw, who wrote the story, emailed my father and thanked him for the pictures of the family and the farm.
"Joe DeBay has been one of my favorite characters from our history, and I was determined to honor him," he wrote. "It made me sad that wonderful men like him have been forgotten. We will correct that." It made me sad that I never even knew.
In 1892, Joe married Bridget Petticore, an immigrant from Calabria. They had six kids, one of whom was my great-grandfather, Sam DeBay. Before floods at the turn of the century carved out DeBay Island, Joe DeBay was a truck farmer, and was well known for the sacks of vegetables he transported by wagon to a small market and hotels in town.
The Skagit River Journal tells two stories about my great-great grandfather that I like. The first one''s about the time he blew off his right hand while dynamiting stumps and clearing land on the farm.
"In what may be the best illustration of how tough those early pioneers could be, Joe checked the flow of blood by using a piece of cord from the dynamite box as a tourniquet and walked two miles to Sedro [in town]," according to the Journal. He walked to the brand new county hospital and a Dr. Peterson, performing one of the first operations in the county, sewed up Joe''s arm.
Nine years later, he injured his right arm. "Although he was helpless and confined to bed for several weeks, Joe paid all his own doctor''s bills, asking help from no one, and kept that cheerful countenance that he was always known for," Bourasaw writes.
Joe continued farming, one-handed. He expanded the farm and sold more produce to local restaurants, hotels and markets. According to the story, he also made a tasty barrel of wine. This made him a popular guy in the neighborhood-especially during Prohibition.
"I''m that last of the Mohicans," says Frank Aliotti, a 37-year-old Monterey fisherman who was born in Sicily. "There''s no way my kids can make a living doing what I do. Sure, they might want to do it. But they can''t."
He ticks off a familiar list of complaints. "We''re trying to feed our families, to put food on the table," he says, his voice rising. "The cost of living goes up, but the price of fish doesn''t.
"I''m not worried about running out of fish. The ocean will take care of itself."
Aliotti''s father, Giuseppe, moved to Monterey from Sicily to fish and to establish a home for his wife and soon- to-be-born son. "He remembers getting on a ship, and that song, ''Arrivederci Roma,'' was playing," Aliotti says about his father. "He remembers his heart just getting ripped out of his chest."
Does the old man regret leaving? "No. No. My parents love this country. They know there''s no other country where they could live and work." A year later, Frank Aliotti and his mother came over.
Now he lives on McClellan Avenue in Monterey with his wife, Pamela, and three kids: Giuseppe, 14; Frank Jr., 11; and Olivia, 7. Aliotti''s parents own a home down the street; it''s the house he grew up in.
Aliotti still speaks Italian-he didn''t learn English until grade school-and his kids all understand it. Giuseppe speaks some, too.
"My mom speaks Italian to them," Aliotti says. "My mom, the only woman in Monterey who still doesn''t have a driver''s license.
"I''m proud of my family for coming to a country as immigrants with not very much except their suitcases. They wor-ked hard, and bought what they had by working. Nothing was given to them; nothing was dirty. They worked for everything they got, even if it meant eating spaghetti three times a week."
A car pulls in the driveway-it''s Pamela Aliotti coming home. She''s Irish and German, with curly blond hair and brown eyes. She just returned from picking the kids up from school. Seven-year-old Olivia, who''s wearing a red and gray sweatsuit that says "Spoiled 55" across the front, heads straight for her bag of Halloween candy. Pamela sits down next to her husband on the couch.
She remembers when she and Frank started dating. Sunday dinner started at six, and Pamela wasn''t off work until seven.
"I would say, ''Go ahead and eat without me,'' but they would always wait," she says. "To Italian people, in my opinion, eating is a big deal."
"It makes you happy," Frank says.
"They enjoy sitting down and breaking the bread," Pamela says. "And the vino. That''s the time you sit and talk about how your day was. My family never did that."
The Aliotti kids see their grandparents almost every day. They still sit down at the dinner table. "I want them to grow up like it was at your house," Pamela says to her husband.
"Have you seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding?" asks 31-year-old Sally (Aliotti) Chopyk. "Growing up in my family was just like that. My family was always in your face. I didn''t just have to hear it from my parents; I had to hear it from my grandparents, from my aunts and uncles. But I always felt surrounded by love."
Chopyk''s father, Vince Aliotti, was born in Marettimo, a tiny island off of Sicily, where about half the townspeople left their homes for Monterey in the early 20th century. He moved here to fish-many Aliottis in Monterey are still in the industry-and he''s never been back to Marettimo.
Chopyk''s mother, Christine Billante, was born in Monterey, but her parents were from Marettimo. By the time Chopyk was born, there were more Aliottis in Monterey than in Marettimo. Chopyk''s older sister didn''t speak any English until she started school. Aliotti cousins, aunts and uncles, and great-aunts and great- uncles were everywhere. This had its benefits, but also some serious pitfalls, especially for a pretty, blond teenager.
"In high school, if I tried to cut school, I couldn''t even enjoy myself," she says. "I''d be hiding all the time, wearing sunglasses, hats. I was so afraid someone would see me. When boys would call, my dad would hang up on them."
Every Sunday, the family ate a pasta dinner, and barbecued steaks every Saturday. Holidays were 30-plus-relatives big, and always at her grandparents'' homes on Spaghetti Hill.
"Now all my cousins are grown up, and we don''t get together like that anymore," Chopyk says, a little sadly.
"I have one grandmother alive, my dad''s mom, Francesa Aliotti. She''s 91. I walk into her house and I feel like I''m a kid. I love that feeling. She speaks Sicilian. It''s sad because when she dies, I''m afraid I''ll lose it. I try to teach my kids a word here and there."
Both sets of Chopyk''s grandparents met in Sicily. They both wanted to move to the U.S. for their children.
Chopyk''s maternal grandparents had a tough time making it to the U.S. Chopyk''s grandfather, Sal Billante, came first. As was custom, Chopyk''s grandmother, Josephine, stayed in Sicily, waiting for her fiancee to establish a life for himself and his would-be bride before they married.
Twelve years later, after becoming a U.S. citizen, fishing the Monterey waters, and saving enough money to buy a house, Sal returned to Italy to marry Josephine.
"She was almost 30-an old maid back then," Chopyk says. "She waited in Sicily for 12 long years. Twelve years she was engaged. Would anybody do that now?"
Sal died when he was 65. For the next 20 years, Josephine wore black. Every Sunday after church the family would eat a spaghetti dinner at "Nanna Pepina''s" house. She would spend hours on the gravy, hand picking every tomato and dicing every onion.
Screaming grandkids ran room to room. Adults would sit at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and gossiping in Italian.
"My grandmother, she always looked so happy. I feel like nowadays you can''t find anybody like her anymore. Her whole life is us. And it''s okay. It''s okay being a wife and a mother, cooking, sewing. And she''s proud of that. For me, I tried it and it wasn''t enough.
"I felt stupid talking to people when I only had a high school education. Now that I''ve gone to college, I feel like, what''s the difference? I thought it was pressure from society. It was only me.
"I grew up with [the idea that] when I graduated, I was to get married and have kids. That''s what I did."
Chopyk has a daughter who''s 8, a son who''s 9, and a stepson who''s 15. Recently, Chopyk started taking classes at MPC. She''s going to transfer to CSUMB for her teaching credential. She wants to be an elementary school teacher.
"With Italians, it''s all about family. I want to pass that on to my kids. I want to pass on our religion. We all go to San Carlos. I was baptized there; I had my first communion there. I was married there. And I''m hoping they are never going to grow up and move away. I would never move away. I would never go while my parents are still alive."
Lori Spadaro, Cathy Bonanno, and Gina Storelli, three girls sitting in Starbucks who visited Sicily last summer, look like the variations on Italian-American culture in Monterey. Storelli, 22, who''s blond with blue eyes, knows her family originates from Northern Italy and Sicily, but that''s about it.
"My family sucks," she says. She doesn''t mean it. She loves her family. She just wished they were "more Italian."
Storelli''s a regular at the Bonanno household at dinner time.
Twenty-four-year old Spadaro, whose eyes are almost black, grew up in a traditional Italian home. Her grandparents were born in Sicily. Nonna Vitina Spadaro was one of the 600,000 Italian Americans branded "enemy aliens" during the war, and was forced to leave her Monterey home and move to Salinas.
She returned to Monterey, where she still lives.
Lori remembers mass on Sunday morning, pasta dinner Sunday afternoon and big family holidays. "My Nonna," Spadaro says, "she still stuffs the Thanksgiving turkey with the middle of raviolis," she says.
Spadaro spoke Sicilian until kids made fun of her in elementary school. She says the language came back to her after spending two weeks in Marettimo last summer.
"With me, I want it really bad," Spadaro says. "I want to buy property over there. I want my grandmother to tell the same stories, to sing the same Italian songs to my kids. I want her to speak in Italian to my kids like she did for me. I don''t want to lose it. I want to keep passing on the traditions, the holidays. If I don''t, no one is going to know about it."
Bonanno, 22, and her family keep the closest ties with the old country. She lives at home with her parents and works as an escrow officer for Stewart Title in Carmel. She dreams of becoming a hair stylist.
Her Nonna lived with her for almost 13 years. Bonanno''s older brother and sister lived at home until they were married. They and their spouses and children still live in the area, and come over at least once a week for a hot meal. Bonanno speaks fluent Italian-so does the rest of her family-and she''s been to Sicily three times. Her dad''s brother still lives there.
"My family, we''re crazy, nuts, Italians," she says. That means lots of family members shouting at each other in the kitchen, raviolis, meatballs and red sauce that has been simmering all day, and a crowd at Christmas that could use a banquet hall. Tom and I are invited to come see for ourselves.
Two Sundays later we''re knocking on the Bonanno''s front door. Cathy, a pretty girl with dark hair and olive skin, opens the door and welcomes us.
It looks like a full house, but Cathy says they''re still waiting for her brother, Alfonso, her sister, Nina and Nina''s husband, Brian Johnson.
The family''s in and around the kitchen. Mom (Beatrice) is stirring the sauce. It''s been on the stove since 10am. Sliced tomatoes and mozzarella, smoked salmon, humus and wine line the counter top.
"Make yourself at home," Beatrice says. "Eat. Cathy, get them some wine."
"That''s my salmon from Alaska," says Joe. He''s Cathy''s father, a fisherman. He speaks English with a Sicilian accent, or he just speaks Sicilian. His immediate family understands; in-laws, grandchildren and reporters don''t.
Cathy''s friend, Gina Storelli, and Cathy''s boyfriend, Ian Nuovo, sit in the living room, watching a woman in a micro-mini dress and a male game show host speaking Italian, on a big screen TV.
"All you see on this TV is the Italian station," Cathy says. "It''s always singing and half-naked women."
Two little kids run through the room-Cathy''s niece and nephew, Joseph and Analee. Their mom, Tiffany, Cathy''s sister-in-law, is close behind. Soon sister Nina and her husband Brian arrive.
Tiffany''s husband, Alfonso, is running late. He''s remodeling the kitchen.
Joe says the whole family will visit Marettimo this summer.
"My brother and sister are there," he says. "We''ve got a big home there, right on the ocean."
Joe pulls out a picture book with photographs of Marettimo. It shows the island''s caves, fishermen, rocky beaches, and even the Bonanno home, on the water.
"You can see 50, 60 feet down and see the fish. The water is so clear," he says.
There''s another image of a cross, a comforting sight to the men who fish off the island.
"It''s put there to protect the fishermen," Joe says. "He goes out in his boat, and he looks at the cross. He says, ''Oh, God, maybe I''ll have a good day today.''"
I ask him if he misses Italy.
He shrugs. "Some things. But what are you going to do?"
Joe moved to Monterey in 1968, when he was 23. "I came to see my sister, and then I got stuck with her," he jokes, pointing to Beatrice.
The two, both with family from Marettimo, had been pen pals. "His sister [Beatrice''s cousin] said I should write him," Beatrice says.
Ten months later they were married.
"It''s been 33 years and I still don''t know if I made the right decision," Beatrice says. She loves her decision. She''s surrounded by her family. Beatrice says she goes crazy if she doesn''t see her grandchildren every few days, and luckily that''s not a worry.
She reminds me of my mom. My mom never just cooked dinner for the six of us-my three siblings, my mom, dad and me-she cooked for our friends, our boyfriends and girlfriends, sometimes the neighbors. When we all graduated from high school and moved away for college, my mom missed the flurry.
Now my youngest sister and her daughter live about 20 miles from my parents. My mom sees them almost every other day. I feel pangs of guilt for leaving and moving to another state.
Nina, who''s 27, says growing up in the Bonanno house was "loud." "But you contributed to most of the loudness," Cathy says. "We''re very family-oriented," says Nina.
"They are still with the older generation even though they are younger," says Beatrice. "You know, you can never get away from your family tradition.
"I''m still Italian, but I''m not an old fashioned person," Beatrice continues. "My mother, she came from that old country-even though she lived here for 52 years before she passed away. But she was old fashioned. When Cathy had friends over, my mother would say, ''What are they doing? Why are they opening your cabinets, eating your food? That''s just not respectful.''"
"And when she was 90, you couldn''t even tell," Nina says. "She cooked, she did laundry, she did dishes."
"I tell my mom, she still makes better meatballs than you," Cathy says.
The pasta''s ready, so all 13 of us sit down around an oblong table. Cathy says the blessing. Then it''s a free-for-all for the artichoke-and-cheese raviolis, the macaroni, the meatballs and the eggplant parmesan. Dinner is loud and funny and the food never stops coming.
Tom and I are loving it, and anxiously awaiting another invite. Nina reads our minds. "You should come for Christmas."
We drive home from the Bonannos'' house, and Tom knows what he wants. He wants to learn Italian. He wants to visit Sicily. He wants lots of Italian babies hanging all over him at the dinner table. He wants them to eat with the family every night, and someday, bring their husbands and wives and children-our grandchildren. And I don''t want them to ever move away.