A photo can tell incredible, complex, wonderful stories.
You are looking at one of my favorites. The man on the left gave everything. His life for his country. He was a soldier who knew great fear in the heat of battle. He wrote letters home, talking of the smell of death. He dreamed of a world where there was no war, no conflict.
The man on the right never had to run from the bullets of enemy attack. He had to make a living in the country that was home, but not his place of origin.
He didn’t die young in a war, like his brother. He lived 92 years, a physically challenging life that would include work, until he no longer could. Until his body said “no more”.
Brothers in arms, in blood, in life. Their images are powerful, majestic. They proved their mettle time and again, building the cornerstone of our family. Their influence is felt every day. Long gone from this earth, but always in the hearts of those that were close.
These are the makings of an epic life.
There is the cornerstone, and there is the mortar. The woman in the middle of the photo is my grandmother. The family may have been built by the men, but it was kept together by the women. The women held the vast influence.
Our generation was shaped, formed, and molded by the women. They taught us our truth, our ethics, our way of life.
My grandmother, and her sisters, represented generations of tradition. As our incessantly frenetic modern lives attempt to strip away any semblance of tradition, values, and common sense, we must fight back in their name.
Fight to keep traditions, values, and a vision of the world as a kind and decent place. Because that’s the environment we grew up in.
I write what I write because of a sense of duty. I can’t let them be forgotten. They can’t fade into the recesses of history, eventually without anyone knowing of their existence.
They can’t die until I do.
Working class, immigrant, depression era lives. Lives that were truly epic. You and I would be at a loss to describe their stories.
Epic because of the ashes they rose from.
Epic in the tragedy they endured.
Epic in their relentless nature.
Epic with the love and comfort they created.
No, we don’t know the meaning of the word. Its definition is far different today.
This year is the 100th anniversary of the birth of my grandmother, the former Rosa Tagliarini. Who took the name DeGiorgio from her love Sebastiano, that handsome devil to the right in the photo. The date of her birth, December 21st, will be like every other day.
Her influence will hover. Her presence will be felt.
To celebrate one hundred, my wife and I will raise our wine glasses in a birthday toast. In remembrance, and thanks.
With gratitude. For the path she helped pave, to our unquestionable abundance, by living her epic life.