Tomorrow will be the memorial service for my dad at the funeral parlor. Since I am still recovering my strength, I am not traveling to Detroit at this time. I am remembering the good times my family shared, and, for some reason, I’m thinking a lot about my childhood when we used to take trips back to Uniontown, Pennsylvania, where my mom and dad grew up. Dad grew up on a farm, and we used to visit mostly every year as long as my grandma continued to live there for several years after Grandpa passed away. For city girls, my sister and I thought it was cool to see the cattle and the chickens.
When my sister and I were little, we would also sometimes make a trip at the holidays. It was so picturesque with the holiday lights on the houses reflecting on the freshly fallen snow. I remember feeling my tummy fall when Dad would drive over the hills on the back roads to the farm. It was fun and thrilling with the country roads being pitch black except for the headlights leading the way with a narrow path of light.
Grandma and Grandpa spoke little English, so most of the time when we visited, Dad and Mom spoke Italian. My sister and I would snuggle together in the big bed upstairs listening to the adults talking and laughing well into the night. Mom used to tell us that if we wanted to learn to speak Italian, we should learn from Dad because she thought he spoke the language better than she. Dad loved the language and always spent time studying it so that he could speak well. Unfortunately, my sisters and I never learned to speak Italian, but I still would love to learn. I think Dad would be happy.