Nana spoke in a soothing Sicilian dialect which bore little resemblance to the classical Tuscan Italian, the language of Dante. I understood and loved her foreign sounding words. She understood English but would not utter a syllable of it. When surprised, frustrated, or otherwise excited, she broke her usual reserve with arms lifted to the heavens and uttered the all-purpose expletive, "Madonna!"

It was to this modest, painfully shy woman that I turned for food and sympathy, both doled out at her kitchen table in a room full of fragrances that I will never forget. She was my teacher and my Mother Confessor. Her wisdom was equal parts voodoo, Catholicism, and old country customs liberally mixed with a fear of the unknown and a haunting melancholy.

In contrast, he loved the liberties that attracted him to his adopted country and the community of "Little Randazzo," which he and his compatriots created in Rutland. Even as I struggle to connect the elegant character in studio portraits and the dutiful laborer bent on fulfilling his dreams, I want to believe that what his daughters tell me is true.