An Unexpected Journey...

We are all authoring our own unique life-story. Our time spent on earth is of course, a journey and all journeys contain stories. At 58 years old, I am often reminded how our stories, no matter our age, continue to evolve, frequently adding more pages and chapters that reveal the full spectrum of unexpected joy, painful sorrow and everything in between. Journeys and the stories they produce, also present us with the chance to learn. Our sense of adventure and curiosity can be, perhaps should be, stimulated...creating opportunities to expand our minds, our thoughts, our feelings and emotions. Along the way, perhaps we'll discover we share more in common than not...

Perhaps we can see how our journeys and stories intersect and connect us, rather than divide.

My journey…my life-story, began in the most humble and uncertain of ways. I am the oldest of three boys, separated by a mere 3 1/2 years... and not long after the birth of my youngest brother, my father came to the realization that he just wasn’t ready for marriage and fatherhood, and all that came with those immense responsibilities. He and my mom were married at a very young age. I can still recall the day he left - for what I thought was some sort of business trip. That morning, I remember placing his silver metallic hairbrush in his suitcase and then, standing at the front door watching him drive away. At 5 years old, I was fully unaware it would be close to 15 years before I would see him again. My brothers and I, and perhaps mom too, all grew up fast over those 15 years. Though mom re-married when I was 16, the world as we knew it didn’t extend much beyond the length of our collective arms.

My dad moved to Texas and would call every now and then…maybe on a birthday…maybe on Christmas. Some years I can recall large trunks arriving during Christmas, containing mostly clothes from a man who was our dad, yet only known to my brothers and me by a voice on the other end of a phone.

Our mom would often work multiple jobs to merely ensure we had a roof over our heads and food on the table each day. Indeed, where we lived in Connecticut prior to my mom’s second marriage, and how we grew up would ordinarily produce a vastly different journey and life-story. Yet, by the grace of God, I am able to recount a story that, for those who knew the Cardini family of the late 1960’s and throughout the 70’s, seemed entirely unimaginable…

Our father had a drinking problem. And on the day he decided to re-enter our lives, he showed up to our home, drunk… Mom gave him a thorough tongue-lashing, letting him know that if he ever wants to see his family again, he would need to make serious changes. Incredibly, he did just that. He quit alcohol cold-turkey and for the rest of his life, we never saw alcohol in his hands or cross his lips.

Shortly after that ill-fated visit, my brothers and I began to build a relationship with our dad. He would take us on annual fishing trips – mostly to the Florida Keys. I can still recall the first time I ever flew on an airplane – a Pan Am Boeing 747 from New York JFK to Miami, where we would meet-up with our dad and then take a twin-engine propeller plane to the Keys.

I was 18 years old and my brothers and I sat on the second floor of that 747. There was a buffet table filled with food and drink for everyone sitting upstairs, however, I was so fascinated by being in an aluminum tube at 35,000 feet, my face never left the window the entire flight. I remember thinking how beautiful the coastline looked from above and the closer we got to Florida, the more beautiful the ocean water became.

On occasion, we would visit Dad at his home in Houston (Conroe actually). He had also remarried and we truly enjoyed getting to know our step-mother and her family. We created a lifetime of unforgettable memories before he passed away on Thanksgiving Day, nearly five years ago.

My grandparents (Nonni and Nonno) – my dad’s parents – also lived in Connecticut. We would see them three or four times a year and as we grew older, the frequency of our visits steadily increased. Nonno maintained a massive vegetable garden in his backyard and I can recall the many years of helping him prep the soil each spring and then when the Dogwood Trees would bloom, plant the lettuce seeds and tiny tomato, pepper, eggplant, cucumber, peas and zucchini plants. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of walking through that garden in August and September, when all of the plants had fully grown. Filled with pride, I'd pick fresh tomatoes off their vines, sprinkle them with salt and then eat them like an apple!

Nonni was a master chef and baker! To this day I have yet to find food cooked to a level of perfection as she would routinely produce. I have a sister in-law who comes as close as anyone, anywhere. Yet, Nonni’s Spinach Linguini alla Bolognese, followed by Strawberry Rhubarb pie remain unmatched!

Along with putting me to work in the garden, Nonno would often take me to the beach in Old Greenwich, CT., a beautiful stretch of land and sand known as Tod’s Point. On clear days you can see the Manhattan skyline just 30 miles away. Nonno loved driving the loop around Tod's Point and every now and then, he would stop the car in an empty parking lot and place me on his lap, allowing me to drive his 1970's Buick. I loved how you needed to press buttons to shift the car into Park, Drive, Reverse.

During the summer months, we would go to Tod’s Point to fish, catching Bluefish, Flounder and mostly Snapper Blues. As we would load-up his car with the rods, tackle and buckets, Nonno would also grab some old stale bread and a large casting net. There was an area at the beach where we would toss-out the net, throw chunks of the bread over the net that now sat a foot below the surface of the water, and when the schools of minnows arrived to feast on the bread, we would snap-up the net, hauling in hundreds of minnows which, I came to learn were a treasured delicacy of the Snapper Blues!

The Snapper Blues were Nonno’s favorite. At the end of the day, we would transport our catch back to his house where he also taught me how to clean fish. Later that evening, he would prepare the Snappers by rolling them in flour, salt & pepper and then a quick, light fry. We would sprinkle them with fresh lemon and eat them as if they were candy! Having now traveled back to Italy and his hometown of Chiavari on several occasions, where I took note of the manner in which that part of Italy (Liguria) prepares anchovy (slightly smaller than the Snapper Blues), I can now understand and appreciate my grandfather’s love for fried Snappers. He was literally being transported "home" each time we dove into a fresh batch!

In 1987, Nonni was diagnosed with cancer. Sadly, it was late-stage and very aggressive. Nonni was beautiful and combined a natural elegance with a heart of gold. Her decline was extremely difficult to experience. As her sickness progressed, she had melted away to just skin and bone. Her final days will forever remain etched in my memory... One day in particular haunts me even now. I was visiting for lunch and sitting in the kitchen with Nonno when we heard a loud “thump!” Nonni had tried to get up and go to the bathroom on her own and sadly, was just too weak. She collapsed on the bathroom floor… Nonno was first to run to her side, but he was unable to lift her. I stepped in and tried to figure out the most gentle way possible to lift and carry her back to her bed. At this phase of her illness, the cancer had spread throughout her body and her bones, so simply touching her, even gently, caused excruciating pain. I delicately grabbed her under her arms and carried her back to her bed. I can still recall the scream she made when I lifted her and with great care, placed her back in bed. Now requiring heavier doses of pain meds, her time on earth was quickly coming to an end.

Over several decades, Nonni worked in the Administration Office of The First Congregational Church of Old Greenwich. Her co-workers had put together a beautiful album, containing hand-written cards and notes from so many who loved her. Though she was barely coherent, the day after I had carried her back to bed I decided to read to her all of the cards and letters in the album. As I shared the profound love and adoration from so many of her admirers, Nonni seemed awakened. She actually perked up and smiled while I showered her with the deep affection expressed through the words in the album. Nonni passed away just 3 days later, on June 7, 1988. At 74 years old, she was taken far too soon.

That year I was living with a friend who had gotten engaged around the time Nonni had passed away. His fiance’ moved in with us and though the three of us got along well and shared many a great time, it didn't take long before it became clear - three was a crowd.

A few weeks after Nonni’s passing, Nonno asked me to move in with him. At 75, Nonno was extremely active and in relative good health. He certainly didn't require any type of assistance and, at 24 years old, my grandfather was not on my list of potential roommates! However, the more we talked the more it seemed like the right thing to do. And so in the summer of 1988, Nonno and I became roommates…I had no idea just how remarkable our time together would be!

The memories we created during the time we lived together are far too numerous for me to fully recount in a blog. In short and in an immensely ironic twist, the father of the guy who had left my family when I was just five years old, became not only a beloved grandfather in all the traditional ways a grandfather can become to his grandchildren...but, Nonno became my best friend! I discovered a man who thoroughly enjoyed people. Meeting new People. Engaging with old friends and connecting... always over food, wine and the sharing of respective stories. While he LOVED to entertain and play host, he never turned down an offer to attend a party, dinner or some type of gathering outside his home as well. Frankly, my Nonno's event calendar rivaled that of mine!

Not only was I an attendee at the many dinner-parties he hosted, but Nonno would always have me as his plus-1 whenever he was invited to other events. The experiences never disappointed and as odd as it might seem, as a young man in his mid-20's, I came to look forward to the next party hosted by Nonno, or, the next event we would attend!

On a beautiful early fall evening in early October 1992, now thirty years ago, I found myself sitting in New York’s JFK airport. I was with my wife Michelle, and Nonno.

Nonno and Nonni would travel back to Italy quite regularly over the years, visiting family and old friends. Growing up, my brothers and I would look forward to the post-Italy dinners at their home, as they would beautifully describe every detail of their visit. The passion and love for Chiavari and the region of Liguria were unmistakable.

When I had moved in with Nonno, he would often inform me of his intention to bring me with him to Italy "one day." Almost weekly, Nonno would call his family in Italy and when he did, I would pick-up the other phone and listen to the conversations, which consisted of very fast-paced Italian chatter, interrupted with many bursts of laughter!

Michelle and I were just over a year into our marriage and for me, just over a year of having spent the previous three living with one of the greatest men I ever knew – my Nonno. During the countless visits with Nonno growing up, as well as during the years we lived together, I would often marvel at his many works… Beautiful oil paintings. Volumes of original music and what seemed like a million pages worth of books he had authored.

He had graduated from the Bologna Music Conservatory in Bologna, Italy, specializing in the violin. A year later, in 1937, with his country being pushed in the direction of a conflict that would become World War 2, and in economic and social disarray from the actions of the awful fascist dictator, Benito Mussolini, Nonno made the decision to leave his home country and emigrate to America.

Nonni (Gina Bolzoni), who I have come to learn the surprising news that she and Nonno were actually cousins (Nonno's mother was Isolina Bolzoni, aunt to Nonni!), was born in Connecticut in February of 1914, as her parents had previously immigrated at the turn of the century.

They were married August 6, 1936 in the town where Nonno was born, La Spezia, Italy. After their marriage, Nonni returned home to Connecticut to await the arrival of Nonno, as he would soon begin the process of officially becoming an American citizen.

He crossed the Atlantic aboard the Italian ocean liner SS Rex, which departed from Genoa and arrived in New York City in March of 1937. Seven years later, in September of 1944 as the Rex was sitting off Trieste, Italy, along the Adriatic coast, she sank due to an attack from a Royal Airforce squadron of bombers...

With The Great Depression still delivering its’ full, crushing impact on America and especially New York City, Nonno still saw his new home country as a wide open field of possibilities.

He initially played his violin wherever he was able earn a buck or two. However, it wasn’t long before his talent became noticed by others, which led to his playing in bands throughout the Manhattan club scene.

In 1950, he was recruited to lead the orchestra at the prestigious Greenbrier Hotel in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, where he routinely played for world leaders, well-known socialites and famous Hollywood personalities. One of my favorite photos is of Nonno, playing the violin as he led the orchestra with Wallis Simpson and her husband, Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor, and Bob Hope and his wife all in the foreground enjoying his music.

In the early 70’s. Nonno assumed the role as the orchestra leader, playing the Palm Court at the world famous Plaza Hotel in New York City. This move brought him back to Connecticut where he and Nonni would settle in Old Greenwich. Nonno had become a highly respected and well-known violinist and composer, playing and composing for several top performers, including Nat King Cole, Jerry Vale and many others.

After squeezing in a lifetime of memories in that 3 year window in which we lived together, we were now about to board a plane that would take us to a land that gave birth to those who gave birth to the people who would later bring me into this world. It was surreal in so many ways. Having heard about Italy my entire life, listening to my grandparents recount their many visits back to see their family, I knew that one day I would get there. Even before we were married, Nonno would often inform Michelle and me of his intention to bring us to Italy on one of his many return visits. The anticipation as we sat in the gate area waiting to board our flight was almost too much to handle! Nonno was acting a little strange though… I just chalked it up to the excitement of the moment and the pride he felt in being able to bring his oldest grandchild to his homeland. 8 hours or so later, the sun was rising as we were making our descent into Rome. I remember looking out of the airplane window and seeing a landscape that in many ways, reminded me of northern California! We soon disembarked and enjoyed a 3 day tour of Rome that tourists would never receive. Nonno took us everywhere. We walked everywhere! And of course, he took us to his favorite, out of the way restaurants where taxi drivers would eat – “not the tourists!” he proudly proclaimed. I soaked in every second as the experience was more than I had ever imagined… On the 4th day, after making an early morning visit to a local market to stock up on some amazing panini’s and red wine, we boarded a train for a 5 hour ride north to Chiavari, Nonno’s hometown. The ride was absolutely stunning as we winded our way through mountains filled with granite and marble, and then twisting along the Mediterranean coast. Truly amazing… But, Nonno continued the odd behavior he had earlier displayed at JFK as Michelle later informed me that during the train ride, when I had fallen asleep (slipped into a coma from the panini and red wine would be a more appropriate description!), Nonno began to inform Michelle of certain personal matters… such as, where he kept a “few things” back at the home in Connecticut – “just in case.” We eventually arrived at a charming little train station in Chiavari. Greeted by Nonno’s (my) family, the hugs and kisses belied the fact that we had never previously met. It was as if we had known one another forever. Such warmth and love… Chiavari is a very small town, nestled at the foot of a large mountain range along the Mediterranean Sea – located in the heart of the Italian Riviera. At night, peering out from the gorgeous Chiavari boardwalk, you can see the glittering lights of Portofino just 10 miles to the north. After we walked to the hotel to check in, we rested for a short hour or so and then walked over to the home of Nonno’s sister. As we made a turn down a short, winding little street, we heard the beautiful sound of an angelic woman calling “Georgio!”, “Georgio!”… We looked up to see Maria, calling from a window in her home to her older brother she clearly loved so much. Maria and her husband, Pietro, hosted quite a party that evening… Nonno’s entire family was there and, though none of them could speak English and our Italian was less than sub-par, we all had a fantastic evening!

After dinner, Nonno, Pietro, Michelle and I took a stroll along the boardwalk. It was a perfect way to cap an amazing day. A day that, for years I had dreamed would one day come true. We finally said our good-bye’s and “Buona Sera’s” to everyone, and walked back to the hotel to call it a day. We decided we would meet in the hotel lobby at 9am the next morning. It was hard to fall asleep that night as the excitement from the thrills of the trip would not allow for it. So, I added a few passages to the diary Michelle and I were keeping since we first landed in Rome four days prior.

We eventually slipped into a much needed deep, peaceful sleep. Morning arrived and brought immense anticipation as we were to spend another day with family, as well as touring some of the local and regional sights.

At 9am Michelle and I left our room and were a little surprised to see that Nonno had not been first to arrive in the lobby. One of the many things I had come to admire about Nonno was his strong desire to always, ALWAYS be prompt. “Being tardy was rude”, he would steadily drill into my head. Each morning during the years we lived together, he was always first to awake. And by the time I had gotten up, showered and dressed, he would have breakfast on the table, clothes in the washing machine, lists of the day’s to-do’s and items to pick up at the grocery store scratched out on a piece of paper.

9am soon turned into 9:15 and still Nonno had not come down to the lobby. I called his room and received no answer. Now at 9:30, I knew something was just not right. The lobby clerk – a young girl who spoke no English, was having a difficult time comprehending my poor attempts at Italian. However, with the help of my translation book, I was eventually able to convince her that something might be wrong and we needed to get into my Nonno’s room. She retrieved a hotel worker and together, we walked up the stairs and knocked on the door… no answer. The man tried to use the hotel master key to unlock the door, however, Nonno’s key was in the door from inside the room and turned, preventing the master key from being able to unlock the door.

There was no other option but to take the door down. My mind was racing and I didn’t want to believe that something so terrible had happened that would prevent Nonno from coming to the door. I was hoping beyond all hope that the room would be empty and that perhaps, Nonno had gone for a lengthy walk. Maybe encountered some old friends and got lost in the conversation. Together, the man and I took the hinges off and gently moved the door to the side. There, on the floor cloaked only in a bathroom towel and leaning against his bed, was Nonno… dead. He died of heart failure that morning. It’s impossible to accurately depict the thoughts that instantly began rushing through my mind. Of course, being in a land – a town, where nobody speaks English… losing our guide and our sense of security, I immediately stepped into survival mode. It wasn’t until later that evening, after I had joined Nonno’s nephew to pick out the casket and then the clothes that Nonno would wear, now forever… after a meal with family I had never known and that somehow, some way involved more love and laughter than tears… later that night as Michelle and I were lying in bed, the full gravity of it all finally overwhelmed me. I cried. A lot. In fact, I really don’t believe I have cried like that since. The American Embassy determined that Nonno’s body was required to remain in Italy for a period of 10 days. And so my young cousin – Francesca, offered to take Michelle and I on a tour of northern Italy as the embassy processed their required documents.

After spending a full week with Francesca, visiting places such as Florence, Siena, Parma, Monte Carlo and Nice, France, we finally returned to Chiavari. That evening, a service was being held for Nonno in a centuries-old church, located on a mountainside overlooking the Mediterranean.

Among the many works Nonno had produced over the years were a series of oil paintings. They all possessed a very similar theme – majestic mountains gently caressing a white-capped sea, with a setting sun in the distance eclipsed by a few, colorful sails … Growing up I often wondered where he received this inspiration as this scene was certainly not a part of the Connecticut landscape.

Because we were family, the priest allowed us the chance to have our own, special last moment with Nonno in a private room in the back of the church prior to the main service. And so, as we were escorted up an exterior stone staircase that led to the room, Michelle suddenly tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to turn around to gaze out over the ocean. And there before my eyes was the scene Nonno must have witnessed thousands of times… a setting sun casting a beautiful light on the magnificent mountains that jutted into the Mediterranean, with a few sailboats catching their last wind home…a scene that remained with him all his life and the scene he would paint over and over again… An indescribably beautiful site that was no longer residing only in Nonno’s mind, as he had now gifted me with the memory that remains as vivid today as when I first saw the scene unfold, 30 years ago.

In the wake of Nonno's passing, I have become intimately connected to my family in Chiavari. The experience we all shared on October 12, 1992, and the ensuing week after Nonno's death, forged an iron-clad bond of pure love between us all. I have been able to travel to Chiavari on several occasions, each time creating new beautiful memories and further tightening a connection I feel so incredibly blessed to possess.

As I look back over the full arc of my life-story, from my earliest childhood memory of helping my dad pack a suitcase and standing at the doorway as he pulled out of the driveway, to somehow becoming roommates and best friends with his father, my Nonno... to finding myself in his homeland, with him when he died and now, closer to the age of 60 than 50, married to a woman I have dated for more than 40 years and father of three outstanding children... I am filled with a profound sense of gratitude and awe in the way God has held my hand through it all, leading me, shaping me during the highest highs and the most painful lows.

Of the countless lessons I've learned throughout my journey, by far the most enduring is the reality of Christ by my side - always. This reality has brought me immense peace - even when life has brought me to my knees - as well as unspeakable joy!

The hands of Christ are always extended... inviting us all to join in relationship with Him. So I pray that all of you can put down your swords and shields, and grab hold of the life-changing and life-giving hands of Jesus.

JC