From the time I was a young girl, I loved hearing the story of Luigi Lo Dico of Sicily. When Luigi was only two years old, his father went in search of a better life in America for la famiglia. It would be 10 long years before the family was able to join him, making passage on a cattle ship, the stench awful. I know that detail because the Sicilian boy, Luigi, grew up to be my dad.
Dad didn’t talk much about the years of waiting to see his father again, or how hard it was to leave his childhood home, or coming to America by way of Philadelphia in 1921 without knowing a word of English. But he often shared fond memories of the rolling hills and grazing
