Cowboy of Verona, (continued)

A Zorzi homecoming, with the Cowboy and Mrs. Cowboy at center

(cont'd from Communications Newsletter Vol. 17 No. 1) ... We get close and I see about twenty of my relatives (or I am assuming they are my relatives), waving yet more small American and Italian flags. My wife, with absolutely not a drop of Italian DNA in her, turns to me and whispers in my ear,” I am going to get you for this.” We get out, and meet the crowd, trying to, remember as many names as we can. We hug and kiss and try and get with some of the young ones there that spoke fairly good English. I had no idea that there were going to be that many relatives there, and I was counting on my basic knowledge of Italian to get me by. But the words were flying fast and furiously, and I had no idea what the hell was going on. We went into the house and had some espresso--not from a machine but hand made on a stove, the best. My cousin and my great uncle next tell me that they want to take my wife and me somewhere, a short ride from his house. So off we go.

And as we are driving I notice the tone has changed to a very somber level and my cousin tells me about the area we are in, the region of Veneto (Vapolicella), one of the finest wine producing regions in Italy. It is also the place where the eight Zorzi brothers worked the land, planted vines and harvested the grapes. We approach a large beautiful villa, and the gates opened for us. I ask my great uncle Ernesto, who was travelling with us, where we are, and he tells me that this is where the eight Zorzi brothers were born and raised, one of whom was my grandfather, Angelo Zorzi. I was on hallowed ground. And I was beginning to feel something very spiritual about this place. You see, I was very ,very close to my grandfather while growing up, and this unexpected trip proved to be a very emotional experience for me. The family who now owned the villa was very kind, and welcomed us inside. Uncle Ernesto showed me the very room where my Grandfather was born, and the section of villa where he lived. The land of Veneto is primarily all vineyards, with some olive trees, basically the same as it was when my grandfather lived and worked the land. I reached down and grabbed a handful of soil, thinking, “This very earth could have been worked and planted by my beloved grandfather.” There was a small church about a half a mile away, where all eight brothers were baptized and went to church. We spent about two hours there, walking through the vineyard and listening to the tremendous stories of my great uncle and my cousin.

There is not a working winery here anymore, but the twenty acres still produce some outstanding grapes which are worked by some of the major wine producers in Italy. The gentlemen who owned the villa was kind enough to give me a bottle of Amarone wine from the very soil -- and maybe second generation vines -- that my Grandfather and his brothers worked and planted. He invited me back, and it was about this time we had to leave. And so after a very emotional good bye and thank you we were on our way back to the house.

Now, recall I told you that there were twenty-ish  Zorzis waiting for me when we first arrived.  But when we get back to the house after this outing we were now greeted by fifty two more American and Italian flag waving Zorzis!  I thought I had just scored the winning goal for the Italian World Cup team. I was so honored and humbled that these relative, most of whom I’d never met, would go to this extent for me.
We drank more wine, and then they told me that we were going to lunch, all 52 of us. They had taken over a small local restaurant within viewing distance of the villa, where the Zorzi brothers were born. The restaurant was set up as if we were at a wedding, with my wife and me at the head table. I was absolutely blown away. Then again, there was a whisper in my ear from my wife.

They had an eight course meal prepared of all Northern Italian foods. We toasted the family, ate, toasted the family, ate some more, get the picture. This went on all afternoon. Then, we moved the party back to my great uncle Ernesto’s home.  There was more wine and many tables of homemade Italian deserts. There was a friend of one cousin there who played an electric piano and an accordion. We sang traditional northern Italian songs, and then a version of an Alpini song that my grandfather would sing to me when I was a youngster. Way, more emotion now. The eating and drinking continued long into the evening, but it was about this time that Chris and I had to leave. After many goodbyes and exchanges of email addresses we were on our way back to Venice.  I was truly overwhelmed and greatly humbled by this experience.  To think that this was all done on my behalf was something that will forever be with me. And the best part is that I have almost the entire day documented on video. So every now and then I can make my way back to this special day in Verona, Italy.     

I know there are a lot of industry youngsters out there reading this. All I can say is to suggest you get with your grandparents , if you are fortunate enough to have them with you, and with your parents, aunts and uncles. Get as much family history as you can. Spend time with them. Enjoy them. Listen to their stories. Then go out and meet your extended families wherever they are. And write it all down. Do it now, don’t wait. One day you will be glad you did.

Ciao,
The Cowboy