The year was 1967. My grandfather, with his wife and daughter — my mother — arrived in Vancouver. Arriving from a small town in Sicily and not knowing a word of English is quite a daunting task. It was just what my grandfather felt needed to be done, as he searched for a better life for his family for generations to come.
In Italian, the word for grandfather is “Nonno”. I have only ever called my grandfather by this name, and doubt he would even respond if I said the word “grandpa” to him. For the duration of this article, I will refer to him by this name, as I have for my entire life.