Yes, I do have Family in Sicily...
My Grandfather came to America around the turn of the century from Biscaquino Sicily. He met my Grandmother in New Orleans, married and moved to Los Angeles.
Every Sunday the entire family, their youngest daughter, my mother, and her three older sisters would gather at Papa Joe’s house for a full Italian dinner. Their one and only son, Tony moved to St. Joseph, MO. The rest of the family including all my cousins were there every Sunday.
We all lived very close to one another and at times right next door to each other. Since I was the youngest of all the grandkids, I spent more time with my Italian grandparents than anyone else. They always shared stories about Sicily, especially my grandfather. He was very proud of the area he was from and the people he left. 
He would tell me stories of how the animals lived downstairs and the people lived upstairs.
All the time we were talking he was preparing pasta, sauce, pork roast, meatballs. I learned so much more than I would have ever dreamed at that young age. It was my goal in life to visit the village he was from and in 2004, my wife and I went to Biscaquino for a short one day visit. I met a gentleman that introduced us to a guide in Biscaquino. Andrew Montalbano lived in New Orleans, but loved the village of Biscaquino.
We were lucky enough to find the home my grandfather was born in and to see the town square, however we were on a tight schedule and were unable to look up anyone with the same last name of Marsolo.
This June we returned and stayed a week in Sciacca, Sicily, only 45 minutes from my grandfather’s town.
My friend Andrew was staying in Biscaquino for a few months and said he had the time to show us around. In fact he did a detailed family history for me but was unable to find any relatives. But he did find some with the same last name and we were scheduled to meet them.
Picture of Chief Joe, age five,
taken with his family in 1952
On our first day we visited the cemetery and found many graves with the Marsolo sir name. We really did not know if they were relatives, but it was very interesting and many names matched those in my family history.
I showed Andrew a few pictures I brought from my grandfathers last visit in 1952. The pictures included his sister Rosalia, and I would guess her children. I scanned a few other pictures that he had in a photo album, and brought with me a little note book he had with some names and street names.
The note book had a street name of Via Garibaldi in Campofiorito. This town was just a few miles north of Biscaquino. After a great lunch Andrew drove us to Campofiorito and we found the street. Just for fun we asked an elderly lady if she knew anyone in the picture... Remember this picture was taken 56 years ago!
I also had a name of Marie Oddo Bono. Luckily Andrew speaks Italian. The lady said “No,” but wait... She asks someone else down the street. They too look at the picture and said “No,” but wait... Well this went on with a few more people who were also shown the picture, and probably thought we were crazy inquiring about people after 56 years.
Then all of a sudden a very good looking older lady in her seventies walks down the street towards us. She asks what we are looking for, so I show her a picture of my grandfather’s sister Rosalia.
Chef Joe and wife Valery
picking cherries in Italy
She looks at the picture and becomes very pale. She looks at me, looks back at the picture, then back at me with a stunned look on her face. “Mi Mamma,” she said as she pointed to the photo.
I could not believe what I heard. I asked, “Pardon me.” She responded, “Mi Momma.” Then she looks at a picture of my grandfather and said “Zio Pepe” (Uncle Joe). I tell her that is my Nonno (Grandfather).
She almost faints and so do I.
Personally, I was holding back tears! Could this really be true, this is my cousin, my Aunt Rosalia’s daughter?
She insists we follow her to her house. There in her home on her mantel is the same picture of my Aunt Rosalia.
Oh my God I thought, this really is my cousin.
She picks up the phone and starts yelling at someone, then dials again, and again and again. All of sudden 4 other ladies, one older than the next, come to the home. They all look at the pictures and I could not believe what they said.
This was the last picture taken with their mother Rosalia. To make this even more unbelievable, the oldest one Maria, is the daughter of my grandfather’s brother Antonio. She is 87-years-old, and visiting her son in Campofiorito. She lives in Milan with her other son. I had brought a picture of her with her father and mother; she holds the picture kissing it.
As they look at all the pictures I had brought they even recognize the picture of my grandfather’s parents, their grandparents.
Port of Sicacca,Sicily
The first Maria says her grandfather passed away in her home when he was 95-years-old.
Yes, I had found my Sicilian Family...
I then show a note book that came from my grandfather. He had purchased an accordion in 1952 for my older brother, and in the little book was a diagram of the accordion. Cousin Maria goes to her cabinet and reveals a picture that my grandfather had sent to her. There in the picture is my mother, all my aunts and cousins, my grandfather, and my brother with the accordion and me, at 5-years-old. There in Sicily in a very small town was a picture of me and my American family!
The next few days were outstanding meeting all my new family, their husbands, children and grandchildren. Sharing the few other pictures I had brought, and seeing the copies of the originals in their home. I learned about family history and heard stories, and like true Italians they brought out cookies, coffee, fresh cherries and could not feed us enough. Watching them I saw my mother and all my aunts once again interacting with each other, yelling then laughing. My only regret was I could not speak Italian, but the funny thing was I could understand them with no problem.
Now when I am asked if I have family in Sicily, I no longer say “Maybe,” I proudly say “Yes, I have lots of family in Sicily.”
On a personal note, I must thank Andrew Montalbano for all his help and being my interpreter. He has changed my life forever. I have been given strict orders from my cousins to return in the next few years, and I must learn to speak “my” language. This is a promise I will not break. There is so much more to tell, but then I would be writing a book and maybe that will come at a later date.