My Grandfather. He immigrated to the US from Italy alone, at the age of 12. His dad was a State Policeman, and some how grandpa was one step above slave in an olive orchard. After a year, he could tell which ships were headed to the USA. He became a stowaway on a steel hulled three masted sailing vessel. He got caught after a day at sea, and wound up doing climbs up to the topsails in good and bad weather. He also would get duty as cabin boy. His plan fell apart. The ship went to Cuba, not the US. Grandpa stayed on the ship for a couple of Italy -Cuba runs, before he jumped ship in NYC. His stories of life onboard ship, up in the topsails during storms, in particular, I just could not get enough of. Before all was said and done, he owned two Italian restaurants in our home town, he was an insurance investigator for what is now Met Life. When my mom died, 9 mos after I was born, my dad put me up for adoption. Grandpa stepped in and they raised me until I was about five, after dad had remarried. Every chance he got, he would take me for walks, and without fail, old Italian men would call and wave to Grandpa, "Hey Gumba ". They would sit on the porch, talk and drink wine. the lady of the house would fill me with ice cream, cookies. play with their grand kids, and then we would walk back home. He was very popular, and would serve as a sponsor for new Italians coming to the US. He would set them up in one of his houses, get the man a job, and would translate in court for the Italian community. Grandpa was owed many favors. I miss him to this day. I wish I could have spent even more time with him. He was my hero.