A hundred years ago my grandmother Viola Perin Trigiani was 15 years old. She was already working full-time as a forelady in a pants factory in Bangor, Pennsylvania. She was the eldest of six children and grew up on a farm in Delabole, Pennsylvania.

Her father, my great grandfather whom I remember with affection, looked like Gepetto from the Pinocchio story. He spoke with a beautiful Italian accent. His wife Giuseppina died young at 42 and he raised their children alone. His youngest daughter Lavinia told me she never remembered another woman in his life, but that the loss of his beloved wife didn’t turn him bitter. Instead, he poured himself into his work.