She was whisked away, by her new-found love, into a new world of inquisitive customs, a strange language and an altogether challenging “vita”.

“Mamma sei tanto felice . . .”

Now, almost fifty-five years later, I must pay homage to this heroine – which is mine, and very probably yours- also.

Alone, she guided me across the rhythmic Atlantic. Diligently, she surveyed each of my toddler steps as I crested the waves on a rudimentary ocean liner. A vast machine, which I later learned in life, was worthy in escorting us safely into harbor. Nonetheless, our Halifax port landing welcomed her fragile spirits, symbolically waving “Arrivederci!” to its weary passengers. “Ecco noi qui…” at this exciting new land called: “Canada”.

Since that day, August 8, 1955, her heroic saga evolved. She persevered language struggles, cultural differences and addressed each obstacle with the maternal strength innate to all immigrant Mothers and wives. With time, patience and relentless stamina, she suppressed heart-wrenching tears, secret sadnesses and excruciating loneliness. Her young infant, baby child gave her the will to survive, the will to go on, and the reason “to will”.

The immigrant wife knew how to turn the first, meager, wooden structure she inhabited into “una vera casa Italiana”. The cozy kitchen, laced with porcelain heirlooms, bragged of green, white and red pride. Tea towels revered visitors with endeared invitations of “cappuccino, café latte . . . la vita bella”. In this reception area, it often brimmed with my favorite familiar aromas of “una bella minestrina, un sugo di pomodoro, fungi e polenta – con vitello nel forno”. Atop her busy stove, she nurtured a familiar process, after my Father concocted a contraption fitted with a copper “torbina”. The goal? “Grappa”. As Monday rolled into the end of the week, her “home-made goof” enticed her to transform into a happier “giddy” state as it augmented in potency – much to the satisfaction of my Father and his friends. Her seemingly magical abilities thrived in this “cucina” as an auspicious celebration of the true Italian family meal, including its reverence and importance, in our daily routine. An elegant, hand-embroidered, lace table cloth was the back-drop for our meal. It high-lighted brilliant, fragrant, home-grown bouquets of flowers, a ceramic plate of abundant, freshly harvested “insalata” and delicately, grated“parmigiano” (which-, if I was good, she would cut me a thimble-sized morsel). Little did I know back then of the cost this delicacy entailed; but, this prize was always offered. “E non dimenticare il vino buono!” We must never forget the home-made wine, swirled with the exact sequence of “coka-cola!” Smile. . . “Vestirsi ai gusti degli altri; mangiare al gusto suo!” Each day, I sat indulgently at this feast, not realizing the ultimate sacrifices made by- and hours spent by- my precious Mother. She not only seasoned and flavored our food with her inspiring aura- but also, carefully lifted our spirits, filling our home with the melodies instilled by her own Mother. Now these memories were a figment of “her” far away, distant homeland of Treviso, Italia. Only “she” cradled the secret pining of her heart string’s yearnings to be “there”, yet mending these pains by forging towards a new life “here”.

She was a professional seamstress by trade, having acquired her skills in the Italian educational milieu of her homeland. Her nimble fingers would transform hand-me-downs offered by neighboring women as bartering payments for meticulously perfect, hand-sewn repairs and garments. Meager dollars had not yet provided her a sewing machine; the Sears “Singer” model was earned later. I sweetly recall the unique and original dresses, smocks and matching outfits she confectioned for me as I proudly strutted to my one-room school house in the quaint village of Morewood. These “child” designs gave me the self-confidence to fit in, with a unique style all my own; graced with the characteristics of my Italian heritage. With each loving stitch, sewed with brio, in lace, trimmings and creativity, she transmitted the essence of who I was then: “nothing less than those around me; everything more I was intended to become”. She secured in me, the courage to stand up for myself: in originality, in intelligence and in human compassion towards others. These patterns are still perpetuated in the fabric of her life and seventy-nine year old stiffening fingers today. She remains a true artist in her trade.

My Father’s talents enabled him to fabricate master pieces from wooden scraps. My Mother was his volunteer sander, polisher, finishing painter and critic. She moved heavy equipment, ran machines, earned her driver’s license enabling her to deliver, be taxi and run endless job-related errands. She existed as his unequivocal moral support, sustaining his need for making extra money to “save” and “provide” for the building of their “own” home. A haven they so desperately wanted to own. This was the “immigrant way”: to work hard; to save; to survive – relentlessly.

English was hard. She had to act her needs out, using actions, without embarrassment, when attending the corner store for groceries and supplies. The accent was obvious- the determination to learn- greater. Broken sentences, with verb completions missing, gave way to an improved vocabulary as the desire for friendship and company developed into a need for acceptance. Life was a daily challenge to survive whether financial, social or against Winter’s furies. Snow for me was a glistening blanket of white cotton candy. For my Mother, it was a bone-chilling, frigid impediment that aggravated her trek to the, now obsolete, outhouse. Here, personal courage was indeed tested.

All the reactions to these obstacles remained silent. She never complained. She was excessively grateful and extra-ordinarily optimistic. I never heard her cry, although today, I know she did- of loneliness, of the nostalgia felt by the immigrant solitude. She left behind her own “Mamma”, family, friends, country – to begin “one” altogether new, unknown.

Today, in 2009, she has proudly emerged to accomplish the immigrant wife’s and Mother’s dreams. She has helped build, pay for and maintain, with her deceased husband’s strong hands and expertise- two lavish homes. She has raised two kind, university-educated loving daughters. Her grand-son has followed “Nonna’s” creative leads as an educator and fashion designer. Her grand-daughter shares “Nonna’s” love of baking scrumptious “biscotti”. Her son-on-law does not hesitate to endear her as “Mamma-Lina”. This woman expresses herself quite fluently and confidently in English and Italian; sharing jokes that are minced with expressions of her own poetic license. Her manipulation of herbs and spices tantalizes and tempts our palates to this day, anticipating the “pranzo e cena alla casa di Mamma”.

She is proud . . . with reason, She is beautiful . . . inside and out, She is strong . . . beyond limitation, She is “Mamma” . . . like no other, in the truest sense of the word.

I pay homage to her, Cara Lina Marcellina Casagrande Sartor, and to each and every one of your Mothers. I am certain they have quested on similar sagas, each in their own heroic way. Included in these intentions, are fervent regards for the very, dear Mothers who have danced their way into Heaven’s realm and watch carefully and lovingly over each of their children whether they be young or wisely older. We all pay sincere tribute: to their tenacity, their bravery, their magnificence, their poise, their values, their accomplishments, their “love of life” – their love.

They are our “heart of hearts” and the “heart of our hearths”. They have gifted us with their legacy. As immigrant prodigies, we humbly pray:

“Grazie. Cara Mamma, ti ringrazio . . . ti amo . . . per sempre!”