By Paul de la Peña-Franceschi

We celebrated Christmas of 1968 with my maternal grandfather, Babbo. This was the best Christmas I can remember in my short yet full life, for it was the last time that I would see my grandfather alive.
Eugenio Pietro Guido Franceschi was born in Florence, Italy, as was my mother. They lived a good life between World War I and World War II. Like hundreds of thousands of others from Europe, they lost most of their possessions and had to flee Italy during the war. My mother told us stories about her childhood, which were so vivid that they seemed a mix of fact and fiction. They lived with relatives in England and France and eventually came to America on the Queen Mary (the last trip across the Atlantic). Her stories were always animated and left us wanting more.
In 1988, I had the opportunity to see where my mother was born, for in those days if you knew a family doctor, or your father was a doctor, you could be born at home. The address is Number 9 Via Tournobouni, which means the good troubadour. Today it still exists and sits in the middle of the business district in the heart of Florence. At that location there are two blocks of Gucci shops with Armani across the street.
This visit was historic for me, because I was finally able to connect with my grandfather, who would sing Italian arias in the kitchen while he prepared meals. He used to say, "The pasta is not ready until it sticks to the wall." My mother told me that he sang in the Italian minor opera. So since I can remember, I would try to match pitch with "Babbo," as he was affectionately named by my mother, when I would try to sing. Not only did I start singing, but this gave my dad the opportunity to dress my brothers and me up in choir gowns and have us sing Christmas carols at the local parish. From those early days until now, I have continued singing and continue to sing in the church.
Life was simpler back then. My little brother had just been born, and he was the new blessing in the family. His name was Patrick, named after St. Patrick. At last I had a little brother to play with. We remain good friends to this day and he will be standing in my wedding in March 2004.
My grandfather was very exacting and refined. I remember him teaching me how to swing a golf putter in the backyard of my dad's house. This was another great gift I received from my grandfather. His character was something that I always wanted to know more about. Unfortunately, Babbo died that Christmas in the first week of December. I know that for my mom and my uncle, it was very sad, but for me I held in my heart the joyful times that we shared around the dinner table, watching him cook, listening to him sing, and learning how to swing a putter.
My grandfather Franceschi was a great man, having fought in both world wars with the Italian army, a prisoner of war for three years on the island of Malta, his life-long work as a surgeon in urology which is still implemented at Johns Hopkins University, and published books in Siena, Rome, and Venice. I only wish I had more time to get to know more of this extraordinary man. Christmas of 1968 was a good year, and Babbo will always be in my heart. He once said, "Let your mind steer, and let your heart run wild." Without good common sense and courage the heart cannot be tamed.