possible outline of the book

Interview of several live on recorder of life growing up with Italian immigrants in the seattle renton area. Life during world war two being Italian, struggles, discrimination, accomplishments of being first born Americans.Life now. My experience of knowing these people, or first hand impressions. As one person is a family member the others are ones i just recently have found.My own journey of finding my Italian roots.

following names:
Mildred "Anarde" Ainardi Cooper
Mario Tonda
Joe "buddy" Paricelli
Annie Riffero Frank

and either Bill Belmondo or.... who i don't know but my grandfather did, Remo Borracchini

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

I've been thinking immensely about people and when our time expires. My time is running out, all of ours. Every time i look in the mirror my face and body reflects days and years of passed happiness and sorrow. Death is upon me. The news of my father with cancer is the biggest smack to my own mortality. I am my father, as i type i can look down at my hands and i see his in mine.Sometimes when i smile i feel his face on mine, the other day a old friend of his that i spoke to online who had never met me, told me i was his twin.I feel the death approaching. This isn't all that bothers me, it's been a long curse on my family, my dads brother sits at home with his 89 year old mother paralyzed on one side from a stroke and left almost completely blind. My grandmother was the strong one, the one who was a Rosie during ww2 at Boeing grew a family , a home and still had a huge garden until last year. Death has approached her.Tonight the woman i've only heard cry twice in my 28 years , called me in almost tears to tell me her best friend Norma died her memorial was today. Grandma told me she was tired and was ready to go somewhere else.Shes too proud to ask for answers but i know she wants them.



There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends

Shel Silverstein