The following first appeared in Young People’s Press.
The Tomato Seeds Of Tradition
Bocce ball in the park. Homemade wine. Rooting for the Azzurri during the World Cup.
These are time-honoured elements of the Italian-Canadian way of life, as natural to us as apple pie is to Americans.
But it seems some of these customs and traditions are starting to disappear.
The thought occurred to me one recent Sunday afternoon.
“You have no choice. You have to come,” my mother huffed.
It was that time again, a day I dread every year: The annual summer picnic held by our Italian social club.
Social clubs like the one my family belong to were initially developed to meet the needs of Italian immigrants. They provided a sense of community by bringing everyone together in a day of festivities.
As I made my way across the grassy park toward the picnic area I noticed that the crowd seemed smaller than usual.
Taking refuge in the shade of a green canvas tent, I couldn’t help wondering if down the road I would be taking my children to these social club picnics?
Probably not.
I sighed heavily.
I have to admit it, but as boring as these events can be, they are a large part of my heritage. And for that reason, they’re important to keep alive.
Much to my dismay, my dad approached and asked me to dance. Against my protests, he pulled me up and we started dancing.
I concentrated on getting the steps right, doing my best not to step on his toes.
As the song ended, I glanced at the elderly club members playing bocce. Others watched over large pots of pasta. There was little doubt the cooks were enjoying themselves. The smell of tomato sauce wafted over as it bubbled in the caldron.
“Julie, gli spaghetti sono pronti!” my Aunt shouted. [“Julie, the spaghetti is ready!”]
“Vieni a prenderli!” [Come and get it!]
I jumped up and grabbed my five-year-old nephew and together we made our way over.
We were stopped by family friends who asked him, “Quanti anni hai?” [“How old are you?”]
I told him to answer, but when he didn’t respond, I realized it was because he didn’t understand even a bit of Italian.
Speaking the language is central to preserving the Italian community and culture. Yet an increasing number of second and third generation Italian Canadians are losing what little Italian they know and understand.
“Mommy, when can we go?” my nephew asked. “I’m bored and I don’t know how to play bocce or sing these songs!”
I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. Generations to come might never learn to appreciate what came before them or what it really means to be Italian Canadian.
And I’m quickly becoming part of this equation.
Soon I’ll have to brace myself for another family tradition making tomato sauce. For as long as I can remember, I’ve taken part in peeling, cutting, boiling and jarring the tomatoes.
A process that can take several days.
I wonder if I will make time to carry on this tradition when I have a family. With a career and the demands of a busy life, I somehow doubt it.
>>Back to the introduction to Roots
by Julie Saccone 
But today such events are dwindling as second-generation Italian youth grow up and assimilate into Canadian society.
The radio blasted a familiar old song I’ve come to associate with these gatherings. The lyrics are hard-wired in my mind: “Sono Italiano...colla ghitarra in mano” [“I’m Italian ...with the guitar in my hand”].