When I was a kid, I often walked 2 miles from our home to my grandmother’s house. Sometimes I walked there because I was delivering something from my mother.

What amazed me is that no matter what time I arrived, my grandmother told me to sit at her kitchen table so she could dish out a big bowl of pasta for me. I would never turn that down. They didn’t call me “spaghetti bender” for nothing.

Sure, spaghetti was my favorite meal and I relished every dish, even what was served in the school cafeteria. To me, there was no such thing as bad spaghetti. But my grandmother’s spaghetti was in a class by itself.

Everyone in my Italian family was a good cook, and we all took special pride in serving our version of pasta. But no one’s spaghetti could come close to what my grandmother made.

What amazed me was no matter what time I visited, she had a pot of her spaghetti sauce simmering on the coal stove. There was nothing she liked better than feeding anyone who came on the door.

She didn’t speak very good English and I didn’t know much Italian. But we managed.

I was determined to learn how she made her specialty dishes. When she was telling me how to make homemade noodles, she told me with her heavy accent to add “a fist-a full” of flour.

“But grandmam, your fist is much bigger than mine,” I protested.

“Then make it two fist-a-fulls,” she said.

Her big goal was to pass her citizenship exam. I liked working with her to help her memorize the answers and hoped the examiner could understand her heavy accent. But grandmam didn’t worry about much.

One day I walked into her house to see that she had a big table set for company. My grandfather had invited the county judges and staff.

I was horrified when I saw no two dishes matched. And some well-used dishes had cracks in them. When I tried to get her to change the dishes, she said, “They are coming to eat my food, not to rate my dishes.”

I wished I could be as laid back as she was.

But what I wish even more was that I had asked her to tell me more about her years in Squillace in Southern Italy. The only thing she told me about her hometown was that it was a poor area. When I got to visit there many years later I was shocked to see the beauty of the ancient village sitting high on a hill. The view of the Ionian Sea is spectacular.

So many times over the years since she passed away I find myself wanting to know more that only she could tell me. But I never thought to ask until it was too late.

Last month when I had a happy reunion with the grandsons I had not seen for years I remembered how I didn’t get to hear my grandmother’s stories.

I realized the same would be true of my grandsons. Because we’ve always lived so far apart they never got to hear my stories and surely didn’t know much about me.

They know me only as Nonna, someone who smiles and applauds when I go to their concerts. How I wish I had time to tell them more.

About 10 years ago, I told the boys the gift I wanted from them was nothing material. Instead, I wanted each one to separately go to lunch with me so we could truly get to know each other. We had some memorable lunches I loved until they went to college and I moved even further away.

During my recent vacation with my grandsons I told them I was sad they never got to know my father. I told them my dad was a hero, someone who quit school in fifth grade to work in the mines. He needed to earn money to help feed his widowed mother.

During one of his days working in the mines he was sent above ground to pick up a generator. While he was gone there was an explosion in the mine. My dad heard the screams of his brother Chick as he burned to death while dad was powerless to help.

He told me no man went in the mines because he wanted to. He went because he had to earn a living.

When I was a girl, my father would often come home from working in the mines too tired to take off his boots. My job was to help pull off his boots. I never forgot how much my dad had to endure to support his family.

I contrasted that kind of life with the life of privilege that today’s kids have. If they aren’t happy at work they quit. My grandkids didn’t understand why my father stayed in the mines. They didn’t understand why I wanted them to hear those stories.

I told them the time might come when they might wonder about the family stories.

My wish for you is that you get to share some of your family stories.

Stories can help us understand our family and teach us about our roots.