An page from my new book: The Only Father I've Ever Know: How My Grandfather's Love Taught Me Life

I thought I would share with you a small page from my book, The Only Father I’ve Ever Known, How My Grandfather’s Love Taught Me Life. The piece below describes when I am trying desperately to find this WWII diary, left to me upon my grandfather’s death, in a small, dusty storage unit. I know the diary is there and I am determined to find it but at the same time I am completely broken inside based on the events in my life at this point.

The book is about a transformation journey I take with the diary as my catalyst. It also illustrates my grandfather, an Italian immigrant who was a soldier fighting for our freedom in N. Africa. I hope you like it!


Book Page Excerpt:

I pushed aside the boxes that I had already searched through and plopped down on the cold concrete floor. I was exhausted, but I pulled forward to reach a small brown box. As I ripped off the tape with one hand, I took a giant swig of my water in the other to relieve my throat of the dry dust that had accumulated. The box revealed the smell of musty old papers. A dusty grit covered most of the contents inside the box, but there was a white plastic bag that seemed to be undisturbed. I blew off the dust and unzipped the plastic bag that had preserved it all these years. There is was—the little black diary. The front cover was a simple impression of a camel looking up to what resembled a palm tree with words on either side of it. Onestinghel Tripoli. The title of the front of the diary was in English: Agenda 1943-XXI. The months were written in Italian.

I looked at it for a while wondering whether or not I was ready to embark on this journey at this point in my life. I pressed my right hand against the diary hoping its strength would run through my bloodstream. I rubbed my fingers across the camel’s back hoping this diary contained the healing power I needed to pull my life together. I grabbed the diary forcefully and pressed it against my heart. I felt connected to the book as if it had magically entered my body and was beating new life inside me.

I flipped through the pages reading a few of the entries from 1943. The historical pages began releasing a part of my grandfather that I never knew existed. A part of his life that had been closed off to his family intrigued me, and I had to learn more. I pressed the diary harder into my heart to feel that connection with my grandfather again. My jeans were covered in dirt as a spider made his way up my leg to find his home. As the sun dimmed on that cold New York Saturday afternoon, I felt resurrected by the hope that my newfound 64-year-old gift would heal my deepest wounds.


You can find out more about my book by emailing me at garofalorobin@gmail.com. My next post will be more focused on my grandfather as a soldier in WWII.