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The town had already taken its first steps towards rebuilding itself from the damage caused by the war, but the work was still progressing slowly. Now people were working in the fields for agricultural production and on the construction on new roads; therefore, they were making some money and could afford to rebuild their houses. Agriculture was the source of jobs for the entire village, including women who had never worked outside their homes. The forests were thinned out over time by over use and the workers were assiduously trying to restore everything planting new trees seed by seed. The available work was seasonal work and allowed workers to take care of their own land as well. My parents hired workers and laborers to help them with their business in public work projects as well as restoring the family properties. Among the workers, there was Rosino, a boy from one of the poorest families in the village. Rosino had grown up without a father and with a family made up of himself, his two sisters and his mother. To help his family, he would do anything, from working in the fields to carpentry. He was a hard worker and was always the first one to show up in the morning and the last one to leave. People loved him and he would do anything people asked of him. My father really liked him and so he asked him to oversee the other workers. Rosino spent his mornings with a pick and shovel on his shoulder, whistling and singing. His hair was dark and he had deep black eyes. When he arrived at the front of our house, he would stop to gather and organize all the tools necessary for the work for that day and would load them onto the truck. Then he would get his pick and shovel, probably the only things of value that he owned, and would scream, “Boss, I am going to get moving”. Then he would start on his way to the job site. My father smiled whenever he heard him do this. He walked away whistling his head held high with his chest out. In contrast, the other workers waited for my father to go and hopped on his truck to get a ride with him. Along the way, they would normally catch up with Rosino and my father would stop the truck to pick him up as well, but he would make a sign with his hand to tell my father that he would keep going on foot. Rosino oversaw the work and the workers. Not everyone was happy with his success. My father had promised to teach him how to drive a truck and he couldn’t be happier. He said that when he knew how to drive, he would take complete responsibility for the work and transportation. After some time, Rosino emigrated to America too. I see him at our meetings all the time and he reminisces with me about those times so long ago, remembering those days as the most wonderful days of his youth. He says, “Delia, I had a good job thanks to your father, I respected him immensely. I was making enough money to provide for my family and I was even able to think about my future. What more could I have asked for?” Then, with his funny way of saying things, and knowing my love for homemade wine, he offers me a glass of his. Maria, his wife and my friend, looks at us and laughs.
 Delia Socci Skidmore