Foster family letters trace Italian family’s rise from poverty to prosperity
by H.E. Kamiya
I was young, single and well employed in 1961, racing sports cars and partying, in near equal portions. Then, for reasons long forgotten, I decided to give up smoking. To demonstrate my resolve, I chose to give my cigarette money to a charitable cause. I contacted the Foster Parent’s Plan (FPP); for $15 a month, I could be a foster parent to a needy child in a foreign country. They assigned me to six-year old Francesca Sanna, who lived in the remote mountain village of Bitti on the Italian island of Sardinia. Her mother was widowed, and barely supporting two young daughters by taking in laundry.
Monthly letter exchanges began; FPP translating mine into Italian and Francesca’s into English. Periodic photos of Francesca always showed her unsmiling with eyes downcast. FPP forwarded half of my monthly check to the family plus provided them with necessities such as shoes, clothes, vitamins, and bedding, as well as annual physical exams. I occasionally sent gift packages, always including toys that were popular in America.
By 1964, Francesca was writing letters in careful third-grade printing addressed to “Carissimo Padrino,” Dearest Godfather. I decided it was time for my “coming of age” wandering of Europe on my own for five weeks. One of my stops was to visit Francesca on Sardinia. I checked in at the FPP office in Rome, and was given instructions to her home.
I took a train from Rome to the port of Civitavecchia, then a seven-hour overnight boat to the Sardinian port of Olbia, and finally, a two-hour bus ride to the town of Nuoro. There I contacted a lady who was a local representative for FPP and, importantly, spoke English. She drove me to Bitti, a small village in the parched hills of central Sardinia, not worthy of mention on many maps.
We went to Francesca’s family home, two small rooms up a narrow flight of stairs, and had lunch. Francesca, now nine years old, was so shy she hardly ever spoke and kept her eyes cast down. Her answers to queries were short and barely audible. We spent the afternoon visiting with the family and driving around the village taking photos. The FFP worker told me later that they probably pooled together the best furniture of their neighborhood for my visit, and used a significant portion of a weekly food budget for the lunch. That evening I retraced my steps to Rome to continue my European wanderings.
Several years after my visit, FPP decided Italy had adopted adequate welfare measures, and their services were no longer needed there. I chose to continue my support of Francesca on my own. This meant that I had to write my letters in Italian; Francesca’s school didn’t offer English. Letter exchanges slowed to every six months or so.
There was no high school in Bitti. When Francesca graduated from middle school, I increased my support so her family could move to a nearby town and Francesca could attend high school. Still no English ws offered. She graduated with a certificate which qualified her to be an elementary school teacher’s aide. Her letters were now being written in a casual cursive hand, which was especially difficult to read.
I had married and had two children. Several times I offered to pay to have her visit us in California for a few weeks in the summer, but she always refused, saying her mother needed her. I’m sure she was apprehensive about traveling here without speaking English and visiting someone she’d only met once as a child.
Francesca grew up to be an attractive young lady, slim and fair complexioned. Not surprisingly, a young man from a neighboring village who saw her at a festival, wooed her and won her heart. His family owned land so Francesca and husband Melchiorre settled on a farm in Chiaramonti. Soon children came into their lives: Tony, Ernesta, and Paulo. Judging from the occasional photos, their farm was prospering, and from Francesca’s letters, she seemed to be very happy with her life.
In 1985, I decided to show my wife and two children, ages 17 and 14, the Europe that I had so enjoyed 21 years before. We planned to spend three days in Rome and thought it would be nice to have Francesca and her family meet us there, since none of them had ever been on the mainland before. I sent them funds to fly, another first for them, spending a weekend as Rome tourists, then having dinner with us and passing the evening chatting. I hired a man at our hotel to act as interpreter over dinner at a local restaurant and for the evening crowded into our hotel room. With the four Kamiyas and the five Burrais, the interpreter was kept busy.
Francesca’s life seemed fulfilled. Melchiorre built a new house for her. Her son, Tony, graduated from high school and wanted to be a farmer with his father. Her daughter, Ernesta, was a good student and wanted to go to college; she was taking English in school, so could read my letters and write letters in English for her mother. Her youngest son Paulo was a delight to her.
As Ernesta was ready to graduate from high school in 1997, she was accepted to an eight-year veterinary medical school at a university in Sassari, within an hour’s drive of home. I offered her a visit to the U.S. during the summer before she started college and she accepted. Because she spoke English surprisingly well, language was not a barrier. She was even able to change planes in New York without incident – I held my breath. We spent two weeks showing Ernesta our lives and much of California, just as I would have liked to do for her mother, Francesca.
In 2003, Francesca and Melchiorre built accommodations on their farm for visitors who are big city dwellers, but want to experience life on a farm. Francesca did the cooking for the visitors. The venture seemed to be going well.
In 2006, Ernesta graduated and began working as a veterinarian. Tony married and had his own farm. Francesca has emailed for their agritourism business, but her emails were in Italian. So, I found an English-Italian translation website on my computer.
She sent news to tell how Covid had impacted their agrotourism and how the struggling Italian economy was stressing their lives. Her latest email, still addressed “Carissimo Padrino” said how their agrotourism is rebounding but the Ukraine war raised the cost of energy and food. But, on a sad note, her mother died at age 86.
I’ve saved every letter, card and photo that Francesca has sent, emails maybe not. These follow her life from a child of an impoverished widow, to the wife of a thriving farmer, to the mother of a doctor. I’ve shared her anxieties, challenges and joys. Although we’ve only met twice, we’ve been together for 61 years, Francesca and Padrino. ER
