Today we went to the annual reunion of the family of Gary’s paternal grandmother. For 59 years, they’ve gathered in the park to eat fried chicken and lasagna, drink red wine by the gallon, and talk about anything and nothing. Some of the kids wore T-shirts that said “I’m a Little Italian”; many of the older men sported shirts with the acronym I.M.O.D. (which, of course, stands for “Italian Men of Distinction”).

The nine children of the Italian couple who immigrated in the early 20th century are all gone now. Some of the childrens’ children - the first generation of cousins - are there, now in their 70s or older and still setting the tone. They remember all their aunts and uncles, and with their memories you can collect the history of the family, on this side of the Atlantic, at least.

Gary’s family works differently than mine - the talk meanders, conversations don’t usually have a topic sentence. Not much changes and every moment is itself. The value is in simply being together. At the invocation, the cousins remembered their aunts and uncles, now reunited across a divide wider than an ocean.

Gary’s generation is there in force, and some of their kids, plus a dozen or more little ones - five generations removed from that young couple that sailed from Italy. Not everybody remembers everybody, and the younger kids hardly know anyone, but for now, that doesn’t matter. What will matter in another generation is hard to say, but something of that first young immigrant couple’s spirit may survive in the way they honor the moments, joyful, together.