After school, every day, I?d wait outside for Noni. Together, Noni, my cousin Lauren and I would go to Noni's house. We watched TV, ate, and did our homework there. Lauren and I would often walk to the little store up the street for candy. Ignorant of the world around us, absorbed in our own quests. Contented with our candy, we would help Noni bake bread, make cavatelli, and grate cheese. While we did this, we would hear stories of her childhood. Stories of growing up on a farm in Italy, one of nine living children.
             She lived on a milk farm, supplied milk for their small town. She would tell us stories about her brothers and sisters, and about milking the cows. Stories of a time when the world was torn and she and her family had a front row seat. Stories of baking bread with her grandmother. Stories of generations of her family, traditions and values.
             Now, Noni's house, here, always has a special smell to it. The smell of baking, of food and cleanliness. It is the smell of homemade sauce and fresh vegetables from the garden. That smell, to me, always means comfort, its as much a part of Noni's house as she is. The smell of Italian cooking and bread baking.
             Now, things are changing. Ethnicity doesn't mean as much. Our children will grow up on computers, not taken care of by grandmothers who can teach them how to bake bread or to roll cavatelli. Our worlds are merging. I look back to a time when everything was done this way, families taking care of each other, a time of homemade bread. I look ahead to a time when everything will be done over the Internet. Are we really improving? Right now, we are in between these times. Will our children be better off than we were, growing up with more technology than even we can imagine now? I don't think they will.
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