The Year the World Stopped (2020)
The year 2020 began like any other in the Valley—warm mornings, restless wind, vines just waking from their winter sleep. By March, everything was different. The roads were empty, the air strangely clean, and the sound of silence had returned to Fresno, a silence not heard since the Dust Bowl.
At the vineyard, Michael and Dominic watched the news every night. The words came like bad weather: lockdown, quarantine, pandemic. At first, they dismissed it—“Just another flu,” Michael said, shaking his head. “We’ve seen worse.” But when the governor ordered everyone home, when Masses were suspended and neighbors started leaving groceries at the gate instead of shaking hands, the brothers’ disbelief turned to suspicion.
“This isn’t right,” Dominic muttered, pacing the kitchen. “The government shutting down churches, telling men they can’t work, can’t pray together? It’s not about health—it’s about control.”
Michael nodded, eyes fixed on the screen. “Trump’s our guy, sure—but he’s listening to the wrong people. The Deep State’s got their hooks in him. They’re using him, and he doesn’t even see it.”
Sofia, home from San Diego and working remotely, sighed. “Uncle, people are dying. You think every doctor, every nurse, every scientist in the world is part of some conspiracy?”
“They follow orders,” Michael said. “Just like soldiers. Doesn’t make ‘em saints.”
She set down her laptop. “In 1918, during the Spanish flu, they shut down churches, too. People wore masks then. It saved lives. This isn’t tyranny—it’s history repeating.”
Dominic grumbled, “You sound like CNN.”
“I sound like someone who doesn’t want Nonna’s generation to die,” Sofia said, her voice cracking. “For once, it’s not about politics—it’s about decency.”
The argument circled for weeks, like dust that refused to settle. The vineyard kept working in smaller crews. Farmhands stood six feet apart, faces hidden behind masks patterned with flags and prayers. Easter came and went without Mass. On the feast of Pentecost, Sofia prayed in the vineyard rows instead of the chapel, whispering the Gloria Patri into the wind.
Michael watched her from the porch. “Faith doesn’t need a building,” he said.
Sofia turned. “But it needs love,” she answered softly. “And love means protecting others, even when it costs us something.”
He didn’t reply. He just nodded, though he wasn’t sure whether in agreement or defeat.
The Meeting Before the Shutdown
Two days before the shutdown order took effect, the Sielis called everyone—family, foremen, and field workers—into the packing shed. The air was heavy with uncertainty, and the smell of crushed grape leaves mixed with dust and sanitizer. Michael stood on an overturned crate, hat in hand, his voice gruff but unsteady.
“They say we’ve got to stop,” he began. “The governor wants folks home. They call it a shutdown. I don’t like it. None of us do. But we’re going to do this the Sieli way—with honor and respect.” He looked over the faces of men and women who had worked beside him for decades. “Those considered ‘essential’ will stay on to keep the vines alive. The rest—your jobs will wait for you. No one’s losing their place here.”
Dominic added, “This vineyard’s weathered worse. Wars. Floods. Droughts. We’ll weather this too. You’ve got our word.”
Sofia, standing near the front with a clipboard, tried to smile through the tension. “We’ll make sure everyone’s covered. If you need groceries, medicine—call us. We’re family. We look out for each other.”
When the meeting ended, there were no handshakes—just nods, waves, and misty eyes. Workers stood apart but lingered, as if unwilling to let the moment end. Someone murmured, “See you soon.” Another answered, “God willing.”
As the crowd dispersed, Michael watched them go, his jaw set. “Can’t wait until this foolishness is over,” he muttered. But when Sofia looked up at him, he added softly, “They deserve better than fear.”
By the time the lockdowns eased, the country was restless. Signs went up in Fresno: Reopen California! Freedom Over Fear! Trucks rolled down the roads with flags fluttering, some for the nation, some for their grievances. When summer came, the headlines changed again—new names, new protests, cities burning. And once more, the Sieli family found themselves divided between loyalty and compassion, between the world they thought they knew and the one still struggling to be born.
Fire in the Streets, Fire in the Vines
Epigraph: Fresno Bee, June 2, 2020 — “Downtown Protests Turn Violent Amid National Outcry”
The Summer of Ashes
When George Floyd’s death filled every television and phone screen, the San Joaquin Valley did not remain quiet. Protests reached Fresno’s streets, sometimes peaceful, sometimes breaking into chaos.
At the vineyard, Michael and Dominic—now in their seventies—sat at the kitchen table, arms crossed. Their faces, lined from decades of sun and labor, carried both weariness and fire.
Dominic slammed his fist. “The man resisted arrest! A tragedy, yes, but not murder. And now these Black Lives Matter mobs just want to loot and burn.”
Michael nodded sharply. “It’s an excuse. They don’t care about justice—they care about chaos. And the organizers? They’re pocketing donations while cities burn.”
Across the table, Sofia’s voice cut in. Calm but fierce. “You sound exactly like the Anglos who called Giuseppe and Antonio criminals for being Italian. Don’t you see it? This isn’t about looting—it’s about rooting out bad cops, about demanding dignity. The vineyard survived because our ancestors demanded dignity too.”
Younger cousins chimed in, some nodding with Sofia, others echoing Dominic and Michael. The room became a storm—voices overlapping, old resentments flaring.
The Riot Comes Home
A week later, protests surged downtown. Then, one night, a splinter group broke off. Windows shattered. Stores burned. And Sieli Vineyards, with its new tasting room and shopfront, became a target.
Spray paint scarred the walls: “No Justice, No Peace.” A display window shattered. Cases of wine vanished into the dark. By dawn, the patio was littered with glass, smoke still curling from a scorched olive oil shelf.
Dominic stood in silence, staring at the damage. His jaw quivered, but not from age—from fury. “You see?” he hissed. “This is what comes of mobs. They don’t want justice—they want destruction.”
Michael’s voice was low, almost prayerful. “They turned our vineyard into their battlefield.”
Sofia walked the rows in silence, tears burning her cheeks. To her, the vandalism was heartbreak, but not proof that the cause itself was rotten. “This isn’t everyone,” she whispered to Elena, a cousin her age. “A few bad apples don’t poison the whole tree.”
Lines in the Dust
That night, the family gathered again. The divide was sharper than ever.
Dominic’s voice thundered. “Enough excuses. We side with law and order. We always have. That’s why we still stand when others sold out or folded.”
Michael nodded. “If people want change, let them work for it the right way. Burning shops and vandalizing churches won’t bring respect—it kills it.”
Sofia shot back, her voice raw. “And silence kills more! Giuseppe and Antonio didn’t stay silent when they were spat on in mining camps. They stood with Mexicans and Chinese when no one else would. And now you would stand against the very spirit of their struggle?”
The room was silent. The vines outside rustled in the night wind.
The Soil’s Verdict
The vineyard bore the scars of the riot for months: a charred beam, glass ground into the dirt, paint that no scrubbing could fully erase. To Dominic, the marks were proof that mobs only sow chaos.
But Michael spoke differently. “I don’t excuse the killing of any innocent man,” he said one night as the family walked the rows. “I don’t excuse cruelty, or arrogance, or bad cops who shame the badge. But I also don’t excuse riots that burn businesses, churches, or vineyards built by sweat. If we want justice, we must find it in order, in law, in the hard work of building—not tearing down.”
To Sofia and the younger cousins, the scars were reminders of how easily justice could be twisted, how quickly the powerless were blamed. They refused to let one night define an entire movement.
Yet Michael’s words held weight. His stance was not born of hate, but of fear for the land, for the workers, for the family name carved out of dust and prejudice long ago. For him, law and order were not chains, but the trellis that held the vines upright.
The family still argued. They still disagreed. But they also listened.
And as always, the vines endured, whispering their quiet truth through the leaves:
The soil remembers.
The Monuments and the Memory
The summer heat lingered longer than usual, and tempers lingered with it. By late August, the country had found a new argument—statues. From coast to coast, bronze soldiers, generals, and explorers were being pulled down by ropes or boxed up by city crews. News anchors spoke in tones half scandalized, half exhilarated.
At the Sieli vineyard, the debate played out not in the streets but around the long kitchen table, where generations gathered for coffee after Sunday Mass—back now, with limited pews and sanitizer at the door.
Dominic clicked the remote, freezing a news image of protestors surrounding a statue. “There it is again,” he said, jabbing the air with the remote. “Another one gone. Robert E. Lee this time. What’s next? Washington? Jefferson? Maybe they’ll melt down Lincoln too, just to be fair.”
Michael shook his head, his voice low but tight. “They say it’s about justice, but it’s about erasing the country. You start tearing down the past, you won’t have anything left to stand on.” He looked at Sofia. “You of all people should understand that—our family came here to build, not to destroy.”
Sofia set her cup down carefully. “Uncle Mike, nobody’s trying to destroy the country. We’re trying to make it honest. Those statues—they’re not teaching history. They’re glorifying people who fought to keep others enslaved.”
Dominic leaned forward. “So we pretend they never existed? Pretend half the country didn’t die over that war?”
“That’s not what I said,” Sofia replied, keeping her tone calm. “Teach about them. In books, in museums, in classrooms. But don’t put them on pedestals in town squares like heroes. There’s a difference between remembrance and reverence.”
Michael frowned. “You pull down one statue, you start pulling at the flag next. Don’t tell me it’s different. It’s all the same crowd—same slogans, same hate for what this country is.”
Sofia looked at her uncle for a long moment. “Maybe what this country is has to grow,” she said softly. “The flag can stay. The ideals can stay. But the lies—those have to go.”
Dominic snorted. “They’ll come for Columbus next, mark my words.”
“They already have,” Sofia said. “And honestly? Maybe they should. The man enslaved and killed people. Why are we still pretending he discovered a place where people already lived?”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “Without Columbus, none of us would be here. He’s part of our story as Italians. You start canceling him, you’re canceling us.”
“Then we tell the whole story,” Sofia said. “Not just the good parts that make us feel proud. The truth makes us stronger, not weaker.”
For a while, no one spoke. The TV carried on without them—clips of city crews loading statues into flatbed trucks, interviews with historians, protestors chanting in front of marble men on horses.
Dominic finally broke the silence. “You know what I see when I look at those statues? Stone and metal. What matters more is what’s inside people’s hearts. And what I see now,” he said, shaking his head, “is hate, on both sides.”
Sofia folded her arms. “Then maybe it’s time we stopped worshiping the dead and started helping the living.”
Outside, the vines swayed in a faint evening wind. The vineyard had seen empires rise and fall, wars begin and end, beliefs shift like the seasons. And though they stood on Californian soil, the arguments of the nation—over race, history, memory, and meaning—ran through the Sieli family like roots twisting beneath the rows.
The old men stayed certain. The younger generation stayed hopeful. Between them lay the same thing that had always tied and divided them both—love for a country they could neither abandon nor completely agree on.
As the argument over Confederate statues began to cool, another fire lit up the news feeds—and this one struck closer to the Sieli heart.
The camera on the local news showed it first: a crane lifting a bronze Columbus from the center of Fresno’s Italian Heritage Plaza, workers in reflective vests guiding the ropes. The mayor said it was for “public safety.” Protesters had threatened to topple it. The city said it would be stored “temporarily.” Everyone knew what that meant.
Michael stood in front of the television, jaw tight. “They’re taking him down,” he muttered. “Columbus. The man who started it all. The first Italian to cross an ocean. What’s next—San Francisco? Los Angeles? They’ll rename the whole map before they’re done.”
Dominic crossed his arms. “He’s a symbol, Mike. Not just for Italians—hell, for all of Western civilization. A man who risked everything for discovery. And now they call him a murderer, a colonizer. They’re spitting on their own history.”
Sofia leaned against the counter, arms folded, calm but firm. “He was a colonizer. And his men did murder people. You can honor your roots without pretending history was perfect.”
Michael turned, eyes narrowing. “You’re missing the point, Sof. Nobody’s saying the man was a saint. But if not for Columbus, none of this—” he gestured toward the vineyard, the old oak table, the flags by the door—“none of it would exist. The country itself wouldn’t exist. He’s part of our story, whether people like it or not.”
“He’s part of a story,” Sofia corrected, “but not all of it. Columbus didn’t discover America. He landed in the Caribbean, enslaved the people who lived there, and helped start a system that wiped out entire cultures. That’s not something you put on a pedestal. That’s something you study.”
Dominic scoffed. “You talk like a professor. The man’s been dead five hundred years. Judging him by today’s standards is cheap and easy.”
“Then at least be honest about who he was,” Sofia said. “He wasn’t even ‘Italian’ the way people think. Italy didn’t exist yet. He lived part of his life in Genoa, sure, but he called himself Cristóbal Colón, worked for Spain, married a Portuguese woman, gave his sons Spanish names. He spoke Spanish. He was more Iberian than Italian.”
Michael slammed his palm lightly against the table. “That’s not what matters. He’s ours now. He became a hero for Italians in America—for immigrants who were beaten in the streets and called dagos and wops. Columbus Day wasn’t about him—it was about us. About saying we belong here. About pride.”
Sofia’s voice softened. “I know that, Uncle. But pride isn’t the same as truth. You can’t build identity on half a story. If we want to honor our people, let’s honor the ones who came here and worked the land, who built vineyards and railroads and cities—not the man who opened the door to centuries of suffering.”
Dominic turned toward Michael, eyes glinting. “Maybe we can save him. The city doesn’t want the statue? We’ll take it. Put it here, at the vineyard. He belongs with us.”
Sofia’s head snapped up. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?” Michael said. “It’s history. We’ll put up a plaque—say it’s part of Italian heritage. It’s private property; no one can touch it. Let them protest in town if they want. Out here, we’ll keep what’s ours.”
Sofia stared, disbelieving. “What’s ours? A bronze man with a sword and a map? You’d bring that here—to a vineyard built by immigrants who believed in freedom? You’d turn this place into a museum for denial?”
“Into a place for context,” Michael countered. “They want to erase him from the world—we’ll keep him where he can be seen and remembered.”
Sofia shook her head. “You can’t save the past by dragging it into the present. You just chain yourself to it.”
The kitchen went quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator. Outside, the vines swayed in the evening wind, rows of green against the golden haze. On the muted TV, another statue came down in another city. A protestor raised a sign: History belongs to everyone.
Michael turned off the screen and leaned back. “Maybe. But if everyone owns it, nobody protects it.”
Sofia looked out the window toward the vineyard—the same soil that had outlasted drought, fire, and division. “Maybe that’s the point,” she said. “Maybe history isn’t something to protect. Maybe it’s something to finally understand.”
Dominic sighed, rubbing his temples. “We’re all just trying to hold on to something, Sof.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “But maybe it’s time to hold on to each other instead.”
The old men said nothing. Outside, the vines rustled softly—witnesses, as always, to the arguments of the living.
The Bitter Harvest
By mid-2020, the vineyard had survived drought, flood, riots, and fire—but the hardest storm, Michael once said, was the kind that began inside your own family.
It started quietly, as most heartbreaks do.
Marco, Sofia and Daniel’s eldest son, had gone off to college in Sacramento with every blessing the family could offer. Smart, athletic, and good-looking, he was the golden child—the one everyone said had inherited his great-grandfather Pietro’s charm and Michael’s steady work ethic. He was supposed to take the Sieli name into the next century, to one day manage the vineyard when his uncles were gone.
But the city had a way of swallowing small-town dreams.
At first, the change came slowly. Missed phone calls. Shortened visits. Excuses about exams or extra shifts at the restaurant. When he came home for Christmas his sophomore year, his eyes seemed tired, his laugh a little forced. He spent more time on the back porch with his phone than around the dinner table.
Sofia brushed it off. “He’s just stressed,” she said. “College does that.”
But Michael noticed the trembling hands, the hollow stare, the way Marco picked at his food and avoided eye contact. One night, after everyone had gone to bed, he went out to the barn and found him sitting on an overturned crate, breathing fast, sweat shining on his forehead.
“Marco,” he said quietly. “You’re using something.”
Marco froze. “It’s nothing, Uncle Mike. Just something to help me study. Everyone does it.”
Michael stepped closer, his voice rough. “What is it? Pills? Coke?”
Marco’s jaw clenched. “Adderall at first. Then a friend—he had something stronger. Just a bump to keep me awake. I swear I’ve got it under control.”
Michael’s voice cracked like a whip. “That’s what every junkie says before he loses everything.”
“Don’t call me that!” Marco snapped. “I’m not some street addict!”
The shouting drew the rest of the family. Sofia came running, Daniel close behind, followed by Dominic and his wife Maria, who had been helping bottle Zinfandel for the holidays. Michael’s wife Teresa appeared last, still wearing her apron, her face pale.
“What’s happening?” she cried.
Michael turned, red-faced. “He’s hooked. Our nephew’s on meth or worse.”
Daniel’s breath caught. “Marco, tell me that’s not true.”
Marco broke. “It was just for finals! I didn’t—” He stopped when he saw the look in his mother’s eyes—love and disbelief twisting together.
Maria stepped between them, calm but firm. “Yelling won’t fix this,” she said. “He’s sick. We help him, or we lose him.”
Sofia’s voice shook. “We’ll get you into rehab. I don’t care what it costs.”
And she meant it. The next weeks were a blur of phone calls, insurance battles, and waiting lists. They found a program in Clovis—faith-based, structured, with a detox wing that smelled of bleach and despair.
Daniel worked overtime at the county office; Sofia sold jewelry; Teresa picked up extra hospital shifts. At night, the family prayed the rosary together in the kitchen, just like Rosa once had during the war years.
But the vineyard felt emptier now. Every vine seemed to droop as if mourning one of its own. Dominic said it out loud one evening as they checked the irrigation lines. “If Marco doesn’t come back from this,” he muttered, “I don’t know if this place survives. The vineyard needs a Sieli to care for it—or it dies with us.”
Michael didn’t answer. He just stared at the rows in the moonlight and thought about the years he’d spent fighting enemies overseas, only to face a worse one at home.
Months Later
When Marco came home from rehab, he was twenty pounds lighter and moved like a man twice his age. His hands shook when he tried to tie the vines. He didn’t talk much—he just worked, one task at a time, as if trying to earn back each breath.
Rehab had been brutal. The first week, he’d gone through withdrawal—sweats, nausea, shaking so bad he had to be strapped to the bed. They told him later he’d screamed in his sleep for two nights straight. A counselor named Javier, a recovering addict himself, had sat with him through it. “This doesn’t end when the shaking stops,” he’d said. “That’s just your body quitting. The rest of you takes longer.”
He’d spent three months in therapy, group sessions, and morning prayers. He’d written letters of apology to his parents that he never sent. By the time they came to pick him up, his voice was softer, but his eyes were clearer.
Back home, the family gathered under the sycamores for dinner. The meal was simple—bread, wine, and roasted vegetables—but to them, it tasted like hope.
Dominic poured a glass of the new vintage and raised it. “To new beginnings.”
Maria smiled. “And to mercy.”
Teresa lifted her own glass. “For family—no matter how far we fall.”
Michael’s voice was quiet but firm. “You can’t control what breaks you,” he said, looking at Marco, “but you can choose what you grow after.”
Outside, the vines shimmered under the forgiving sun—strong, scarred, and alive.
Never Again
The church still smelled of incense and gunpowder. Days had passed, but Michael swore he could still hear the echo — the crack of the rifle, the shouts, the screams.
The parish of St. Agnes had always been a refuge: sunlight through stained glass, children fidgeting in pews, old women murmuring rosaries in rhythm with their breath. Now, yellow tape crisscrossed the entrance, and the altar was flecked with memories no one wanted to keep.
Michael sat at his kitchen table that night, the light from a single bulb above him. His hands, veined and shaking, still bore faint specks of blood from where he had shielded a parishioner — Maria Perez, a widow who had sung in the choir for decades. She had survived because of him. Others hadn’t.
Sofia came quietly through the screen door, setting her keys on the counter. Her eyes were red from crying. “Uncle Mike,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
He didn’t look up. “I’m not. I’ve got ghosts enough for company.”
She sat across from him. The air smelled faintly of vinegar and old coffee. “It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could have done. The man had armor, a rifle—”
Michael slammed his hand on the table. The sound cracked through the kitchen like thunder. “Don’t tell me that! I’m a man, Sof. That’s supposed to mean something. You defend others. You protect your people. That’s the job. The only job. And when the time came, I froze.”
His voice quivered, but he wouldn’t let it break. Men like Michael didn’t cry — not in front of women, not even in front of God.
“You saved Maria,” Sofia said, her voice trembling. “You threw yourself over her. She’s alive because of you.”
He shook his head. “And Father Alvarez isn’t. Neither is that usher, or that boy with the candle. I had a chance — a second, maybe two — to rush him. But I didn’t. I just stood there. Like a coward.”
“Uncle Mike—”
He rose suddenly, pushing the chair back. “No. Don’t ‘Uncle Mike’ me. I’ve fought in wars. I’ve been shot at before. But this—this was my church. My home. Evil walked through the front door and I froze. Never again.”
She stood. “What do you mean?”
He looked out the window, the vineyard silver under the moonlight. “I’m getting a gun,” he said simply. “A permit. A CCW. Whatever it takes. I won’t be defenseless again.”
Sofia’s eyes widened. “No, Uncle Mike. That’s not the answer. You think more guns make us safer? They don’t! They make things worse.”
Michael turned sharply. “Oh, here we go. Guns don’t kill people, Sof — people do. A gun doesn’t go off by itself. You blame the tool instead of the man holding it.”
Sofia crossed her arms. “We don’t want to take your guns away. We just don’t want the wrong people having them. Gun control works in other countries—”
He cut her off, raising his voice. “Other countries don’t have our freedoms! That’s the difference. You start letting them chip away at the Second Amendment, and soon we’re all helpless — against criminals, and against a government that stops fearing its own people.”
“Come on, Uncle Mike,” Sofia said, exasperated. “That’s just NRA talk. Nobody’s trying to turn this into a dictatorship.”
He scoffed. “You're damn right it's NRA talk! You know I'm a member. You think tyranny shows up waving a flag and announcing itself? No. It starts small — one regulation, one ‘reasonable restriction’ at a time, until only the bad guys are armed and the rest of us are waiting for permission to live.”
Sofia’s tone softened, but the fire in her eyes didn’t fade. “And what about all the people dying, Uncle Mike? The kids in schools, the families in grocery stores, the people in churches? This is gun violence. You say guns don’t kill people — but without them, those people would still be alive.”
Michael’s hands tightened on the back of the chair. “And if someone in that church had a gun, maybe they’d still be alive too.”
The silence that followed was thick, painful. The only sound was the clock ticking on the wall and the faint hum of crickets outside.
Finally, Michael exhaled and sat down again, rubbing his face. “I’m not some fool looking to play cowboy,” he said quietly. “Jesus, Sof — I’m a veteran. I know when to shoot and when not to. I respect the law. But I’ll never stand empty-handed again.”
Sofia looked at him, tears brimming. “You’re not empty-handed, Uncle Mike. You have faith. You have family.”
He stared at the small crucifix on the wall, its shadow long in the lamplight. “Faith doesn’t stop bullets,” he said softly.
Sofia reached across the table, resting her hand on his. “No, but it can stop hate.”
Michael didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her — his niece, the girl he’d helped raise after her parents died, now standing across from him as both comfort and conscience.
“Maybe,” he said finally. “But if it happens again… I’ll be ready. And if that makes me the bad guy, then so be it.”
The Night the Vineyard Stood Still
The night was too still for Fresno. Even the crickets seemed uneasy, the wind holding its breath between the vines. Michael Sieli, now in his early seventies, had taken to locking every door twice since the church shooting. The old shotgun stayed by his bed. The pistol, newly purchased and legal, rested in the drawer by the kitchen table.
Sofia had argued about it for months.
“You can’t stop every bad thing with a gun,” she’d said.
“And you can’t stop one without it,” he’d replied.
That night, the argument ended with the sound of breaking glass.
It came from the back door—sharp, unmistakable. The dogs barked first, their nails skittering on the tile. Michael was up in an instant, heart pounding like it had when he was twenty. But this time his body didn’t move as fast. By the time he reached the hallway, two men were already inside—dark clothes, masks, gloved hands.
“Stay down, old man,” one barked, shoving Michael backward. His shoulder hit the table, and pain shot through his ribs. He gasped, trying to find breath and balance, but the second man was already rifling through the drawers.
“What do you want?” Michael managed, his voice ragged. “There’s money in the office—take it.”
“We’ll find it,” the first said, pinning him down with a knee to the chest. “Don’t be a hero.”
Sofia had been upstairs, half-asleep, scrolling through her phone when the sound reached her—the crash, the shouting, her uncle’s voice. She froze. Then she remembered the drawer. The one she had cursed every time she saw him open it. The gun.
Her hands trembled as she opened it now.
She moved through the hall barefoot, heart pounding against her ribs like wings. From the kitchen doorway, she saw the man holding Michael down.
The invader shoved Michael aside and turned toward Sofia, his shadow cutting across the kitchen floor.
“You need to put that gun down before you hurt yourself, sweetie,” he said, his voice thick with mockery, the kind that dripped from men who thought fear was weakness.
“Just stay there,” Sofia warned, her voice trembling, the gun shaking in her hands. Her heart hammered so hard she could hear it in her ears. Uncle Mike had taught her how to use a gun—against her better judgment, against everything she believed—but at that moment, all she could think about was surviving.
The man took another step, slow and deliberate, testing her.
“I said stay there!”
But he didn’t.
He lunged forward—and Sofia fired.
Once. The sound was deafening, slamming against the walls like thunder in a closed canyon. The man staggered, looked down at his chest as if he didn’t quite believe what he saw, then started forward again.
She fired a second time.
He stopped mid-stride, mouth open, breath caught somewhere between rage and disbelief. Then he crumpled to the floor, the impact echoing through the room.
The smell of gunpowder mixed with the vineyard air drifting through the broken door. Sofia stood frozen, her arms stiff, her body trembling violently. The ringing in her ears made the silence feel endless.
“Oh my God…” she whispered, lowering the gun. “I killed him.”
Michael, still winded but alive, pushed himself up from the floor. His ribs ached with every breath. He walked slowly toward his niece, hands raised—not to startle her, not to add to the shock.
“You had to,” he said softly, reaching out and gently taking the gun from her hands. “You didn’t have a choice.”
Her eyes were wide, hollow, as if her soul hadn’t caught up to her body yet. “I shot him, Uncle Mike. I shot him twice.”
“You saved my life,” he said, steady now, though his voice cracked around the edges. “You did what you had to do. Look at me, Sofia.”
She didn’t move.
“Sofia, look at me,” he said again, firmer this time.
Her gaze lifted to meet his.
“You did nothing wrong.”
Roots in the Storm (2020–2025)
Epigraph: Fresno Bee, November 9, 2020 — “A NATION DIVIDED — BIDEN WINS, BUT TENSION REMAINS”
A Country, A Choice
The night the 2020 election results came in, the farmhouse was a battlefield of silence and murmurs. Dominic sat on the old oak chair near the fireplace, arms folded, staring at the TV.
Mike paced behind him. “I can’t believe they went that way.”
Sofia stood by the window, arms crossed. “America chose a different path. That doesn’t mean it lost its soul.”
Mateo, leaning against the doorframe, whispered, “Maybe it just wanted a reset.”
Caterina, older and still full of quiet strength, placed a hand on Dominic’s shoulder. “Remember, power changes hands. What matters is how we live after change.”
Border and Labor
In early 2021, new federal policies tightened border enforcement. The Sieli vineyard's office received memos reminding them to run E-Verify checks and maintain strict compliance. No undocumented labor could be tolerated.
Dominic gathered supervisors in the barn. “From now on, no exceptions. Green cards or work visas only. We obey the law — not halfway, not loosely.”
A young foreman hesitated. “But Señor Sieli, what about José? He’s been with us ten seasons. His paperwork lapsed only by a month.”
Dominic’s face hardened. “I’m sorry, but rules are rules. He can reapply — but until then, he can’t work here. No room for loopholes.”
Sofia watched from the rafters, jaw tight. Later that night, she confronted Dominic in his study.
“You’re punishing good men for our fear. José has sweat in these rows. He belongs more than some businessmen who never lift a tool.”
Dominic glared. “And I’m protecting the vineyard — and our name. One violation, rumors start, laws come down. We can’t give cover to disorder.”
Sofia’s eyes moistened. “We built everything from disorder. It’s easier to deny who we were than face what we are becoming.”
He didn’t answer.
Later that same week, Michael sat with Sofia on the farmhouse porch, the glow of the valley’s suburban lights creeping closer every year. Rows of vines stretched before them, but beyond the fences, rooftops and streetlamps glittered where orchards used to be.
He exhaled heavily, swirling the last of his wine in the glass. “Sometimes I envy them,” he admitted.
“Who?” Sofia asked, though she already knew.
“The ones who took the money. The Mazzinis, the Carluccis, even the Ortegas down the road. They sold out in the ’80s and ’90s, built new houses in the foothills, lived easy. Meanwhile we fought droughts, debts, the city breathing down our necks. Maybe we were the fools, clinging to a past that doesn’t pay.”
Sofia leaned forward, her voice steady. “And what do they have now? Their names on cul-de-sac signs. Their land buried under asphalt. Their stories forgotten except in a realtor’s brochure. Do you want that for us?”
Michael was silent.
She placed her hand on his. “We don’t carry the land as a burden, Uncle Michael. The land carries us. That’s why we’re still here. That’s why they’ll remember us, not as a street name, but as a vineyard.”
Michael looked out across the rows, the vines shifting in the evening breeze. For a moment he saw both futures—the easy sellout, and the harder survival. And though the weight of the latter pressed on his shoulders, he knew Sofia was right.
Cultural Enforcement
By 2022, Dominic and Mike began insisting the family publicly observe only “American holidays” in their public vineyard events. No more bocce nights tied to San Gennaro, no more St. Joseph altars at harvest.
At the annual fall tasting festival, Mike went on stage and told the crowd: “Here, we celebrate Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, Memorial Day — the holidays that unify us as Americans. No flags, no foreign festivals — we stand under one banner.”
Sofia, offstage, clenched her fists. She whispered to Elena, “They erase us even as they speak proud.”
That evening, at the dinner table, she confronted her uncles. “You say we honor America. But you cage our past. You expect assimilation but preserve privilege.”
Mike answered coolly. “We preserve what’s necessary for unity. Too many identities fracture what should be one people.”
Sofia countered, “So our traditions fracture, but yours don’t? You eat Nonna’s pasta in silence. You turn off Saint day prayers in the vineyards. Hypocrisy smells bitter.”
The others looked away.
The 2024 Election Cycle
In 2024, as campaigning ramped up, Dominic and Mike quietly backed candidates emphasizing border enforcement, small government, and law and order. They didn’t parade signs, but they contributed, they whispered endorsements, they leaned into local conservative clubs.
At a small fundraiser in Clovis, Mike met a candidate and slipped him a check. “Keep Fresno safe. Keep California strong,” he said.
In the car afterward, Dominic grinned. “Finally, someone with the backbone to protect what we built.”
Sofia, in the back seat, said nothing.
False Allies
A week later, Michael attended a city council meeting downtown. The agenda was water rights, but the air was thick with politics.
“Mr. Sieli!” a man called across the room. Michael turned to see a tall, sharp-suited stranger approaching, a smirk on his lips.
“You’re that Grand Poohbah or something, right?” Michael asked, half-mocking.
The man laughed easily. “Grand Dragon,” he corrected. “And I think we have something in common.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s that?”
“We both don’t like undesirables.”
That word made Michael’s jaw tighten. His grandfather’s stories flooded back—signs in San Francisco saloons reading No Dagos Allowed, immigration quotas branding Italians as “undesirable,” whispers in Fresno that Catholics weren’t “real Americans.”
“Undesirables?” Michael asked, feigning ignorance though his eyes narrowed.
“Yes,” the man said smoothly. “You know… minorities. We don’t want them replacing us. America should be for Americans.”
Michael’s voice cut like gravel. “I don’t want people entering this country illegally and disrespecting it. But I have nothing against minorities themselves. And I know your kind—you hated Italians and Catholics once, too. In a way, you still do. You just want to use us now, exploit us. But you’ll never see us as equals. You'll never really respect us. And frankly, I don’t want your respect.”
The Grand Dragon’s smile did not waver. “Mr. Sieli, whether you like it or not, when people look at you, they see me. To them you’re just another racist. If you don’t join us, if you don’t accept us as friends, then you’ll be nothing but a lone racist.”
Michael stood, chair scraping the floor. He spoke calmly but loudly enough for the room to hear.
“I don’t want you as friends.”
He walked out, leaving the man’s smirk behind.
The Storm of 2025
When 2025 brought drought, heat waves, and wildfire smoke pushing across the valley, the vineyard felt the pressure. Harvests shrank; insurance premiums rose; federal deregulatory moves promised relief for farm businesses.
At the vineyard commission meeting, Mike spoke before county officials. “We need incentives, tax cuts, fewer regulations. Let the state trust farmers, not punish them. The government should help us keep the land alive.”
A local activist confronted him. “But those tax breaks come from cutting social programs and pushing others out.”
Mike squared his shoulders. “I believe in building, not tearing down. We protect our property, obey laws, hire only legal workers. That’s how a society survives.”
Protest, Pushback
In June 2025, a protest called No Kings Day swept across U.S. cities, including Fresno’s downtown square. Organized by groups resisting authoritarian policies, the marchers chanted, “No king but the people!”
Sofia joined with a small cohort, walking with signs: Roots Not Walls; History Matters; Respect All Workers.
Dominic watched them pass the vineyard trucks, anger flickering. He muttered, “They attack order itself.”
Later that night, he confronted Sofia at home. “You joined the mob? You with signs?”
Sofia stood firm. “I joined the voice you won’t hear. I marched for Filipinos, Mexicans, Black farmworkers—not because they’re illegal, but because they are human. Because they pick what you sell.”
He turned away.
A New Fracture
By late 2025, the family’s split had become public. Customers complained after tasting-room staff removed a Day of the Dead display. Others praised them for “keeping it American.”
Elena and Mateo began hosting a parallel event: Heritage Harvest Festival, combining Italian feasts, mariachi sets, Hmong dances, and Filipino street food in the vineyard. They invited the public, promising an inclusive celebration under the vines.
Mike frowned when he saw the flyer. “This splits our brand. Too many flags, too many faces.”
Sofia replied, “Or it restores it. We were never a single flag. We are many roots.”
At the festival’s opening, Dominic appeared in the crowd, arms folded. But when Elena called him forward to raise a toast, he hesitated—then raised his glass, stiffly: To the harvest. To the land. To those who work it well.
Sofia whispered, “It’s something.”
Dominic’s face softened.
The Procession Returns
The morning of the festa dawned golden and still, the Central Valley light slanting through a haze that smelled faintly of dust, incense, and vineyards. Sofia Sieli-Morales, now in her early fifties, tied her granddaughter’s ribbon and checked her grandson’s rosary for the third time. “Don’t drop it this year,” she said with a smile that was half sternness, half nostalgia.
Her husband, Daniel Morales, adjusted his sunglasses and surveyed the crowded parish parking lot. “I haven’t seen this many people at church since Easter,” he said. “Your uncles are going to have a field day.”
“They’ll survive,” Sofia replied. “They’ve been surviving Catholic guilt and family pride for seventy years. A procession won’t kill them.”
The parish grounds buzzed with color and motion—women in lace veils arranging flowers around the statue of Our Lady, altar servers swinging thuribles that filled the air with a sweet fog of myrrh and frankincense, and the brass band warming up under the carport with bright notes of When the Saints Go Marching In.
The Knights of Columbus stood at attention in their plumed hats. Someone started the first verse of Ave Maria, and the crowd hushed.
At the edge of the crowd, Michael and Dominic stood watching, their arms folded, hats low against the sunlight.
“I don’t get it,” Michael muttered. “We go to Mass every Sunday. Isn’t that enough?”
Dominic nodded. “All this… pageantry. You’d think we were back in Sicily in 1890.”
Sofia turned toward them, her expression soft but firm. “You’re not seeing what this really is,” she said. “Our great-grandparents helped build this parish. Nonna Rosa marched in these feasts when Fresno was still fields and shacks. This is about remembering who we are.”
Michael frowned. “I don’t have anything against it. I just never saw the point of keeping all these old traditions alive.”
“That’s the point,” Sofia said. “So they don’t die.”
The priest raised his hand, and the procession began—Our Lady lifted on the shoulders of men from the parish, veiled women scattering rose petals, children waving flags of Italy, Mexico, the Vatican, and the United States. The brass band struck up the first hymn, and the faithful moved out into the streets of Fresno, chanting the rosary as they went.
The parade wound past cafés and auto shops, through the old neighborhoods where the descendants of Italian, Portuguese, and Mexican farmers still kept Marian statues in their yards. Crowds gathered along the sidewalks. Some clapped and took photos, some bowed their heads. But others shouted from across the street:
“Free Palestine!”
“Abortion is healthcare!”
“You’re all haters!”
"Love is love!"
"Trans rights are human rights!"
Little Lucia, Elena’s daughter, faltered in her steps. Sofia reached for her hand. “Keep walking,” she whispered. “We walk for God, not for applause.”
As the hymn rose—Ave Maria, gratia plena—Sofia felt a strange kinship with ghosts. She pictured Giuseppe and Antonio in the 1860s, marching through the dusty streets of old Fresno while Ezekiel Crowe and his men shouted “Papists!” and “Idol-worshippers!” from the alleys. The insults were different now, but the spirit behind them was the same.
When they reached the church again, the bells rang out and the priest lifted the monstrance. The late-afternoon sun caught the gold, throwing light across the kneeling crowd. Voices rose together in prayer—in English, Spanish, Tagalog, and Italian.
Michael and Dominic stood at the back, watching their niece kneel beside Daniel, Elena, Marco, and their children. The music swelled; a wave of sound and memory rolled over the parish like something ancient rediscovered.
As the sun dipped behind the vineyards, Sofia looked back at her uncles and smiled. The same song that once echoed through the 1860s now drifted through the warm Fresno air—voices of the living answering the faith of the dead, saints and sinners marching together again through time.
The Raid
The valley morning was unusually quiet, the vines trembling under a low fog. Michael Sieli stood on the gravel drive when the government SUVs rolled up, their black paint slick with dew. Men in tactical gear stepped out, masks covering their faces, radios crackling. ICE.
“Did you really have to raid my place like this?” Michael demanded later on after it was over, his voice hoarse from a sleepless night. His hands were clenched, but not from fear—anger, pride, maybe shame. “Am I really some type of gangster or terrorist?”
One of the agents approached, mask lowered. “We’re just following protocol, Mr. Sieli.”
Michael stared at him. His jaw tightened. “Ya know, if you came to me civilly—if you just asked—I would’ve cooperated. I’d have shown you my books, turned over the illegal workers. I wouldn’t want to, but I obey the law. I respect what you do. But this—” he gestured at the rifles, the trucks, his niece in handcuffs near the SUV—“this was unnecessary. You better hope my niece is not hurt, or so help me God—”
The agent’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”
“No,” Michael said, steady now. “I respect you. I really do. But my respect only goes so far. My family is first. Always.”
The two men locked eyes, a silence longer than gunfire, heavier than orders. For one moment, respect replaced suspicion.
Finally, the agent turned. “Let her go.”
His colleague stiffened. “What?”
“You heard me. Release her.”
“But she assaulted you, a federal agent!”
The agent shook his head. “She only gave me a shove. I’m not pressing charges.”
Grudgingly, the handcuffs came off. Sofia stumbled forward, rubbing her wrists, fury spilling from her eyes. She ran to her uncle but turned back to shout, “You should be ashamed of yourselves! You’re all fasc—”
“Stop!” Michael barked. His voice cracked like a whip. “Just stop.”
The SUVs pulled away, engines rumbling down the road. Dust settled back into the vineyard rows.
Sofia rounded on her uncle, tears mixing with rage. “You see that, Uncle Michael? That is fascism! That is wrong! We just want that to end, that’s all!”
Michael wiped a hand over his weathered face. “Then people should come to this country the right way,” he snapped. “And when they apply for work here, they shouldn’t lie to me.”
He turned to his brother, Dominic, who had been silent through it all, arms crossed at the edge of the porch. “Dom, we need to go over our records. See why the system isn’t working.”
Dominic nodded, his face hard, unreadable.
Roots vs. Boundaries
That autumn, amidst smoke and low yields, the two sides stood in the vineyard.
Dominic said quietly, “I believe in rule. In order. In protecting what we have.”
Sofia answered, “But I believe in memory. In welcoming roots. In seeing hands, not borders.”
Mateo touched a vine. “We live between fences and soil. One may protect; one must remember.”
They stood in silence as dusk fell, vines rustling under the dusty sky, roots deep in the dark earth, waiting for the harvest to come again.
Present Day, 2025
By late 2025, survival meant change. To keep the vineyard in operation—and to keep buyers and developers at bay—the Sielis had been forced to expand and diversify. They turned the land into more than a place for grapes: it became a destination. Wine tours and tastings. A retail shop selling olive oil and honey. A restaurant that filled the air with garlic and herbs. Weddings under the sycamores, festivals in the fall, concerts strung with lights across the rows. Every addition was a shield, proof to the city that the vineyard was not just surviving, but thriving.
By autumn, the vineyard was no longer just a vineyard. The old barn had been restored with wide glass doors and a polished stone patio. A small restaurant and wine shop now overlooked the rows, where guests sipped Sieli vintages under strings of lights. Tour buses parked where mules once rested, brides posed in front of the sycamores, and music drifted through the air on weekends when weddings or festivals filled the property.
Michael stood at the edge of the vineyard with Sofia beside him. He had expected to feel uneasy about this transformation, but instead he felt something else: relief. The vines still rooted the family’s story in this soil, but now they carried the weight of the future too.
Across the valley, he could see rooftops and cul-de-sacs stretching where vineyards once stood. Developers had paved over entire orchards, swallowing up farms whose names lived on only in street signs and HOA newsletters. The Sieli vineyard had been surrounded, hemmed in on nearly every side. By the late 1980s and ’90s, when neighbors were selling out to corporations and developers, the pressure to follow them had been suffocating. Even now, in 2025, city officials courted them with rezoning maps, promises of profit, and talk of “inevitable growth.”
The sting of those offers never quite faded. They carried the weight of every mortgage payment, every drought, every harvest cut short. Holding out had not been easy—it had been a fight, sometimes bitter, sometimes lonely. And in standing firm, the Sielis had become something rare: admired by some as guardians of heritage, resented by others as stubborn outsiders who refused to “get with the times.”
But here—here the vines still breathed. The soil still remembered.
“You were right,” he said quietly, glancing at Sofia.
Her smile was small, triumphant but gentle. “No, we were right. The land belongs to us because we found a way to belong to it.”
Michael looked over the rows glowing gold in the late light, the laughter of visitors rolling across them like a blessing. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was carrying the past as a burden. He felt like he was carrying it forward.
The vineyard was alive, not just in grapes but in people, in celebration, in the simple stubborn fact of its survival. In a county where most vines had been pulled for asphalt, the Sieli land had endured.
Michael breathed in the evening air, the mingled scents of soil, wine, and roasting garlic from the kitchen drifting out to the guests. He felt gratitude, sharp and deep, knowing he had chosen well.
Here, against all odds, the vineyard was still theirs. And as long as the vines grew, the story would continue.
Over the years, Sofia had watched her uncles soften. Michael and Dominic, both now in their eighties, still spoke loudly against illegal immigration, “open borders,” and remained firmly pro-Trump. But time, family, and the vineyard had taught them something important: that cultural diversity does not weaken America, nor does it make anyone less American.
One late afternoon, the lesson hung in the air as tangibly as the flags on the office wall. The Stars and Stripes fluttered faintly in the breeze from the open window. Beside it, pinned neatly, was the green-white-red tricolor of Italy.
Michael’s eyes narrowed as he studied it. “I still don’t see why we have the Italian flag posted next to ours,” he muttered. His silver hair caught the last light of the sun, his voice gravelly with age. “We’re Americans. Always have been.”
Sofia, seated at the desk with papers spread around her, looked up. “Uncle Mike, you said it yourself not long ago. Yes, we’re Americans. But we also honor and cherish our ancestors’ heritage. That flag isn’t about divided loyalty. It’s about remembering where we came from.”
Michael jabbed a finger toward the tricolor. “But Sof, our ancestors didn’t come from Italy. Not the Italy you’re thinking of. This vineyard was here before there even was a country called Italy. Antonio and Giuseppe never saw themselves as Italians. They were Ligurians—from Genoa, part of the Kingdom of Sardinia. That flag didn’t mean a damn thing to them.”
Sofia sighed, her lips curving into a faint, almost exasperated smile. “I know that, Uncle Mike. But try explaining that every time someone asks. To most people, Italy is the shorthand. They see that flag and understand our roots are there—even if the word ‘Italy’ wasn’t on the map yet.”
Dominic, sitting quietly in the corner, shifted in his chair and finally spoke. “And in Italy, they wouldn’t call you Italian anyway. They’d call you Americani. Outsiders. Always will.”
Sofia turned to him, her voice steady. “I agree, Uncle Dom. I’m not Italian. I’m American. But I’m an American who’s proud of her Italian ancestry—proud of the vineyard, the traditions, and the fight our family went through. That tricolor isn’t about claiming Italy. It’s about remembering.”
Michael’s gaze lingered on the two flags, side by side. For a long time he said nothing. Then his shoulders eased, and his voice softened. “As long as Old Glory flies higher. As long as everyone knows our loyalty is to America first… then maybe it works. That other flag can hang there too. For memory’s sake.”
“That’s all it ever was,” Sofia whispered. “Not a choice between two countries. Just a reminder of the roots that brought us here.”
Dominic gave a short nod. “Roots in Liguria. Branches in America. That’s the truth of it.”
The office fell silent. Outside, the vineyard glowed under the fading light, rows planted by men who had never called themselves Italians, now tended by their descendants who never forgot.
Narrator’s Aside
Michael was right. The Italian tricolor, though first unfurled by revolutionaries in 1797, did not become the official flag of Italy until 1861, when the Kingdom of Italy was proclaimed during the Risorgimento. In the 1850s, when Giuseppe and Antonio Sieli arrived in California, there was no Italy at all. The peninsula was divided into kingdoms and duchies—the Kingdom of Sardinia in the north (which included Liguria), the Papal States in the center, and the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies in the south.
Immigrants like the Sielis thought of themselves first as Ligurians, Sicilians, Neapolitans, or Venetians—rarely “Italian.” Only in America, where they were lumped together as “dagos” and “wops,” did the tricolor become a symbol of shared origin. For the Sieli family, it was less about Giuseppe and Antonio’s world, and more about their descendants’ way of holding memory without letting go of America.
That quiet evening in the vineyard office, beneath the paired flags of America and Italy, became more than just a family debate—it planted the seed for words they would later share with the world. Not long afterward, in 2025, the Sieli family gathered to put those convictions into writing, issuing a statement that spoke not only to their customers but to the deeper spirit of who they were.
Our Mission
"In 2025, our family chose to come together and share this statement on our vineyard’s website. We did so to reassure all of our customers—whatever side of the political aisle they may stand on—that while we sometimes disagree about how to achieve the American dream, we agree on the essentials. We believe in treating every person with dignity and respect, and in celebrating the many cultures that enrich our country and our community.
For over a century, the Sieli family has tended these vines through hardship and change. We believe in roots that run deep: in the strength of law and order, in the dignity of honest work, and in the richness of cultural diversity.
Celebrating many traditions does not make us less American—it makes us more. Our vineyard endures because we honor our heritage while welcoming the contributions of others who have shaped this land.
Unity is not uniformity. Like the vineyard itself, we are strongest when many roots nourish one harvest.
— The Sieli Family, 2025"
Author’s Note: The Story Goes On
The story of the Sieli family does not end here.
Like the vineyard that bears their name, their roots run deep—and their branches keep reaching toward whatever sunlight history allows. As the decades turn, new generations will rise to face the changing seasons of America: wars and peace, faith and doubt, loss and renewal.
The Sieli Chronicles will continue as a series, following the family’s lineage through time—each book tracing a different era but all part of one living vine. Though the faces may change, the soil remembers.
This companion blog will grow alongside the novels, updated regularly with new episodes, research, historical essays, and reflections on Italian American heritage. I invite you to stay connected—subscribe, follow, and return often—to walk with the Sielis as their story unfolds, one generation at a time.
Because some stories aren’t meant to end.
They’re meant to keep growing.
Epilogue: The Soil Remembers
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