Sicily to Norway: How an Unexpected Deployment Trip Inspired an Air Force Veteran to Find Her Family Roots

The town seemed deserted. The only sounds were our footsteps on the ancient cobblestones. We wandered down the unfamiliar roads, wondering about all the closed doors and shuttered windows, when we suddenly heard rustling up ahead. We hurried forward, hoping it might be someone who could explain why this quaint little Sicilian village was so empty in the middle of a weekday. Rounding the corner, we were startled to see the black faces and wooly bodies of a herd of sheep coming right at us.

Laughing and jumping out of the way, we turned and watched as the sheep scampered around a bend. Once they were gone, the eerie silence washed over us again. We continued walking, hoping to find something, anything, to make this spontaneous road trip worth the hour’s drive from Naval Air Station Sigonella, Italy.

Trying not to stress over everything I still wanted to do before we arrived in the United Arab Emirates the next day, I wondered what I was even doing here. Everyone else in the group was from the associate Air Force Reserve wing back at McGuire, and, even more disheartening, most were from the Operations Group. I was still relatively new to aircraft maintenance but I’d quickly learned Ops doesn’t give maintenance the time of day unless they want something; Why in the world would they invite me to spend the day with them? I’d be working with them for the next six weeks, so I vowed to just appreciate the unexpected sightseeing. It was certainly better than hanging out at the passenger terminal or alone in my hotel room; especially after I realized Maggie, the other woman in the group, was actually quite nice.

My thoughts were interrupted when we finally came upon an open door and sounds of life. As we stepped inside, the men sprinkled around the room looked at us warily. It felt like we had entered a saloon at the Italian version of the O.K. Corral. I was reminded of those scenes when the stranger comes through the swinging doors and the music and talking abruptly cease. 

The Lieutenant Colonel leading our little group, I think his name was Larry, tried to explain what we were doing there. The local men seemed uninterested, and through hand gestures and simple phrases, we finally caught on that we had stumbled into town during “riposo” (siesta). The bar was not open for customers. Refusing to squander this opportunity, Larry quickly pulled some papers out of his pocket and handed them to the man behind the bar.

That’s when I realized, this wasn’t just an impromptu sightseeing trip. Larry must have known beforehand that we would spend the night at Sigonella and would have a full day to explore Sicily before heading on to Al Dhafra Air Base; and he had come with a plan to explore his family history and find his ancestors. 

Larry’s plan included having a personal letter translated into Italian. The letter explained how his ancestors were from this area, presumably this town, and that he was hoping some of the family might still be living nearby. He also had an old black-and-white photo taken before his grandfather moved to the United States. The picture featured several rows of people—men and women, young and old, standing in front of a house. Larry was hoping someone might recognize a face in the photograph and point him in the right direction.

Studying the photo, the bartender seemed oddly surprised. He read the letter, motioned for us to sit down, and then left the room. With no idea what was happening, we sank into the comfortably worn wooden chairs and waited. Small porcelain cups were placed in front of us with tiny silver spoons on each saucer. A lady with a small silver pitcher poured steaming liquid into the cups, motioning for us to “say when.” Not being much of a coffee drinker at the time, I put my hand out at half a cup, gently stirred the liquid with the tiny spoon and took a sip. It was toasty warm and slightly sweet. I wondered happily at the lack of expected coffee bitterness and thought perhaps I might be a coffee drinker after all.

When she returned with a second pitcher of steaming, fragrant, and dark liquid, I realized that what I had thought was coffee was actually just warm milk. Feeling like a “country mouse,” I sheepishly stirred a sugar cube into the coffee and sipped again. It was so delicious I barely remember the cannoli or anything that came after.

Soon, we heard footsteps moving along the creaking floorboards overhead. The bartender was making his way back with an elderly lady whose white-and-gray streaked hair was pulled back into a tidy bun. As she moved towards us, she removed a flowered apron from atop her house dress. She smiled, let flow a melodic stream of words none of us understood, and smiled again.

A second man spoke up in rough, heavily accented, and wonderfully unexpected English to interpret for us. He told us the lady was Larry’s great-aunt!

The bartender then showed us a framed photograph he had brought downstairs. For as long as he could remember, he told us through the interpreter, this photo had hung on the lady’s wall. It was an exact replica of the photo Larry had brought with him from New Jersey. 

The sweet lady invited the whole group of us to her house. Unbelievably, she still lived in the family home where she and her brother, Larry’s grandfather, had grown up. She would host a big dinner to welcome us to Italy so Larry could meet his Italian cousins. 

I have no recollection of what we did between “siesta” and dinner time, but at the appointed hour, we were led down the street to a house not far from the bar. We were warmly welcomed as if we were long-lost members of the family. It was such an open and generous welcome that it brought tears to my eyes. 

Initially, I felt self-conscious at being part of a family event. I barely even knew Larry or any of the others. Despite that, the self-consciousness faded quickly. There were so many Italian “cousins” that all of us, the new American friends, were joyfully occupied and entertained. Huge bowls of pasta were brought out as well as limitless warm, crusty bread and strong red wine. The evening flew by, and the language barrier seemed to disappear, as it often does, with the hours and the wine. 

Eventually, we had to say our goodbyes and make our way back through town to the rental car. Most of the group had enjoyed the free-flowing wine, so that left Maggie and I to figure out the way back to base. As we drove south past Mount Etna, I thought about all that had happened and how grateful I was that I had been there. We made it back to lodging in one piece and were able to get a fair amount of sleep before heading back to the passenger terminal the next morning.

As we waited to board the KC-10, we told the others about our adventure. Someone mentioned that there are actually two villages with the exact same name in Sicily. Incredibly, we had driven right past the one relatively close to the base and gone to the village much farther away. 

I’ve never forgotten that day or the amazing feeling of serendipity when so many things seemed to click in place. Twenty-five years later I still enthusiastically chatter about it to anyone who will listen. Despite 10 years on active duty with many memorable assignments, temporary duty trips, and deployments to 8 countries and 15-plus states, that day in Sicily still stands out. And that one unexpected adventure generated a fervent interest in genealogy and a desire to learn everything possible about family history. 

So much so that when my family and I planned to visit Norway in 2023, I did a lot of research in preparation for the trip. We built our itinerary around a visit to Tvedestrand, a town in southern Norway where my husband Tom’s grandfather, Carsten Wroldsen, grew up. Along with the family tree, we brought a generational family photo with us much like the one I remembered from that long-ago day in Italy.

We wandered around Tvedestrand not sure where exactly to start. After gathering our thoughts with a nice cup of coffee, we came upon an interesting used bookstore. We looked around and introduced ourselves to the bookstore owner, Per, and told him why we were in Tvedestrand. Astonishingly, we learned that Per had grown up next door to the Wroldsen family!

Not only did Per remember them, several years ago he had written a biography on one of the cousins. He had family pictures, facts, and stories we would never have found without him. Looking at Tom’s family  picture, Per thought he might have an idea where the house in the photograph might be. He told us he would do some research and the next afternoon he would take us to the most likely locations.

We spent the following morning in the Tvedestrand cemetery looking for any Wroldsen family members. We found the family plot on a grassy, raised platform on the back edge of the cemetery. Two of the graves had relatively fresh flowers on them. It was nice to see that someone else, someone who had been here not long before us, still remembered the Wroldsens. We left the cemetery and headed to Per’s bookstore unsure what to expect.

Per had done his research and narrowed the house down to two possible locations. We piled into his car and headed out, driving for quite a while, past places filled with such peace and beauty that we wondered what could have driven people away from here to an unknown life in America. As we neared the small village of Danielsnes, Per turned off the road and drove down an even smaller road. Seeing the name Danielsnes, I checked the family tree and verified that in 1833, Tom’s great-great-grandfather, Christen Wrodlsen, was born in a village with the same name. The pieces were clicking into place.

Per parked the car in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, deep in the woods. We walked up a shady dirt lane to an overgrown gravel path leading to a small green meadow. Looking past the trees, we were startled into an awed silence. Sitting on a slight rise, in the middle of the meadow, was a large white house with a red roof. It had the same wide front stairs, the same windows, and same roofline as the house in the family photo. 

We had found it on the first try.

We stood in silence, astonished that we were looking at the Wroldsen ancestral home. The home where, almost 200 years ago, Christen was likely born. Tom was overcome by emotion; we all were. We had talked about finding this place as if it would be a jolly adventure. The photo and house had been part of family lore for years and now it was right in front of us—almost 4,000 miles from our home. 

Exploring the grounds around the house, knowing we were literally touching the same earth Tom’s great-great-grandfather walked with his young children, was almost like what I imagine a religious pilgrimage might be. The feeling of connection to people long gone was so strong. It was surely a once-in-a-lifetime experience. The only experience that even came close was on a sunny day in a quiet little Sicilian village during siesta.

This War Horse reflection was edited by Mike Frankel, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines. 

Editors Note: This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter.