Twelfth-century buildings are still used as hotels, walled cities are vibrant towns, and 14th-century castles are repurposed as wineries and wedding venues. Rosemary plants grow as shrubbery, caper plants hang from tower bricks, and artichoke fields line the roads. While I was fortunate enough to accompany my friends Amy and Christine on a Tuscan bike tour, my family is tired of hearing about it.

“The old towns are all built high in the hills, and they have walls –” I excitedly begin.

“Yes, Mom, you told us already. It’s because they were constantly fighting each other.”

But after being immersed in so much history, I can’t help myself. After all, how can Etruscan pottery unearthed after thousands of years have fewer chips than my dinner plates?

After spending a few days in the Chianti region, surrounded by black rooster emblems everywhere, the overarching legend was shared. During the Middle Ages, the Republics of Florence and Siena battled over the fertile lands of Chianti. After years of bloody warfare, the opposing sides agreed to an unusual competition to determine the region’s borders. On the specified day, prompted by a rooster’s crow, two opposing knights would ride off from their home cities. The point where they met would become the official boundary between the two.

As the tale explains, the citizens of Siena chose a white rooster and pampered it in the days leading to the contest. The Florentines, on the other hand, caged a black rooster, starved it and treated it poorly. On the designated day, the hungry black Florentine rooster woke early, while the well-treated Sienese rooster slept in.

Due to the difference in start times, the knights met close to Siena, granting the Chianti region to Florence. Hence, a thousand years later, every small town displays a profusion of black rooster symbols. Despite the event’s distance in years, it is a source of pride. Even today, authentic bottles of Chianti Classico wine are adorned with a black rooster.

Maybe because we are a younger country, maybe because we are more transient, maybe because we live fast-paced lives — we don’t embrace our history and legends to the same degree. Bob Seidenstein bemoaned that kids weren’t interested in the past anymore. This may be true in the large sense, but there are brief flashes of curiosity. Sometimes a school assignment or television show might spark a question, sometimes there is an opportunity to discuss family histories, but sometimes the kid just isn’t ready.

As any parent knows, if you can get rid of the earbuds, car rides are the perfect trap for parent-child discussions. Little eye contact is needed, but the close space can sometimes be a confessional. And other than daydreaming, there are few options for escape. Some of the best talks with my children have occurred in the car.

I’m not sure what started the conversation on this particular ride. Maybe an episode of Sesame Street, another kids’ show, or a school lesson. I remember that Chloe was too young to sit in the front seat and that it was a long trip. And I do know that she asked about where we came from. On our family roots, I may have pontificated on the Irish potato famine, gushed about a great-grandmother who sang on the Hudson River Day liner, and alluded to possible ties with the gangster Dutch Schultz. I was eloquent, tracing genealogical threads and weaving in interesting anecdotes. I checked the rearview mirror to ensure that the silence indicated an enthralled audience, not a snoozing child.

“Hey Mom, I just have one question,” Chloe piped up from the back seat.

“Sure, what else do you want to know?”

“Why weren’t there any boys?” She looked at me expectantly.

“What?” I encouraged her.

“Why were there only girls?”

“Only girls? Of course, there were boys.” At this point, I was confused.

“Well, you just talked about Aunt Sisters-”

I nodded. “Yes, I was talking about ancestors…”

“Well, if there were Aunt Sisters, why weren’t there any Uncle Brothers?”

At that moment, I knew I had droned on too long. It turns out that history, like some stories, makes more sense when you’ve done a bit of growing up.